Giovanni Starabba wore his age well. Though he was nearing seventy, he was fit and trim. No gray dared to mark his hair, though his beard and mustache both grew in snowy white. That was a secret only his family knew.

Giovanni had married at forty to beautiful women half his age. Maybe if she’d been born when he was younger, she would feel differently about him, but he’d been the admiral of Rome since before she was born. He wasn’t a parent she went to when she needed love. For that, she had her mothers.

She and her brother were both born to the same mother, but Sophia had always been close with their biological mother, while Antonio was closer with their other mother, who was imposing and dangerous in her own way, though also fiercely maternal. She had no memories of playing with her father.

He wouldn’t see it that way, if she ever dared voice those thoughts. He’d taught her to play chess, and on most Thursday nights between the ages of ten and eighteen, she would join him in his study for a game. That hadn’t been play. It had been a lesson, a chance to teach her strategy. A chance for her father to learn about and assess one of his most valuable assets.

She hadn’t seen her father since last month, at a birthday celebration for Sophia’s mother, who had just turned fifty. The party had been lavish and decadent, even by Italian standards, and her father had been every inch the ruler holding court, while those lesser than he danced for his amusement and vied for his favor.

And now she had to tell this intense, powerful man that the fleet admiral, the only person who had greater power than he did, had stolen one of his prized assets and given her to men of lower status in another territory.

Sophia made sure her face remained pleasant and neutral, with none of her fear about his reaction or the true source of her anger—she was his daughter, not his property or asset—showing on her face.

“Father.” She spoke Italian, knowing James and Tristan wouldn’t be able to understand, but hoping they could follow along based on their reactions. “I have just returned from the Isle of Man.”

Giovanni frowned. “Why were you there? You should not have gone without speaking to me.”

Sophia knew Antonio would have informed him. He just wanted to reprimand her.

“Our investigation—”

“Your investigation? Your brother is investigating. You are involved because he insisted you needed to look at the art.”

Sophia raised her chin. “I am a member of the Carabinieri—”

He waved that away. “Why were you on the Isle of Man? Who did you speak to? What did you say?”

She needed to try another approach. Gesturing to her right, where James stood, she said, “This is James Rathmann, a coin expert from London. He helped us understand the message the killer left on the coins.”

“The church,” Giovanni growled. “An old enemy I am more than ready to face.”

“It is not the church.”

Her father’s dark eyes focused on her. “What do you mean?”

“There were Vatican coins, yes, but they were meant to represent something else.”

Giovanni shrugged that off. “Your faith will make you a good and caring wife, but it blinds you to the evil within the church. I warned your mother not to teach you that Catholic nonsense.”

Sophia shoved the side of her tongue between her back teeth. She wanted to clench her jaw in rage, but her father would notice—bitter experience had taught her that making sure she couldn’t grind her teeth without biting through her own tongue kept her from clamping her teeth together. The tongue-in-teeth trick worked, and she was able to keep her face passive and continue speaking. “You want the church to be the enemy, so you will ignore the truth. As I knew you would.”

Her father smacked his knuckles against the top of his desk. “You speak to me this way?”

Sophia hid the little thrill of triumph. He’d gotten angry first. She’d won, he’d lost.

“I traveled to the Isle of Man with Mr. Rathmann and Tristan Knight.” She motioned to her left. Tristan inclined his head in a slight nod, the heel of his left hand on the flat disk-like pommel of his sword.

“The admiral of England sanctioned this?”

“The admiral of England was aware of what we were doing.”

“And what is it you thought you were doing?”

“We went to warn the fleet admiral that he was in danger from the Domino.”

Her father, who’d been standing behind his big desk, sat down. He threw back his head and laughed.

Both James and Tristan shifted restlessly. Sophia caught each of their gazes, giving her head a little shake, and they subsided.

“You think the Domino killed our people? The Domino is dead, and even if he wasn’t, he always leaves a domino piece.” Giovanni held up his fingers indicating the size of a domino. “Surely you would have found that among the coins. It should be easy to distinguish a rectangular domino from a circular coin, unless your coin expert is not so good. There wasn’t someone in Rome who could help you?”

Though they weren’t able to follow the Italian, the word for domino was the same in both languages, and James must have understood. He cleared his throat. “The Domino doesn’t leave the same calling card each time.” He looked back and forth between Sophia and the admiral. “You’re talking about the Domino, right?”

“And how do you know what the Domino did?” Giovanni focused on him for the first time, asking his question in English.

“There are historians in my family,” James replied simply.

“We’re running out of time,” Tristan warned Sophia quietly. “I have to call my admiral in two minutes.”

Sophia wanted to scream in frustration. This conversation was getting nowhere.

