Damian sat on the terrace as the sun set over the water. He hadn’t been to Capri in years, had almost forgotten the place was on the long list of property inherited from either his father or mother, both of whom had come from a long line of old money. But he’d known it would be the perfect place for Aria, and he was still basking in the pleasure he’d seen on her face as she’d taken it all in.

He’d spent the afternoon catching up with Cole. They’d had a conference call with Marco, the Syndicate’s tactical leader, and had addressed some lingering problems in the city. There was still no sign of Primo or Malcolm Gatti, but Platinum had been excavated of their men, the apartment in the Financial District used to send a message more than equal to the one left at Damian’s place in Tribeca. There had been reports of gunshot wounds on the other side, but for now their men inside the NYPD were managing to hold off any serious inquiry.

It wouldn’t last much longer, and they were all bracing for the press to run with stories of a turf war in New York City. After that, the heat would be on law enforcement to resolve it quickly. Damian hoped to have the city locked down before then, although the outlying areas would take longer due to the sheer size of the area.

He was still waiting for Farrell to get back to him with a go-ahead to see Vitale. Damian knew his headquarters was in Rome, but the exact location was a closely guarded secret. He would have banked on his cyber unit uncovering the location if he had more time, but he didn’t. He needed to secure protection for Aria in Capri before he went back to New York — something he’d been avoiding telling her. He had the feeling she wouldn’t take kindly to being locked in a tower like a delicate princess, but he wasn’t about to take her back to the city any time soon.

He didn't yet know what he was going to do about Primo, but Malcolm Gatti would have to be neutralized at the very least before Aria would have his blessing to go back to the city.

Not that she needed his blessing, he reminded himself.

She wasn’t his responsibility. Not really. The argument should have made sense, but some part of him rebelled against the idea. She felt like his responsibility.

She felt like his, period.

He didn’t want to think too hard about what that meant. About what it would mean for them both going forward.

Primo was a wild card. It would take finesse to figure out a way to manage him that would be both acceptable to Aria and amenable to her safety. But Gatti was a monster. Damian had gone over his rap sheet again on the plane while Aria had been asleep, had had to resist the urge to punch something at the thought of the bastard putting his hands on Aria.

Gatti would have to die.

Damian remembered the conversation he’d had with Aria when she’d first come to his apartment and he’d asked if Gatti had been the one to cut her lip.

Not this time, she’d said.

Which meant the bruise on her face when she’d come to his office had been delivered by Gatti. Damian intended to pay him back a hundred fold.

He picked up his drink, took a long swallow, trying to calm the blood boiling in his veins. He was setting the glass back down on the table when Aria walked into the room, a magenta dress billowing around her luscious body, barely clinging to her breasts by thin straps tied around her neck.

She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder and was trying to walk past him when he pulled her into his lap. It was meant to be lighthearted, but then she was in his arms, his already-hard cock nestled between the pillowy cheeks of her ass, her bare skin shimmering like silk in the dying sunlight.

“I was going to ask if everything fit,” he said, letting his gaze travel over her. “But I guess I have my answer.”

She touched her lips lightly to his, her glossy hair swinging against her shoulders. “Everything is perfect.” She leaned her forehead against his, her eyes shining. “You’ve done too much for me.”

“I like doing things for you,” he said. “I’m beginning to hope I can keep doing them.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. Didn’t want the specter of their questionable future hanging over their time together.

She touched his face sadly like she knew it was impossible. Like she knew their time together was stolen, destined to end.

He lifted her from his lap, wanting to banish her sadness. “Come on. Let’s go to dinner.”

“We’re going out?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

He led her down the stone staircase and out onto the walkway next to the water. The boat was where they’d left it, a giant picnic basket resting on the bench at the stern, a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.

“It’s too beautiful to eat indoors,” he said. “But you’re too beautiful to share with anyone.”

He held her hand as she took off her shoes and climbed into the boat. Casting off the lines, he stepped into the boat as it began to drift away from the dock and started the engine. The motor roared to life under them and he pointed the boat out into the open water.

She stood beside him, the sunset touching her face with gold, her hair blowing back from her face. He kept going until the house was a smudge of color in the distance, then dropped anchor, the boat rocking gently amid the waves.

He grabbed the picnic basket and they made their way to the bow. When everything was spread out on a blanket, she looked around with a smile.

“This is definitely the nicest restaurant I’ve been to.”

He popped the cork on the champagne and removed the food from the basket. There was fresh octopus and oysters, cold pasta with olives and fresh parsley, salami and creamy mozzarella, crisp bruschetta with tangy tomatoes.

She ate with gusto, and he enjoyed watching her moan around the food every bit as much as he enjoyed the food itself. He told her about his great-grandmother on his mother’s side, a bohemian who had bought the house in Capri against her parent’s wishes, an extravagance they’d slowed only because they’d hoped she would eventually come home and settle down with a suitable husband. She did, but the house on the Italian island remained hers until she passed it to Damian’s mother.

She told him about her parents, their old-fashioned work ethic and the small apartment she’d shared with them and Primo. Her face had darkened when she’d come to the fire that had claimed both their lives. He’d waited to see if she wanted to talk about it, but she’d quickly moved on to the time afterward when Primo had taken care of her, when they’d had to rebuild their lives brick by brick, when Primo had started doing illegal work to get her through school.

He understood then why she felt the way she did about him. Why it was so hard for her to leave. She still remembered him the way he’d been. Still remembered all the things he’d done for her.

He wasn’t always like this, you know…

It was something his mother had said in the aftermath of his father’s anger. Damian hadn’t understood. It was the only way he’d known his father, but his mother wanted him to know there was more to his father than his rage, his violence. That it had somehow taken over the better parts of him. Damian didn’t believe it, and he didn’t want Aria to believe it either.

It was dangerous to think people were anything other than what they demonstrated themselves to be.

He let her talk, held her hand when the past seemed too close. It was a new kind of intimacy, one he hadn’t shared with anyone. He loved women — loved their softness and their curves and the way they moaned when you made them come — but until now it had been like loving ice cream.

All the flavors were wonderful but there was no one he couldn’t live without.

Now he was beginning to wonder if he’d crossed the point of no return, an invisible line in the sand where he wouldn’t be able to live without the woman in front of him. Where he wouldn’t be able to go back to convincing himself he was happy without her.

He watched her finish the champagne in her glass, her slender throat rippling, and wondered if he’d ever get tired of looking at her. When she was done, she stood and untied the dress at her neck. He watched as it pooled at her feet, her glorious body naked and shining in the dying sunlight.

“Maybe I should take you for a picnic every night,” he said, leaning back on his arms as he eyed her appreciatively.

She met his eyes. “Maybe you should.”

She walked to the tip of the bow, tossed her hair, and dived cleanly into the water. He watched her emerge, hair slicked back, drops of water on her face.

She backstroked away from the boat. “Aren’t you coming?”

He reached for the buttons on his shirt.