(Leone’s POV)

I’ve stared death in the face with a glass of whiskey in my hand. Buried men who crossed me, signed off on hits during dinner, walked into a shootout just to remind myself I wasn’t scared of anything.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Because nothing had ever prepared me for this barefoot fury of a woman stomping through my house like she paid rent, yelling in a cocktail of English and Italian, as if the walls owed her an apology.

Ariana.

My supposed fiancée. Or, more ...