“Father.” She switched back to Italian. “The coins were a message, a threat. We…ah, translated them.” She waved her hand in the air, the time pressure making her less precise than she would have preferred. “The masked man will kill the Shadow Pope.”

Giovanni chuckled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. When none of them reacted to his laughter, he sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the top of the desk. “The masked man?”

“In English, there’s a type of mask that is called the Domino.”

Giovanni merely stared at her.

“The Shadow Pope—”

Her father cut her off, his gaze now in the middle distance. “An old name for the leader of our society.” He rapped his knuckles on his desk in thought. “All this was communicated via coins? What about the other pieces of art?”

Sophia spoke quickly, watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye. “The other pieces corroborate the message in the coins—they link Italy and the Isle of Man, all have trinities represented in them. The paintings were on the floor, the jeweled box on the shelf below the coins. The coins were in a place of importance.”

“It is not clean or simple. There are too many possible interpretations.”

Sophia relaxed—this was the man who really ruled the territory of Rome. A brilliant, thoughtful man. It was times like this, when he forgot to act like the all-powerful emperor he fancied himself, that Sophia understood why her mothers, who both acknowledged that he could be difficult, also loved him.

Sophia rounded his desk and dropped to her knees beside his chair. She laid a hand over his. He frowned down at her.

“Father. There is more I have to tell you.” Now that the moment was here, she wasn’t quite sure how to say what was needed. She blew out a breath. “We went to deliver this message. If we were wrong, it would be only us who looked foolish.” She gestured to Tristan and James, who both looked grim.

Her father patted her cheek. “My princess, protecting the people of Rome.”

“Father, listen, please.” She took a deep breath. “We spoke to the fleet admiral, and he was impressed with the work we’d done. He believed us, believed the threat was real. And he…”

She let the words trail off, wanting to make sure her father was listening.

“What is it?” Giovanni demanded.

“He placed me in a trinity with James and Tristan. I’m married.”

Giovanni’s eyes went wide and he exploded out of his chair.

Sophia pushed to her feet, taking an awkward step back. Tristan was there, supporting her.

The admiral of Rome looked over, his gaze focusing on where Tristan’s arm was looped around Sophia’s waist, drawing her back against his body and away from her father.

“No! I will not have you married to them.”

“It is done,” Sophia told him.

“Time’s up,” Tristan murmured in her ear.

“Father!” Sophia shouted the word, interrupting his tirade. Tristan released her, and for a moment she was cold and alone. Then James was there, taking Tristan’s place at her back.

“Father, listen to me.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan sliding out of her father’s study, his cell phone in hand.

“I will speak with the fleet admiral,” Giovanni assured her.

Sophia shook her head. “You can’t, Father.”

“I will—”

“You can’t. The fleet admiral is dead.”

Giovanni Starabba sank into his chair. Expression flickered across his face—the rage that had suffused him when she’d announced she was married draining away to leave him looking pale and shocked. Then anger started to return, and he looked like he was about to yell at her.

“Kacper Kujakski is dead.” This time she spoke English. She felt James nodding in confirmation.

Giovanni’s face paled again, and he sank deeper into his chair. Sophia’s heart clenched, because in that moment, her father looked like an old man.

The quartiere Monti was a quiet spot within Rome. Though it wasn’t far from the Colosseum or the central train station, it retained the lazy pace of the Italy of old that was almost lost. Rome, like any major European city, was full of hustle and bustle. But there were places where the age-old Italian pastime of doing sweet nothing, dolce far niente, could still be found. Monti was one of those places.

Sophia’s flat was on the second floor of a three-story building facing into the Piazza della Madonna dei Monti. They’d had to turn in their borrowed car on the outskirts of the city and take a cab, since Rome’s parking situation made London’s look benign.

It was nearly three A.M. before they trooped up two flights of stairs. The piazza was quiet at this time of night, though the smell of yeast and flour scented the air. The small bakery on the ground floor of the building was awake and preparing for its day.

Sophia, Tristan, and James had yet to end their day. It had been twelve hours since the announcement of the fleet admiral’s death, and the Masters’ Admiralty was reeling in shock.

There was a small elevator in Sophia’s building, but James had refused to get in it. It didn’t look like it would take his weight. He didn’t argue when Tristan took his suitcase, the knight jogging lightly up the steps to set it by Sophia’s front door before quick-stepping it back down to where James had been forced to pause and flex his knee on the first-floor landing.

“Almost there,” Tristan assured him.

James made it to the second floor, his bad leg throbbing in pain. The door in the stairwell opened to reveal a small foyer-like room. The gilt door to the elevator was on his left. Directly across from that was a single front door. It stood open.

James limped inside. Tristan closed the door behind them.

