Chapter 1
1
EMILIA
Present day…
My eyes snap open, and a dizzying blur of red and green floods my vision. Heart hammering, I blink until the Christmas lights strung haphazardly around the ceiling swims into focus. For a moment, I’m completely lost. Where am I? Not in Quantico, that’s for sure. No one gives a damn about festive cheer in the academy. Then reality crashes back in waves: The safe house. New York City. Tomorrow I’m?—
Suddenly, a cold gust of air slams into my face, jolting me further into wakefulness. Something’s… off. My skin tingles just as the curtain sways into my peripheral vision.
Shit. I didn’t open the windows. I know I didn’t.
Panic bubbles up in my chest, but I force it down. Cool it, Em. You’re trained for this.
Forcing myself to stay still, I slide my hand under my pillow, inch by agonizing inch. My fingers brush cool metal and tension melts into relief. In one fluid motion, I explode to my feet, my trusty 9MM aimed squarely at the shadowy figure lurking next to the flimsy green curtains.
“Who’s there?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the adrenaline surging through my veins.
“It really is you, Emilia.” The dark, husky voice washes over me with familiar heat that sends goosebumps all over my body. Oh shit. Oh shit. I know that voice. Even if the years had blurred every other sound in my memory, that one was burned in. No one else has called me by my full name in years. And no one else ever said it like that. “If you were going to run away, you should have stayed gone. What made you crawl back into my city?”
My city. Yeah, that seals it. No doubt now. There’s only one man bold enough to claim an entire metropolis as his own.
“Rafael,” I whisper.
He emerges from the shadows, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, seeing him for the first time. The gaudy Christmas lights paint him in reds and greens, turning him into some kind of festive avenging angel. Breathe, girl. Just breathe. But how am I supposed to remember something as simple as breathing when he’s standing there, looking like sin incarnate and danger personified?
My heart launches into a full-on gymnastics routine as I drink him in, noting every detail the last five years have shaped. His dark hair is longer now, parted in the middle, the tips curling rebelliously at the nape of his neck. His face looks sterner, meaner somehow, like life has been chiseling away at him with a vengeance.
But it’s his eyes that freezes me—the same chilling silver, as beautiful as they are dangerous. Yet now, they’re only an eerie, lifeless void.
Still, this is Rafael. My Rafael, the man who gave up everything to save me, even when it nearly cost him his own life. My friend .
Before I can think better of it, I’m dropping the gun on the bed and flinging myself into his arms. A grin bursts onto my face, fueled by a mix of sheer exhilaration and a deep, unexpected joy at seeing him again.
His grunt vibrates through me as I wrap my hands around his waist. But instead of the warm embrace I crave, his body turns to stone. Right. I’d forgotten how he hated being touched after… everything. Like tiny pinpricks of needles piercing my skin , he’d once said.
Reluctantly, I pull back, my heart sinking a little as I force myself to look up at him. My eyes, however, immediately get snagged on his clenched jaw before zoning in on a rogue lock of hair that falls over the bridge of his crooked nose. Even as he lowers his gaze to meet mine, that stubborn strand keeps pulling my focus. I want to look him in the eyes—I really do—but it’s like there’s this invisible force holding me captive, keeping my stare glued to that infuriating lock of hair.
What’s wrong with me? Why is it so hard just to look at him?
Long, thick fingers appear in my vision and grip my chin, tilting it upward with a slow, deliberate motion. He’s guiding me, insisting I meet his gaze. My heart lodges in my throat as our eyes lock, and suddenly the world narrows to just us. The pressure in my head builds, squeezing tighter and tighter. It’s too much. Gasping, I shift my burning eyes back to his nose.
“I thought you were going to fix that?” he rumbles quietly, and I swallow.
“I’m—I’m working on it.”
