“Two small cokes, and a large supreme, hold the anchovies.”

Making pizza wasn’t exactly using Matteo “Reaper” Santarelli’s skillset. Holding back a grimace, he started on the pie while one of his employees handled the money and drinks for the young couple who ordered on the other side of the L-shaped glass counter in front of Santarelli’s Pizza.

A former Navy SEAL, he was a highly trained special operative tossing dough in a small boardwalk pizza shop in Atlantic City, instead of grenades on a mission on foreign soil with his brothers. It wasn’t right, and it ate at him every minute of the twenty-eight days, seven hours, thirty-five minutes, and twelve seconds since he left the teams. Forced out because of an injury was one thing, but to walk away from his brothers when he was still able and capable was another. It caused a burning knot— the size of the ball of dough he flattened on the flour covered counter—to twist his gut tight.

“Hi, Matteo.” A gust of cold December air followed his father’s old friend and business neighbor, Omar Gupta, inside.

Like many of the boardwalk shop owners, the middle-aged man was an immigrant. He came to the U.S. from India with his family when he was fourteen, and took over the corner sundry shop next door after his father passed two decades ago.

“Hey, Omar.” Nodding, Matteo tossed the stretched dough high, using his pizzaiolo skills from his many years working in his family’s three shops up and down the Jersey coast. Some things you never forget. Catching the dough with his fingertips, he immediately sent it spinning again without letting it rest. “The usual?”

“Yes, thank you.” Omar closed the door in the fogged-up glass partition separating the shop from the cold wind whipping down the boardwalk.

During the warmer months, the partition was open, allowing people to walk right up to the counter from outside. It also allowed heat from the ovens behind Matteo to escape, although during the summer, it mixed with the hot, humid ocean air, creating an almost unbearable workspace. Air conditioning wasn’t an option. Not with the front wide open in the warm seasons. Ceiling fans and two huge oscillating ones in the dining area behind their workspace kept it tolerable.

Little had Matteo known, working in the suffocating heat growing up had conditioned him for missions overseas.

God, he missed them.

Missed the action. Helping others. The sense of purpose…his brothers.

Clenching his jaw, he set the flattened dough on a tray then slapped another ball of dough onto the floured counter and pounded it with his fist.

“How is your father?” Omar asked, yanking him out of his well of frustration and guilt.

He blew out a breath, and in an instant, all the tension digging at his shoulders and spine dissipated. Instead of having their six, he now had his dad’s.

A month ago, Angelo Santarelli suffered a stroke in the very spot Matteo now stood. He’d been working alone, and was damn lucky to survive. At fifty-five, he was also way too young and stubborn to remain partially paralyzed.

“He’s okay.” With the help of physical therapy, he was already starting to show some movement. “You know my dad, he’s obstinate.” After adding toppings to the pie, Matteo shoved it into the oven, before making Omar’s spicy turkey wrap. “Pretty soon, he’ll be steady enough on his feet and walking with a walker.”

Omar nodded, a slight tug to his lips. “Stubborn is his middle name. What about speaking? How is that going?”

He sighed, and an invisible weight settled heavily on Matteo’s shoulders. “Still garbled and slurred.”

Like his writing.

Early on, Matteo got the impression his dad was trying to tell him something. Each day he visited the rehab center, he slid a pencil in his father’s curled fingers, but so far, his dad only managed to scribble. It frustrated the man. Matteo could tell by the clenched jaw and the way he snapped the pencil in half.

Some of that anger and frustration bit at Matteo’s spine as he set the turkey wrap on the counter with a thud. He’d never felt so damn helpless in his life.

He couldn’t help his brothers. Couldn’t help his father.

Omar reached for the plate, warmth and understanding softening his expression. “You are a good son to give up your career to take care of your father.”

There wasn’t anyone else. A few years ago, Matteo’s mother died from a heart attack, and his sister Nina lived an hour away in Cape May with her husband Joe, two-year-old daughter, and infant son. He never gave it a second thought.

“My dad needed me.” He shrugged. End of story.

It just sucked he had to give up one family to take care of the other.

