“No smoke.” The words were smooth with a rough edge.

His palm slid from my waist to my hip before he pulled away, leaving a trail of fire down my side. He pushed off the wall, and I took a step back and out of his way. Walking away, he stopped and turned to me. His voice was cool, indifferent, and laced with that commanding tone he’d mastered.

“The list? I want it tomorrow, Elena.”

“What do you mean, like do I carry a membership card that says ‘Mafia’ on it?”

—Willie Moretti

TEMPTATION IS HALF-NAKED, INNOCENT, AND dripping wet.

And I am my idiot cousins.

Those were the two conclusions I’d come to this week with an irritating sense of acquiescence. I was practically up to my neck in work, and yet I could only focus on one goddamn thing.

Elena Abelli, of course. So fucking wet.

The way she’d stood there, dripping water to the concrete while staring at me with those soft brown eyes and that sweet expression. Her long, wet hair and a body you’d see on a porn star. Jesus, it couldn’t be real. That’s what I’d convinced myself, but then it followed me, got in my way even, and told me what I couldn’t do.

It was regrettably real. Every perfect square inch of it.

For an unknown reason, the idea of her greeting guests looking like that dug under my skin. Was her papà letting her run around half-naked while men were over? And as her soon-to-be brother-in-law, could I tell her to go put on some fucking clothes?

I hadn’t ever wished a girl would get dressed, especially one with an ass like Elena Abelli’s. Frustration clawed at my chest, because I knew when irrational responses went through my head it meant one thing, and it usually wasn’t good for either party involved.

The night was lit by tiki torches and the sparkling orange lights above the Abelli’s patio table. The atmosphere seemed to be easy enough, though that was probably because all the Abellis stayed on one side of the yard and all the Russos on the other.

A servant poured Adriana her sixth glass of wine, and I reached out and took it from her, setting it on the other side of my dessert plate.

Her gaze burned a hole into my cheek.

“You’re not fucking old enough to drink,” I told her.

She sighed, mumbling something about having to drink to forget the videos—whatever that meant.

We were supposed to be “getting to know one another,” as her mamma suggested, but we’d hardly said a word to each other and I couldn’t find it in me to care. Mostly because I knew where her sister stood and was concentrating on not letting myself look in that direction. The girl had the entire male population of New York kissing her ass, and I didn’t care to be included in that circle jerk.

Nevertheless, a flash of pink in a corner of the yard caught my attention, and I couldn’t stop myself from flicking an unwilling glance to her. She was playing croquet with her girl cousins and Benito. And just like a prima donna, she still had her heels on. I’d thought my perception of her personality would be a big enough repellent, like a thick cloud of bug spray or maybe a little mace. Unfortunately, it didn’t do anything to turn me off. Not when I looked at her, and especially not when she spoke with that soft, warm voice that soaked through my skin and ran straight to my groin.

I now understood my cousins’ fascination.

The fact that I could be lumped into the same group as those idiots . . . ridiculous.

I knew what this was. I was a Russo. We wanted what we couldn’t have, and what I couldn’t have was Elena Abelli in my bed just one damn time.

“You don’t like my sister?” Adriana asked.

Jesus, she was a bit perceptive. I would have to remember that.

I took a sip of whiskey. “I like your sister just fine.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, like she didn’t believe me but didn’t give a shit either.

This was how our conversations seemed to go. Short and apathetic. I couldn’t decide if we were perfect for each other, or if she’d drive me crazy with her idiosyncrasies.

My gaze found that blond prick talking to one of Elena’s uncles. I didn’t know the man, but I knew I wouldn’t help him if I saw him bleeding out on the street. A burn radiated in my chest from only looking at him. I’d barely stopped myself from smashing his face against the front door earlier. Elena Abelli was not my business, regardless of the way the Russo blood in my veins burned a little hotter in her presence.

“Yankees or Mets?” Adriana had poured all the salt out of the shaker and was now drawing caricatures in it.

“Red Sox,” I responded dryly.

“Boxers or briefs?”

“Commando,” I lied.

Her gaze dropped to my dick, only to look away a moment later and purse her lips. “This game is boring.”

Amusement filled me. This girl was fucking weird. And I was aware that’s why Salvatore had offered me a daughter in the first place. “Unfit,” he’d said about Elena. Unfit, my ass. Not a single man in the Cosa Nostra would turn Elena away because of her lack of virginity. Salvatore didn’t want to give up the favored Sweet Abelli, at least not to me. He probably thought he’d gotten one over on me.

I’d take the weird one. At least she would be entertaining. She was also the smartest choice. Who knew how many men Elena had been with? I was Don. If I married a woman who’d been fucked by a few others in the Cosa Nostra, it would look bad. And, honestly, I never was that great at sharing. I’d have to kill all of them and I already had enough on my plate.

Luca leaned against the wall by the open double doors, sharing a look with my cousin Ricardo who sat at the edge of the party quietly observing the scene. Luca held up two fingers, nodding toward the girls on the lawn. Ricardo shook his head. After a few more silent exchanges, they both nodded.

At least tonight seemed to be dull enough for bets on stupid croquet games rather than as eventful as it was last Sunday. I sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to ruin it by cracking skulls against doors.

I flicked a glance at Elena to find her gaze already on me. It was the same way she’d looked at me when she said, “You’ll get all wet.” I tried to ignore the heat running to my groin. The words had been innocent, the thought not crossing her mind that any man would let her get them as wet as she wanted. And not with fucking pool water either.

At first, I thought whoever nicknamed her had never even met her, but as I spent a little more time observing her it started to make sense. She looked tense when she stood up to me, like it was new for her, like she expected me to wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze. A thought I’d had, though probably in a different context.

The Sweet Abelli was trying to grow some wings.

Thank fuck.

Something in my chest rattled with satisfaction when she listened to me without hesitation. The hot-blooded male in me wondered how obedient she really was. And the Russo wanted to know how much she would let me get away with.

I had already touched her more than I should. Had only shared my cigarette with her just so I could see her lips where mine had been. I’d imagined those little pink fingernails around a specific part of my body, rather than holding a smoke.

I’d only touched the girl’s waist, and the warmth and softness of it was still burned into my palm.