I can still taste the salt on my tongue. It’s as if the tide is roaring in and the sand is between my toes. The sun lights up the horizon as bursts of color explode in the sky, and the Christ the Redeemer statue looks over the city—protecting it.

My home. Rio de Janeiro.

The flame of the candle on the table sways as I stare at it as if I can see my life on the beach in that little dancing red and orange strip of color.

I try to hang onto the good memories, so the bad ones won’t haunt me right now.

I’m not sure if Brazil can ever be home for me again, after what happened there ten years ago. But I don’t see how New York can ever be home, either, not with Rory and my father here—not with their death-grip hold on me.

I glance down at my phone, thinking about the man I met last Friday as I swipe my finger across the screen, unlocking it.

I pull up my last Google search, making a mental note to delete my browser history before I get up from the dinner table.

I zoom in on the image—Cade King.

I’m not going to lie. He takes my breath away. He’s the first man to ever do that, so it means something.

Brown hair with a slight wave to it, dark scruff, almost turquoise eyes, and don’t get me started on his body. Not overly bulky—just the right amount of muscle.

But my attraction to him is only skin-deep. I know any profound connection with someone is impossible.

“Who is that?”

Layla is over my shoulder, arms crossed, looking right at my phone.

I flinch, exit the webpage, and flip the phone over as if I’d been caught looking at porn. “No one.”

“Sure doesn’t look like ‘no one’ to me. He’s hot.” Layla comes around in front of my table and slides into a chair opposite me. Her long, red nails tap on the wood, and I know she’s waiting for more from me. But what can I say to her? She’s Rory’s cousin. I might consider her a friend, but blood is thicker. I can’t take the risk.

“Busy night?” I ask and nervously glance around the restaurant, hoping for a distraction.

She shrugs. “The norm for a Monday night.” Layla manages the family restaurant, which serves Italian food instead of Irish. She wasn’t born in Dublin like Rory, and she seems to have less of an obsession with all things Irish. I wish she’d break free from the family, but I highly doubt she would, even if Rory let her.

“How’s Johnny?” He’s her latest boy toy. She goes for men at least ten years younger.

Instead of answering, she starts to reach for my cell.

I chuckle and rest my hand on my phone before she can get it. “You bored of him already?”

Her brows dart inward. “What’s up with you? You’re extra jumpy. Got your period?”

I think about saying yes because I can’t exactly say, Well, your cousin might kill a man I just met.

“Oh, fuck. Hang onto that thought. Rory just walked in.” Layla is on her feet before I have time to process her words.

I quickly open my phone and delete my last web search.

“You should have told me you were having dinner here tonight. I would have joined you.” Rory’s words sail through the air from behind and slam into me like a metal two-by-two to the spine.

I don’t bother to face him. I can’t stomach the eye contact.

When his hand wraps over my shoulder, a not-so-gentle squeeze, I shut my eyes and pray to God to burn this man alive where he’s standing.

Unfortunately, there’s no smell of sizzling flesh.

“Wait here. We’ll have dessert after my meeting.” A puff of air hits my neck.

I finally glance over at him as he heads to a booth on the other side of the restaurant and settles across from Van and Creed—two of his main guys.

I’ve been doing my best to keep an eye on Rory since Friday to see if he’ll make a move on Cade, because I know that once he has his sights set on someone it’s game over.

Cade’s in danger for trying to be a good guy.

I take a sip of my soda and remain discrete as I observe them.

Van, the younger of the two, slides a tablet across the table to Rory. He’s pointing to something on the screen, and Rory is nodding. He likes what he’s hearing.

“So.” Layla is back at the table, positioning herself in her previous seat. “Is Rory still trying to get in your pants?”

My shoulders sag, and a major unease burrows its way into my stomach.

“Too bad my uncle isn’t around anymore to keep you safe from him.”

I never thought there’d be a day when I wished Richard McCullen was running the mob again.

As soon as Rory took over the family business, I lost one of my two protectors. Rory’s dad had a soft spot for me, and he kept all the assholes at bay. And my dad, well, he still thinks of me as the fifteen-year-old he brought to New York from Brazil.

“Did you visit Richard last weekend?” I change the subject because any conversation involving Rory will only get me in trouble.

“No, I couldn’t. He was in the hole.”

“What’d he do to get thrown in solitude?”

“Who knows.” She motions for one of the servers to come to the table. “Vodka and cranberry.”

The young kid, probably only sixteen, nods and hurries off. Layla might be a saint compared to Rory, but she’s still intimidating as hell to most people.

Her green eyes pin mine, and her red-painted lips spread into a deep grin. “He’s serving three life sentences, so I guess he doesn’t give a damn.”

Fifty-seven days since Richard McCullen was sentenced to life.

Fifty-seven days since I’ve had to dodge Rory’s increasingly aggressive advances.

How much longer can my father keep him away from me? Rory runs this part of town like the newly crowned king of an empire, and he is one. The power he wields over the city scares the hell out of me.

His father was controlled and even-tempered. He usually only hurt people who were involved in rival mobs. He wasn’t a saint by any means, but Rory is dark. He’s violent for the sake of violence.

He’s the devil, and he’s trying to claim my soul, but I’ll die before I let that happen.

I glance over at Rory’s table, and he’s still talking to Van and Creed. Rory’s lips are curved up at the edges, and his brows are darting inward, his jaw tight. He has “the look.” I’ve seen it more times than I wish to count—it happens when he’s excited . . . He looks like the Joker in Batman—a kind of screwed-up excited. He’s about to hurt someone, maybe even kill.

Cade.

My stomach twists.

“I’m not feeling great. Gonna head home,” I sputter in a rush.

“So, you do have your period? Thought you were off.” She smiles.

“Uh, yeah.” I rise. “See you later.” I don’t even take two steps before I feel Rory’s gaze on me, and so I stop. “Sick,” I mouth and touch my stomach for dramatic effect.

He narrows his eyes in suspicion, but then Layla blurts, “She’s got her period.” Yeah, she’s never been shy, even in front of customers at her own restaurant. Me, on the other hand . . . warmth travels up my neck and floods my face.

But it works. Rory nods and returns his focus back to Van.

My heartbeat nearly tramples my lungs as it pounds in my chest. I’m about to make a possibly dangerous move.

A move that could impact the plans I have set in place to escape this life.

But I can’t exactly let a man die because of me, can I?