That didn’t mean he completely ruled out returning to his unit, though. Thanks to physical therapy and a can-do attitude, his father’s prognosis was good. It might take some time, but he felt confident his father would eventually lead a fairly normal life.

Thank God.

But even if he didn’t return to the teams, there was no way he’d take over supervising the shops for the rest of his life. It didn’t spark adrenaline, or fulfill his need to help people. Joe managed their Wildwood location, and was more than capable of taking over the supervision of all the shops if needed. The only reason Matteo hadn’t suggested it in the first place was because something about his father’s situation niggled at the back of his mind. He wasn’t entirely convinced his father’s stroke had been brought on by natural causes.

There was a head injury, too. No one was certain if it happened during his father’s fall, or was the reason behind it. When questioned, the doctors couldn’t give a definite answer. So, Matteo left the teams, moved into his dad’s shore house, took over the shops, and was waiting for his father to recover enough to communicate with him.

And just in case his suspicions were correct, he wanted to work the Atlantic City location. Walk in his father’s shoes. Study the clientele. Get a feel for the place. But most of the people who came in were neighboring shop owners, some Matteo had known his whole life. And the one’s he didn’t know never raised any red flags.

Maybe he was just jaded, having witnessed the dark side of human nature for too long. Perhaps he was reading things wrong. Projecting his mistrust. It was possible his dad really had suffered a stroke and hit his head when he collapsed to the floor. An accident.

God, he hoped so, because otherwise…his father’s attacker might’ve been someone he knew.

If there was even the slightest chance that was true, Matteo had no choice but to suspect everyone. And he did. For weeks now, he studied each person who walked in the door, noting their demeanor, what they wore, ordered, who they spoke to, where they sat. Nothing, and no one, was above suspicion. Even Omar.

“Tell your father I was asking about him,” the man said, taking his usual table up front. “I tried to visit, but only family was allowed.”

He regarded Omar, noting a slight tightening to his lips and eyes. Was concern for his father the cause? Or concern for himself?

Matteo’s gut knotted tight. Christ, this fucking sucked.

“I’ll tell him.” He nodded, wishing it was all a bad dream. That his father never suffered a stroke, and he was still a SEAL with his buddies in some God-forsaken country on a mission he couldn’t talk about. Not home, scrutinizing every damn person who walked through the fucking door.

Lack of adrenaline was making him paranoid. Nuts. He was bored. Used to operating at three hundred miles an hour. He wasn’t cut out for normal speed. He needed a mission. Something other than stretching dough.

Back in his teens, he enjoyed showing off those skills, talking to customers, smiling at the girls, watching his sister and her best friend laugh as they sat at the corner table in the back. Shifting his gaze to the now empty table, he visualized the two girls there, plain as day. Eyes twinkling, heads thrown back laughing, gaining the attention of every teenage boy in a two-mile vicinity.

Warmth spread through Matteo, easing the tightness from his chest. There was something about Bella Monroe that had always made him smile. The daughter of his father’s Gulf War buddy, she was from New York City, but spent summers here at her grandmother’s, until her father died and mother moved them here permanently.

Her vivacious personality could fill an empty room. Even now, his lips twitched at the memory of the girl whose smile used to rule the beat of his heart. A cute daredevil he watched mature into a spirited beauty, with long brown hair and gorgeous green eyes that always warmed at the sight of him.

His dad—also Bella’s godfather—had given him the task to watch over her like a sister. But once she hit her teens, Matteo realized he had no brotherly feelings for her whatsoever. They were strong. Protective. Passionate. Not brotherly.

Keeping the horny teenage boys from her hadn’t been a problem, he’d been more than happy to warn them off—because he’d been one of them. The fact she reciprocated his feelings only made things harder. Literally. Cold shower became Matteo’s middle name. For years, he resisted her without incident, until the night of her graduation. Oh, he still resisted, but he broke her heart in the process, then flew to Illinois the next day to start Naval Special Warfare Prep school. They’d only crossed paths once since then, at his mother’s funeral, five years ago.

“Have you seen Bella yet?” Omar asked, as if reading his mind.

