I stepped around him and headed back to the deck.

My mamma’s words filled my head with a sense of melancholy and the smell of her floral perfume.

One day, you’re going to be a little heartbreaker.

What a terrible fate.

I wrestled my apartment door open, dropping my purse in the process, and then flicked on the light. The bulb in the living room popped and then faded, bathing the room in darkness.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I muttered, as my eyes drifted to the light switch in the kitchen. It sat only ten feet away, yet the distance began to stretch until it felt like a mile. My heart tripped over every beat, and I wiped my clammy hands on my swimsuit cover. You can do it, I assured myself. The dark is only an absence of light. It can’t hurt you.

I stepped forward and then froze in cold fear as the darkness morphed into a house of mirrors, reflecting every nightmare I’d ever lived through. My lungs tightened, and I took a step back.

I slid down the wall beside the door in the hall and tried to stop the shake in my hands. Pulling my phone from my purse, I called Lorenzo. It went straight to voicemail. I cursed, choosing the next contact on the list.

“What?” Luca answered.

I swallowed. “My light bulb burnt out.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I thought you were over that shit.”

“No, I was just high.”

“So save me the trouble and do a line.”

“My therapist says drugs don’t fix problems, they only prolong them.” Now, I only used blow when the loneliness seemed darker than the guilt of a high.

“He did, did he? Just how much are you sharing with him, Gianna?”

“Just all the sordid details of your life.”

He grunted. “Must keep him entertained.”

“Or nauseous,” I retorted.

He made a noise of amusement and then hung up.

I pulled my legs to my chest, rested my head against the wall, and once again waited for a man to save me from a problem another created.

Luca stepped off the elevator twenty minutes later, large form, crisp gray suit, and all. I didn’t look at him as I stated matter-of-factly, “There are two-thousand-twenty-two bricks in that wall.”

He was amused. “If I wasn’t wondering that exact thing myself, I’d say you live a sad life, Gianna.”

“Ha ha.”

While he changed the bulb, I flipped on every light in the apartment for simple peace of mind. “You want a beer?” I asked.

“No.”

I got one for myself and plopped onto the couch. As I went to take the first drink, the beer was ripped from my hands. I sighed.

“Really?”

Luca took a pull on the bottle and sat beside me. He was a large man and didn’t care how much space he took up. Rather than feeling like a sardine in a can, I stretched out my legs, resting them across his.

“We need to have a chat.” He rested an arm across my thighs, his eyes coasting around the living room.

“About?”

“Well, first off, your marriage—or lack thereof—with Richard, and your ever-growing relationship with Vincent Monroe.”

I sighed, knowing I was in trouble. “I would love to discuss that with you, but, gosh, I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” I tried to jump to my feet, but he grabbed one of my thighs, making me choose to fall back to the couch rather than awkwardly to the floor.

“People are talking, Gianna.”

I stole my beer back. “Why do you care if people talk?”

“Ace is getting married, and we need to keep up appearances with the Abellis.”

“Oh yeah. Poor Adriana.” I pouted my lips and took a sip.

“You will attend the luncheon this Sunday with Richard.”

“Yes, sir.” I rolled my eyes.

“And this thing with Vincent needs to cool down. Fast.” His gaze went hard. “Or I will cool it down for you.”

“I promise you, there’s no fire where Vincent is concerned.” A part of me wished there was—to be swept up in an intense affair, one in which we’d both rather die than be without each other. A part of me ached for it, while the other didn’t believe in fairy tales.

“Where there’s Gianna, there’s fire,” Luca muttered, pushing my legs off him and getting to his feet.

“Thank you, Luca.”

He made a noise of acknowledgment and shut the door behind him.

Like most nights, I headed to the kitchen. The recipe was my mamma’s. All of them were. Some of them I’d forgotten or hadn’t gotten a chance to ever ask about, and I often fantasized of going to Chicago in a blaze of glory just to retrieve her old cookbooks. My imagination was a sad place.

The smell of carbonara filled the apartment as I sat at the table with my plate.

The quiet ticking of the clock dulled my mind. A siren blared somewhere below on a busy street. The air conditioner kicked on.

I spun some pasta onto my fork and took a bite.

Unfortunately, loneliness still thrived in the light.

THE ELEVATOR MUSIC PLAYING SOFTLY in the background might as well have been screamo as I walked down an aisle of my local CVS. I sighed, rubbing my temple. Gunfire always gave me an awful migraine.

It was safe to say the luncheon today went over as smoothly as the Titanic. Or maybe that was being a bit dramatic—there’d only been one casualty, after all. Nonetheless, I could see a forbidden love story in the near future, between Ace and the very wrong sister. I had my money on him breaking the contract with Adriana, so he could have Elena—literally. I’d placed my bet with Luca and Lorenzo on the ride home.

I grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen off the shelf and dropped it into my basket. I was perusing the nail polishes when the havoc began.

“Everybody, down, now!” Two men wearing black ski masks stormed the store, slamming the door against the wall. “I said, down!” The taller one fired a shot into the ceiling.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I muttered.

One of their gazes landed on me. My eyes went wide, and I dropped to the floor.

Someone cried. A baby wailed. Another prayed the Hail Mary.

The masked men—who were very inconsiderate to others, I might add—prowled toward the prescription counter. “Give us what we want, and we won’t hurt anyone.”

I struggled with opening the painkiller bottle. I tugged too hard, the lid came off, and pills scattered across the floor. A blonde woman clutching her purse from across the aisle watched me in disbelief. I fought an eyeroll. Like she’d never had a migraine at the wrong time. I popped two tablets in my mouth.

“Don’t lie to us! You have more!”

“W-we don’t have more, sir.”

I grabbed a bottle of nail polish from my basket and gave it a shake. The woman’s incredulous gaze burned into my skin as I painted the red polish onto my thumbnail. I wrinkled my nose. Too Christmassy.

The men’s voices grew frenzied as sirens blared in the distance. Some shuffling ensued, the door dinged, and then they were gone.

I got to my feet, brushed the dirt off my olive-green dress, and headed toward the checkout counter with my half-empty bottle of pills.

“Hello?” I called to the vacant cash register.

I rang the little bell sitting on the counter. Two wide eyes drifted up from behind the register. “Oh, hello.” I grinned at the young female cashier. “Can I purchase these, please? Preferably before the police show up and I’m stuck here for God only knows how long.”