The room that lay before them was bathed in silver moonlight and indigo shadows. The wall facing the piazza had three sets of tall, narrow balcony doors. The doors were open, letting in the cool night air, and he could see the wrought iron railings beyond.

For a moment, the place felt almost familiar—the open, airy feel to it. Then he realized it reminded him somewhat of the fleet admiral’s private quarters.

That thought made James grimace. Right now, their whole organization was in an uproar. James had spent much of the afternoon on the phone with various members of his family. His mother had been the first to call, to tell him what had happened. That had been at three o’clock Rome time, meaning only two hours after the announcement was official, the news had filtered down to members like his parents, who didn’t hold offices or positions of authority within the society.

It had started with the admirals at noon, who in turn would have told their vice admirals and security ministers. From there, the information would have gone to the finance ministers, knights, and security officers. James had figured it would take a day for the information to reach his parents. He’d forgotten that while good news travels fast, bad news travels faster.

He’d decided to suck it up and tell his mother that he’d been there. That he was in Rome because he’d been called in to help with the situation. There had been some freaking out. Some yelling. Some demands for him to come home right now, I need you to be safe.

He’d decided not to tell his mother he was also married. He was worried she’d be on the first flight to Rome.

After the call with his mother, he’d ended up speaking with almost every member of his family. He’d told the same story, answered the same questions, again and again.

And that had been nothing compared to what Sophia had put up with. Once news was out, people started calling and then showing up at the villa. Her father left her to deal with it. She went from person to person, calm and reassuring, wearing a headset so she could answer the phone while remaining mobile.

At one point, he’d gone back to the bedroom he’d slept in, changed his voice mail to, “Yes, I was there. I will call you back,” and then lay down for an hour, relishing the silence.

They’d finally managed to escape the villa at two A.M. It had been Tristan who’d informed the admiral of Rome they were leaving, and that they were needed elsewhere. Giovanni’s eyes had flashed with anger, but Tristan had hustled them upstairs to change and pack, then they’d piled into the car and headed back to Rome, to Sophia’s place.

This is your wife’s home.

He looked around again, not with the vague curiosity used when entering any strange place, but with sharp inquiry. He didn’t really know much about her. What would he find here? What would he learn about his new wife?

The apartment was massive by any standards, with an incredible location and view. The beautiful piazza and the dome of the Church of Santa Maria ai Monti were both visible through the open balcony doors.

The open concept living space was filled with soft things—a wide, deep couch covered in cream velvet, a plush throw rug before a small fireplace. A sweater was draped carelessly over one corner of an antique side table. Pillows that appeared blue, silver, and lavender in the moonlight were clustered between the arms of antique wooden chairs.

Columns supported the ceiling above, and indicated where the walls would have been before this place had been remodeled, turning the entire floor of the building into a single dwelling.

Opposite from the living area was a small kitchen, mostly open to the living room, and a large dining area. The long table had delicate wrought iron feet and a glossy white top. The table was set for ten, each place setting complete with an upside-down wine glass and simple white china placed on top of yellow-gold placemats.

She appeared from the shadows, moving into a stream of moonlight. From where he stood, her body was a dark silhouette, her hair painted with silver light. Then she moved into a patch of shadow, disappearing.

Beside him, Tristan inhaled heavily, as if he were drawing a breath before diving into the ocean.

Sophia walked into the next stream of light, and it was James’s turn to draw in a breath. She’d changed out of the formal gown back at the villa, sliding into a tailored business-style dress for the drive to Rome. Now she wore nothing but a black robe, and as he watched, she untied the belt.

She let the satin belt slide from between her fingers to pool on the floor. The robe opened as she kept walking, revealing the black lingerie she wore beneath.

She paused there in the shaft of moonlight.

“Mariti,” she murmured. “Husbands.”

She held out her hands, one to each of them, and as one, James and Tristan went to her.

This time, Tristan dropped to his knees, while James slid his hand into her hair. She arched, pressing the back of her head firmly into his palm and thrusting her breasts up.

James groaned, his cock hardening and lengthening in his pants. The weariness he’d felt faded as lust suffused every cell in his body. He wanted to consume her. To mark her and claim her.

And to be claimed in return.

James rubbed his palm against her breasts, keeping the touch light. Her nipples hardened under the black lace and he smiled.

Her balance wobbled, and James grabbed her waist, steadying her. Tristan had lifted her right foot off the floor and hooked her leg over his shoulder. James had the perfect overhead view as Tristan started to lick and nibble his way up her inner thigh.

James remembered the way she’d tasted—sweet and tart on his tongue. He wanted to taste her again.

But this time, maybe he would taste her from Tristan’s lips.

It wasn’t just Sophia’s body he needed to learn and explore. He had a husband too.