When Beth had asked Juliette to share the day, she’d told her that she had won a contest. She’d told so many lies these past few months, what was one more?

Juliette’s excitement had been on the rise all afternoon, beginning with a trip to a designer store that neither of them could afford on their own. After playing dress up, they’d had their hair, makeup, and nails done. A limo had arrived to take them to dinner.

All of it—from dresses to dessert—was courtesy of Giovanni Visconti, but she couldn’t tell anyone, including her best friend. Instead, she’d put on the mask that she was so good at wearing, pretending that everything in her life was fine, that she was fine. She might look calm and collected but inside, she swore that she could feel her last nerve unraveling.

As observant as Juliette was, she was oblivious to Beth’s inner turmoil, which was just as well. Actually, it was a nice change, watching someone else’s excitement when Beth’s daily challenge was to not drown in dread.

Juliette’s vibrancy lit her face and animated her hands while she talked. With her journalist’s mind and artist’s eye, she was in her element, surrounded by the movers and shakers of their city. The restaurant was the premiere Italian eatery in Diamond Springs. The décor had been updated since the last time they’d come, willing to splurge on an expensive dinner if it meant listening to Ribelle.

“Oh, my God!” Juliette’s hands froze, mid-air. “It’s them!”

Beth smiled indulgently but refrained from turning to look despite her curiosity. Whoever it was, Juliette was seriously fangirling. Lord, help them.

“It’s the Visconti family!” Juliette whispered. “Marco and Tony are with them. Oh, my God!”

The Viscontis were here.

Juliette might be glowing with excitement, but Beth felt herself grow pale at the possibilities. Lifting a silent prayer, she closed her menu, placed it on the table, and followed the light in Juliette’s eyes to the crime family who controlled Diamond Springs.

Like a blasted magnet, Beth’s gaze was drawn to the man at the center of the table. Giovanni Visconti looked every inch the well-heeled patriarch that he was. To his left were the objects of Juliette’s adoration, his sons Marco and Tony who performed with Ribelle.

But it was the son to his right who caught her attention and refused to let it go.

Matteo was here.

It was all she could do to stay where she was when every instinct urged her to flee. What was she supposed to say to him?

Nothing.

Nothing.

She couldn’t say anything without Dom Visconti’s permission, and he hadn’t given it.

She’d wondered why Mr. Visconti had decided to treat her to everything today. Italian Fest was his official explanation. He hadn’t mentioned that Matteo would be back. She should have known. The Viscontis always attended as a family. She’d been mentally preparing herself for seeing Matteo there on Saturday, but it was only Thursday and he was here.

What the hell was she supposed to do?

Pretend. Pretend that she didn’t care that he was as attractive as ever. Pretend that she didn’t notice the searing heat in his gaze. Pretend that he was just another diner, not the dangerous man that she knew him to be.

Pretend that she was unaffected when she could feel her body’s burgeoning response. If this kept up, her rabbit vibrator was going to get a workout when she got home.

“They’re headlining on Saturday,” Juliette gushed. “I can’t believe they’re here. And so fucking close. Tell me I can’t ask for their autographs.”

“You can’t ask for their autographs. You don’t want to intrude on their family time together. They’re having a meet-and-greet after the concert on Saturday. I was going to save it for later, but I managed to score you a ticket.”

When Mr. Visconti called Tuesday and began putting demands on her, she’d had no qualms about sweetening the pot.

“You’re kidding! No, you’re not kidding. And just when I thought today couldn’t get any better. Holy fuck. I need to go shopping again. What the hell am I going to wear?”

Beth pursed her lips. “Something that screams ‘take me and make me yours?’ I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Juliette’s confidence wavered. “There’ll be hoards of girls, all with perfect asses and huge tits. They won’t even notice me in that sea of flesh.”

“They will,” Beth said. “It’s a meet-and-greet. You’ll have at least one chance to make yourself memorable. Remember, the brain is the most powerful sex organ in the body. Intrigue them, and they’ll want to know more. You have between now and Saturday night to find something to wear and think of what to say. You can do this—but Juliette? Are you sure that you should? I mean, they’re…”

She almost said Viscontis.

“Part of a band,” she finished lamely. “Here today and gone tomorrow. They just finished their tour. After weeks on the road, you should consider yourself lucky if all they give you is an autograph and a handshake.”

The waiter brought their appetizer, effectively breaking the hold that Matteo had on her and blocking Juliette’s view of her idols. Her best friend heaved a theatrical sigh. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ll wear my press badge and pretend that I’m just there for a story—although checking facts isn’t nearly as much fun as checking out packages. Too bad I’m such a sucker for barbells and tats. He would have been fun.”

“Which one?”

Juliette frowned fiercely. Narrowing her eyes, she shot her a look of pure disbelief. “Tony,” she hissed.

At least she was making an effort to keep their conversation private. The way that Juliette’s voice carried, she could give a commencement address without a sound system.

“You know? The lead singer who likes to rip off his shirt, show his ink, flex his pecs, and tease fans with his body jewelry? At least, the hardware he can show. I heard that he’s pierced south of the border, too.”

Beth felt her cheeks warm and busied herself with the bread and oil that the waiter had brought. “Since you have no filter, I’m hitting the pause button on this conversation. Change tracks, please. Something less prurient and suitable for the setting. Here.”