He studies me for long, agonizing seconds until blood rushes to my cheeks, turning my face hot. Thank God for the Christmas lights glowing on us. But when his gaze drifts lower, down my body, my breath stalls. Only then does it hit me—I’m practically naked, wearing nothing but a thong and an oversized t-shirt. His t-shirt . The one I stole when I left him and the others five years ago.
Does he notice? Does he care? Because I haven’t been able to forget it for a second. Five years, and I’ve still clung to this stupid piece of him. Now here I am, standing right in front of him, exposed in every way that matters.
Ugh. Just kill me now.
I steal a glance—and there it is. A flicker of recognition passes through his gaze. But he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, his lips curve into that familiar, lazy smirk. “You’ve changed, Emilia. Even more beautiful than I remember. And look at you now—all grown up. What are you, twenty–one?”
“Twenty–two,” I whisper, and he hums a low, throaty sound that seems to reverberate through my entire body, pooling heat low in my belly.
“Perfect.” His voice drops even lower, rich with something I can’t quite place. Desire? Possession? I steal another glance at his eyes and gulp at the dark hunger I find in those depths. “It means I can finally claim you. It means I can finally do this .”
And then he’s kissing me, and holy mother of God , it’s like being struck by lightning. My lips tingle from the shock of it—of him—and I gasp. He takes full advantage, plunging deeper, like he’s been starving for this.
Fuck.
My whole body lights up, every nerve exploding to life, burning bright just like the Christmas tree in the living room. I grip his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric as my head spins, drowning in the storm he’s just unleashed on me.
I always knew he’d be a good kisser, but this… this is something else..
A moan slips past my lips, my eyes fluttering shut as I lose myself in him. His mouth—it’s not just a kiss anymore, it’s a damn takeover—demanding, fierce, and leaving me gasping for air. His hand moves from my chin and slides into my hair, gripping me with just enough force to make my head tilt exactly how he wants—so his tongue can map out every inch of me and leave no crevice of my mouth unexplored. A wild rush of heat spreads over my skin. My knees threaten to give out.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hands are gliding up his chest and around his neck to drag him closer.
Big mistake.
Rafael goes rigid, breaking the kiss and stepping back so suddenly I nearly topple over. My eyes fly open, and I blink up at him, panting and bewildered, as I try to figure out what just happened.
“No touching,” he commands, and then he spins me around until my back is resting against the solid heat of his chest. One hand circles my wrists, locking them in place, while the other collars my throat. It’s not choking, not really, but the implicit threat sends a shiver down my spine—equal parts fear and… something else.
I inhale sharply as he uses his grip on my throat to turn my head back to him, and then his lips descend again, claiming my mouth once more in a kiss that leaves me dizzy and weak-kneed. I melt back into him, surrendering, my bound hands clenching into fists, nails biting into my palms, but I don’t care.
Suddenly, we’re moving. My feet stumble blindly as Rafael pushes us forward, his mouth still fused to mine. The world tilts, and my breath catches in my throat—I’m falling. Reflex kicks in, and I try to throw my hands out to catch myself, but his grip is unyielding.
I hit the bed with a grunt, the air rushing from my lungs as Rafael’s weight descends on me. Just as quickly as we fell, he breaks the kiss, leaving me gulping for air like a fish out of water. With a savage ease, he rearranges my hands beneath my stomach, effectively pinning me down, before propping himself up with one hand next to my head. The other trails a scorching path up my now-exposed legs, my shirt having ridden up indecently high.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
This is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re just in bed with the man you ran away from five years ago.
Totally normal.
A deep, guttural groan rumbles from him as his hand circles my bare ass, and damn if I don’t moan too. His palm is calloused and impossibly hot against my skin, and I can’t help but push my ass back into his grip, seeking more of that delicious friction. More. Please, more.
His eyes fly to my face, dark and dangerous. “Rafael,” I murmur, my voice a breathy plea I barely recognize. But it’s all the invitation he needs to capture my lips again and steal what little breath I’ve managed to regain.