He smiled, pulse kicking up at the possibility of seeing her again. “No. Not yet.” He’d heard she’d moved back into her late grandmother’s house a few years ago, but so far, every time he glanced out his father’s kitchen window he saw no signs of her next door.

Omar swiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded. “I thought I spotted her at the airport about an hour ago. It’s hard to keep track. She’s always flying off to do work for that travel magazine.”

He frowned. “Airport?”

Why was Omar at the airport?

“Yeah, I was picking up my son and thought I spotted her,” Omar informed between bites. “She deals blackjack part time at the Capris, too, so I’m sure you’ll run into her soon.”

A smile tugged his lips. Bella never could sit idle.

And he’d read about the newest casino when he first got home. With major backers from the west coast, the Capris was built at the north end of the boardwalk. It was nice to see the large resort brought in major headliners, concerts, conventions, and sporting events that gave a much-needed boost to the city’s economy. It boggled Matteo’s mind the number of casinos that came and went since he left home.

“I should get back to work. When you see your dad, tell him I was asking about him,” Omar said, tossing his garbage in the trash on his way to the door.

Matteo nodded. “Will do.”

The first few days, after his dad had been transferred from the hospital to the rehab center, Matteo had stayed for hours, but his father appeared agitated, grunting and fussing. Then it’d dawned on him that his dad probably wanted him to cover down at the shop. The second he’d made the suggestion, his father settled down, and since Matteo had wanted to investigate anyway, it’d worked out. Now, he visited twice a day, once in the morning and again in the afternoon.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall confirmed the dining room had thinned out because the lunch rush was over. He also noted it was almost time for the two teens on co-op from the local high school to come in for their shift, along with Russell, the afternoon manager, who’d worked at the shop for nearly two decades. Their arrival would free him up to visit his dad.

As he pulled a pie from the oven and set it on the counter to cut, Matteo was wondering what kind of mood his dad would be in today when the door opened and a familiar awareness trickled down his spine.

Without even glancing at the door, he knew it wasn’t Russell or the two teens that walked in. No. Only one person sent blood rushing through his veins and his pulse thundering in his ears as if he were running an op.

Bella.

She was the adrenaline fix he craved. Hell, she was a whole lot of things he craved.

Bracing himself for the onslaught of awareness he knew was coming by making eye contact, he glanced at the woman who ruled his heart. A zing instantly ricocheted through his chest and knocked his heart back into place.

Damn, he hadn’t realized it was out of place until that moment.

“Matteo…” Dressed in jeans, black boots, and matching leather jacket that looked as soft as the green sweater hugging her ample curves, she had a black backpack slung carelessly over her shoulder and an expression dialed to “I don’t care.” She was trouble. A major threat to his self-control. If he thought her an unstoppable force before, then the adult Bella was now a damn force of nature.

Her hair was still a warm brown like melted chocolate, and eyes a deep mesmerizing green that could stop waves from crashing into the shore, but the confident tilt of her chin and the lethal grace in her steps awoke something primal deep inside him.

He was in big trouble, because despite the adult changes, she was still the daughter of his father’s best friend. Still his father’s goddaughter. Still Matteo’s surrogate sister.

Still forbidden.

“Hello, Bella.” He set the pie cutter down and turned to face her fully, gripping the counter to keep from jumping over and pulling her close.

The shock rounding her eyes disappeared, leaving her gaze dark with concern. “What are you doing here?”

He chuckled. “Nice to see you again, too.”

“Of course, it’s good to see you,” she said with a shake of her head. “But why are you here? You’re a SEAL. You don’t just come home to sling pizza, especially when your duty station is over a five-hour drive away.” Her chin tilted. “Unless you flew in from Norfolk.”

The fact she knew those distances sent a ripple of surprise through him. Why? Had she thought about him? Thought about visiting him? That ripple turned into an unexpected flood of warmth. Shit. Yeah, he was in trouble.

He opened his mouth to respond, but she narrowed her gaze and searched his face.

“No.” She shook her head again. “You didn’t fly in. Where’s your dad? What happened to him?”

Matteo felt her fear before he watched it drain the color from her face.