Juliette accepted the chunk of torn bread that Beth gave her and took a bite. Her whiskey brown eyes widened. She was still chewing when she reached for the loaf and ripped off another piece. “Damn you, carbs,” she whined, dipping the bread in herb-seasoned olive oil. “Why do you have to taste so good?”

They did taste good. Knowing what was coming, Beth had focused on protein and vegetables the past couple of days. Tonight, she intended to enjoy herself—or as much as she could, knowing that Matteo Visconti was only a table away.

His father had given them carte blanche. Juliette ordered lobster fra diavolo—seafood cooked with Roma tomatoes, seasoned and served over al dente pasta. Beth got the osso buco alla Milanese, figuring that she’d at least be getting vegetables with her veal.

By the time they finished, neither of them had room for dessert. Unwilling to give up her unobstructed view of Tony Visconti, Juliette decided to get an after-dinner coffee. Placing her order, she excused herself and went to the ladies room.

It wasn’t a coincidence that Tony decided to visit the men’s room at the same time.

Jesus, could they be more obvious?

Beth hoped for Juliette’s sake that he’d at least cover up. Juliette didn’t need STDs any more than she needed a baby of her own. If Matteo had worn a condom, her life would be so much simpler. That is, if she’d managed to survive her ordeal. But would her life be better? Sure, she’d be content, but she’d be living in a void that Matteo had unwittingly filled. All she had to do was think of what was waiting for her at home and realize that she had more reason than ever to live.

The mere thought was enough to trigger a let-down. Planting her elbows on the table, Beth pressed her breasts against her forearms and prayed that she could get her reflex under control before the front of her dress got soaked. Pushing harder, she prayed that Juliette would deny her base urges, that Tony would be quick, that the damn coffee would come and she could go home.

And she hoped beyond hope that Matteo wouldn’t follow her there.

Juliette was back in five. Her lipstick was worn, but she didn’t smell like sex.

“What an ass,” she grated, throwing herself back into her seat. “If I didn’t love his music so much, I’d tell you to give the meet-and-greet ticket to someone else. Damn it all! Why do men have to be that way?”

“Assholes? I don’t know. It’s probably how he was raised. I mean, look at his family. I see two generations of Alpha males who want grateful, dutiful women to serve them.”

Juliette tossed her head, making her long hair flip. “Well, good luck finding them here. Those boys will end up just like their father. They’ll go to Italy, marry nice Catholic girls, and bring them to America to breed the next generation of Viscontis.”

The thought hurt Beth more than it should. “Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I really need to get home. Do you mind getting your coffee to go?”

“Hell, no.” She finally shifted her focus from the Viscontis to notice how Beth was holding her arms. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t even think about…you know.”

“That’s okay. It’s been a long day. Time to call it a night. If you can flag down the waiter and have him fix you up, I’ll order the car brought around.”

Pulling her clutch from behind her, Beth took out her cell phone, draped the sheer wrap around her shoulder to ward off the evening’s chill, and made her way to the restaurant entrance. “Hi, this is Beth Shelton,” she told the driver. “I need you to bring the car to the front of the restaurant as soon as you can, please.”

She ended the call and waited, hugging herself. Her arms were crossed more for protection than warmth. She was still rattled from seeing Matteo. It was only a matter of time before he tracked her down. It would be easy enough to do. She lived on a Visconti-owned property, in a Visconti-approved house with Visconti-supplied staff. At first, she’d resented having Bernardo Corleone there. The thought that she needed protection was unsettling. Knowing that she had a mob watchdog didn’t help her rest any better at night.

Close to her due date, Bernardo’s wife Constanza brought an afghan that she’d crocheted for the baby. Beth realized that her protection had come at a cost to Bernardo, too. Constanza had been crocheting like a fool to offset her empty nest syndrome. Asking if she would consider helping with the house and baby proved to be a blessing for everyone. Bernardo got to see his wife, and Beth had good, dependable help when she needed it. The couple had been babysitting most of the day, with quick trips home between appointments to feed the baby and ease her aching breasts.

She was full to the point of bursting by the time she made it home. Draping her wrap on the sideboard by the entrance, she went to the family room first. If the baby was still up, this was where they would be.

The 84-inch television was on but nearly muted. The closed captioning was turned on. Bernardo sat on the sofa with the remote in his hand. Constanza was in the swivel rocker-recliner, humming to the bundle in her arms.

“Is he asleep?” she asked.

“Not yet. Close, though.”

“When did he eat?”

Constanza sighed heavily. “I tried at seven and again at eight. He does not like the bottle. He wants his mama.”

She’d expressed enough breast milk for two feedings, but her son hated drinking from rubber nipples. “And his mama needs him,” Beth said. If she could keep him awake long enough to eat, they would both feel better.

Beth had no problem discreetly nursing in front of other people, but she preferred her privacy. Easing her son into her arms, Beth had Constanza undo her dress in the back. She bid the couple goodnight and headed for the rocking chair in the nursery. Since giving birth on Easter Sunday, she’d spent a lot of time in that chair, nursing, rocking, singing songs, and telling stories.

Tonight, she told Dante their favorite one.