As he kneads the flesh of my ass, I moan into his mouth, writhing under him, clamping my thighs together in a desperate bid for some pressure on my clit. Rafael, ever observant, notices my predicament and wedges his thigh between my legs, effectively separating them. The loss of pressure has me whining in frustration, but he just breaks the kiss with that infuriating smirk.
“You want more, Emilia?”
I nod, frantically.
“Then beg for it.”
“ Rafael, please .”
“Ah, ha, piccola ,” he tuts, voice a low purr. “That’s not begging. You want the pleasure, you play by my rules and?—”
The shrill ring of a phone cuts through the heated atmosphere like a bucket of ice water. Rafael’s phone, to be precise.
“No,” I wail. “Don’t answer it.”
But he’s already peeling away from me, warmth vanishing as he fishes out a sleek smartphone from his pocket. With a final, intense glance at me, he fucking answers it. I melt into the bed in defeat, well aware that this interlude is over.
He thrusts his free hand into his pocket and paces away, speaking low, rapid Italian into the phone. If I strain enough to hear, I could probably make out what he’s saying—thank you, multilingual upbringing—but I can’t summon the energy to eavesdrop.
Not when my traitorous brain finally kicks into gear and decides now is the perfect time for a bout of self-flagellation.
What the hell was that? Are you out of your mind?
Even if it's Rafael, you can’t just throw yourself at someone like that. Slut.
What did you just do? What did you just do? What did ? —
“I have to go.” Rafael’s voice cuts through the mental noise, and I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption. Once those nasty little voices start, they don’t stop—they just keep spinning, round and round like a messed-up merry-go-round I can’t get off.
I sit up, frowning as I watch Rafael adjusting his shirt, already moving toward the window he most likely came in through. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”
“Don’t worry, amorina , I’ll be in touch.” And with that cryptic promise, he’s gone.
I scramble out of bed and rush to the window just in time to see him drop from my third-floor balcony. He lands with feline grace and melts into the darkness, while I stand there, freezing as the winter wind bites at my skin.
It’s snowing again .
Fuck.
As I slam the window shut, it hits me—the alarm didn’t go off. Gasping, I stare at the window in disbelief. This is supposed to be a secure agency safe house with top-notch security. Any breach should have triggered ear-splitting alarms.
Some safe house this turned out to be.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I pad downstairs. I need to confirm that I did, in fact, turn the alarm on last night. But when I reach the control panel, my stomach drops.
It’s off… How?
I gape at it, mind racing. I swear I set it, double-checked it even, and that was after locking every single door and window. It’s become a ritual, a nightly routine born of paranoia.
What the hell?
Switching it back on, I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest as I pace the living room, trying to make sense of it all. The oversized Christmas tree next to the fireplace catches my eye, and I can’t help but sigh heavily as I look at it—along with the mistletoe hanging over the doorway. Who decorated this place anyway? What the hell was the point?
I didn’t ask for this shit.
The cheerful baubles and twinkling lights almost feel like they’re mocking me, reminding me that Christmas is only two weeks away, and that once again, I’ll probably be spending it alone, just like every year since I was sixteen.
As I stare at the decorations, Rafael’s visit replays in my mind. The kiss, the touch, the promise of more… and then his abrupt departure. It’s all so confusing.
But with Rafael back in my life, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this year won’t be as lonely as the others.
The Uber crawls through Manhattan’s crowded streets, and I find myself pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world go by. Snowflakes dance in the air, settling on the sidewalks where they’re immediately trampled by the endless parade of holiday shoppers and hurried office workers.
My eyes linger on the families hustling along the sidewalks, laden with shopping bags and radiating that particular brand of stressed-out joy that seems unique to the holiday season. A little girl in a puffy pink coat squeals with delight as her father hoists her onto his shoulders, and I feel a pang in my chest so sharp it takes my breath away.
“We’re here, ma’am.”