“He had a stroke. But he’s okay,” he rushed to add.

“A stroke?” She reeled back. “Are you kidding me? He’s only in his mid-fifties, and not on any blood pressure medication. How could he have a stroke? Did he have an aneurysm?”

An invisible weight lifted from his shoulders. Damn, it was good to hear someone else voice his concern. And yet, he didn’t want others to know about his suspicions.

“Let’s go in the office,” he said, motioning toward the back of the shop. “Joe can watch over things.”

His worker nodded as Matteo walked passed to meet her on the other side of the counter. What he had to say was only for her ears. She must’ve clued in, because she quietly followed him through the brightly lit dining room and through the door leading to the supply room, then through a door on the right that led to the small office.

He’d barely gotten the door closed behind them when she clamped her fingers around his arm and turned him to face her, but she immediately released him. No doubt, because she felt the same crazy-ass current that passed through their connection.

“All right. What the hell is going on, Matteo?” she asked, rubbing her palm on her jeans.

“A few weeks ago, Omar came in for his lunch and found my father on the floor behind the counter.” His stomach knotted just thinking about what could’ve happened if Omar hadn’t walked in. “He was rushed to the ER. Luckily, I was on base when my sister called to tell me Dad had suffered a stroke. I took leave and drove up.”

She set her backpack on a nearby chair, and her shapely ass against the back of his desk. Lucky desk. “You’re not on leave now, are you?”

His heart rocked. Nothing had changed. He didn’t even bother to question how the hell she figured that out. Bella always knew him better than he knew himself.

“No,” he replied. “Dad’s recovery is going to take a while. He has to relearn to walk and talk.”

Drawing in a breath, she pushed from the desk, stepped close, and silently slid her arms around him. No platitudes or meaningless words of comfort fell from her lips as her face rested against his shoulder. The woman knew better than most that sometimes things didn’t work out okay. He wrapped his arms around her and stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the feel of her hands lightly stroking up and down his back. The simple contact, the comfort meant more to him than anything else she could’ve said or done.

He knew…somehow, he knew deep inside that her commiseration wasn’t just because of his dad. It was for the loss he suffered giving up the teams. Damn, it endeared her to him even more. The invisible wall he’d erected around his heart nearly a decade earlier, cracked, allowing warmth to slide in.

Holding Bella was a bad idea, and yet, Matteo couldn’t bring himself to let go. Not yet. Unable to resist, he closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, enjoying the rare feel of her in his arms. The luxury, the gift, would have to sustain him for the next few years, so he soaked it all in. Her softness, and strength. The way her breathing, her pulse…her heartbeat synced in time with his.

A strand of her silky hair grazed his jaw. The scent—much like the woman—a contradiction of sweetness and spice, made him want to inhale her.

Which would go against his father’s wishes.

Mustering up the strength to let her go, he was surprised when Bella pushed out of the embrace first. She cleared her throat and stepped back to lean against the desk again, her gaze friendly, but guarded.

None of those actions were synonymous with the old Bella. She would’ve held on and tried to kiss him. In fact, the last time they were together that was exactly what had happened. A palpable memory rose in his body of the feel of the soft swell of her breasts brushing his arm through the silky material of the blue dress he knew she wore in honor of his service in the Navy. It’d taken all the strength he’d possessed to avoid her mouth and push her away that night.

An act he was both grateful for, and regretted at the same time.

Like now, he was relieved she’d stepped back, and admittedly a little put out. Had her feelings for him changed?

Jesus, what the hell did it matter? He fought back a grimace. They couldn’t have a relationship anyway. And yet…

“So, what exactly aren’t you telling me, Matteo?”

His heart rocked in his chest. “What do you mean?” Was he that damn transparent?

She quirked a brow. “You know what I mean. Your dad. What aren’t you telling me about his stroke?”

Dad.

Guilt flushed through him, weighing down his shoulders like a hundred-pound rucksack. He thought she’d meant… A quick mental shake cleared his head and got his mind back on track.

“He also suffered a head injury.”

The only movement she made was the slight narrowing of her eyes. “When he fell? Or before?”

He blew out a breath. “The doctors aren’t sure.”

“So…his stroke might not have been an accident,” she stated, instead of asked.

A shiver raced down his spine at the cold fury darkening her gaze.

He could relate.

“Yes.” He thrust a hand through his hair, and gripped the back of his neck. “And he was working alone, so there were no witnesses either way.”

“What about the security footage?” She nodded toward the monitor displaying a live feed of the shop with Joe making a Stromboli out front.

“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Apparently, Dad only had the cameras out there for show. I immediately rectified that.” It was the first thing he changed when he got to the shop.

She muttered an oath, “I love your dad, but he’s the most stubborn man I know. If he causes me to go gray before he does, I swear I’m going to kick his ass.”

He bit back a grin. Bella never did mince words. “Stubborn doesn’t cover it.”

“Sorry, Matteo.” She sighed. “I had no idea his cameras were only for show or I would’ve installed an active system myself.”

Although he wondered briefly what a photojournalist/blackjack dealer knew about installing security systems, he waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, stubborn doesn’t cover it.”

A smirk tugged her lips and sparked in her eyes. “I seem to recall another stubborn Santarelli.”

“Hey…you shouldn’t talk about my sister like that,” he teased, then smiled as her laughter echoed around them.

“You know perfectly well I meant you, squid.” Her gaze continued to sparkle, and it warmed him from head to toe, reminding him of when he’d found shelter after completing a nasty, cold weather op.

The longer he held her gaze, the higher his body temperature rose…and smaller the distance between them appeared. She must’ve felt the same, because her expression sobered, and the air around them crackled and heated.

Damn. Apparently, their connection had matured, too.

Every damn inch of his body became acutely aware of every sweet curve of hers.

How the hell was he supposed to keep his distance when an invisible energy drew him near? Sucked him close like a vacuum?

Once again, it was Bella who broke the spell. She dropped her gaze and straightened her jacket, and he found it easier to breathe. And think.

“You should get that,” she said, nodding toward his crotch.

For a split second, Matteo’s mind blanked, until he felt his pocket vibrate with his ringing phone. Dumbass. Swallowing an oath, he whipped out the phone and answered without looking at the caller ID.

“Is this Matteo Santarelli?” a man asked in a clipped tone.

His heart dropped to the floor. Was it the rehab center? He pulled the phone from his ear to glance at the screen, then released a breath and set the phone back to his ear when he noted a D.C. area code. “Yes. And you are?”

“This is retired Navy Commander Greg Lambert. Is this line secured?”

Matteo had never worked with Lambert, but he’d certainly heard of him through one of his old commanders. “You went through BUDs with Commander Knight. And no, sir. This line isn’t secure.”

Bella’s brow rose as if she recognized Knight’s name. Which was crazy. Why would a travel magazine photojournalist know a former SEAL Commander recruited by the CIA for their Special Operations Group?

She opened her backpack, removed a satellite phone, and handed it to him.

Which was probably the reason she raised a brow.

“But I can call you back on one,” he told Lambert.

“Excellent. I’ll be standing by,” the commander told him, before the line went dead.

He waved the satellite phone at Bella. “Thanks. I need to call him back. Uh…why do you have this?”

She grinned. “Because I travel to remote places and a cell phone doesn’t always cut it.”

Ah. He nodded. “True.”

He was really striving for dumbass of the year today.

Punching in the number Lambert had used to call him on his cell, Matteo contemplated asking Bella to wait in the dining room so he could talk in private, but he had a weird feeling he needed to keep an eye on her.

Or perhaps it was just a personal need.

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room,” she said, as if reading his mind. Damn woman always liked to rebel. “All of a sudden, I have a deep craving for you…I mean, one of your pizzas.” Grabbing her backpack, she winked before leaving him with both of his heads swelling.

“Santarelli? Hello? Is that you?”

It took him a moment to realize Commander Lambert was speaking to him through the phone he held to his ear. Forget dumbass, he was acting like a fucking idiot.

Because he was one.

“Yes, sir. And the line is secure,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“First of all, how is your father?” Lambert asked, catching him off guard.