The driver’s voice jolts me out of my brooding, and I blink, realizing we’ve stopped in front of a towering behemoth of glass and steel—the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building.
With a nod, I step out, staring up at the structure. Feels like a lifetime ago when I first walked through those doors, wide-eyed and full of hope. Excited about my future, and a little scared I was making the wrong decision by leaving the family I found behind to make something of myself.
Do I regret my decision?
Hell if I know.
It’s only been five years, after all, and I haven’t even started working for the bureau yet. I just finished my training at Quantico, and immediately after my graduation three days ago, I was ordered back to Manhattan.
Questions still nag at me as I force my feet to move, carrying me through the revolving doors and into the belly of the beast. The lobby is a hive of activity. Men and women in sharp suits and sensible shoes bustle about with purpose.
I make my way to the security checkpoint and fish out my credentials. My hands shake slightly as I present my shiny new gold badge, and I can’t help the little thrill that runs through me. It’s real. It’s actually real.
I’m really a special agent now. Holy shit.
The elevator ride to the 23rd floor feels endless. I watch the numbers tick up, each floor bringing me closer to my new life, to the person I’ve fought so hard to become. My chest tightens as I try to keep my nerves in check.
When the doors finally slide open with a soft ‘ding’, I suck in a deep breath and step out into the sprawling lobby of the FBI’s New York office.
This is it. No turning back now.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the bureau's badge, prominently displayed on a cobblestone wall, and I smile as I take it in.
But the mood in here? Definitely not festive. Christmas decorations are strung up like they’re trying to convince everyone it’s the happiest time of the year, but no one’s buying it. Every agent I pass is all business, eyes locked on screens and paperwork, clearly too buried under the never-ending mountain of crap this job throws at them to even think about a little holiday spirit. And honestly, I get it. This isn’t a place for twinkling lights and jolly tunes—this is a place for getting shit done.
I make my way to the front desk and ask to see Stacey Rodrigues, my direct supervisor and mentor.
A few minutes later, I’m being ushered down a long hallway, past a row of cubicles buzzing with agents in full grind mode. The further we go, the more serious it feels. Locked doors line the next stretch of hallway, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of classified secrets are tucked away behind them. Finally, we stop in front of a massive set of double doors gleaming with the engraving: Stacey Rodrigues, Assistant Director In Charge.
My pulse kicks up. Here we go.
I knock sharply, and Stacey’s familiar voice calls out, “Come in.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself before pushing the doors open.
Stace’s office is a sprawling, coveted corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of City Hall and a glimpse of the Hudson River beyond. But it’s Stacey herself who commands attention, rising from behind her imposing desk with a grin that lights up her entire face.
“Welcome, Emily,” she says, waving me to a chair in front of her desk, rather than the plush seating area a few feet away. It’s a power move, I realize, but a subtle one.
I sit, my back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in my lap. Five years of training kicking in automatically.
“I feel like a proud mother hen right now. Who knew I had it in me, huh?” she chuckles, picking up a folder from her desk. “You’re the child I never had, Emily. You know that, right?” Her eyes soften for a moment, then sharpen again. “I hope you do..”
My eyes flick to her perfectly manicured nails. “I do,” I manage to say, even though I rarely voice how much she means to me. Because I do care about Stacey. She’s been my rock, my guiding star for the past five years. She was the only familiar face at my med school graduation last year, and again at my graduation from the Academy at Quantico a few days ago.
She’s family. It’s just… weird to say it out loud. The word holds too much history, too much pain.
“Good,” she nods, seemingly satisfied. Then she slides the folder to me, and I reach for it eagerly, hungry for my first mission. This is it, the moment I’ve been working towards for five long years.
I open the folder… and the world stops.
Staring up at me is a face etched into my soul, more familiar than my own reflection. Dark hair. Eyes like molten silver. A crooked nose.
Rafael.
My blood turns to ice as Stacey leans forward, her expression suddenly serious.
“Your first mission is Rafael Moretti.”