Chapter 3 - Inside the Lion's Den
The black sedan glided through the iron gates of a sprawling estate nestled in the hills overlooking Palermo. Olive groves stretched across terraced hillsides, and distant white villas gleamed under the afternoon sun. If not for the heavy iron security gates and the armed guards stationed at discreet intervals, the place could have belonged to an aristocratic wine maker. The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a grand neoclassical villa adorned with blooming bougainvillea.
The older man—who had introduced himself only as Enzo—opened her door with formal politeness. "After you, Signorina."
Mary stepped out, her heels clicking against the paved courtyard. Her chest tightened with every step toward the massive carved oak double doors. Enzo led her through a cavernous, marble-floored foyer lined with classical statues and dark oil paintings that looked centuries old. They walked down a long hallway and stopped before a set of mahogany doors. Enzo knocked twice, then pushed them open, gesturing for her to enter alone.
Mary stepped inside, and the heavy doors clicked shut behind her. The room was a sprawling private study filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, antique globes, and a massive mahogany desk positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea. Standing by the window, backlit by the brilliant Mediterranean glare, was Liam.
He had changed out of his riding gear. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing lean, corded muscle and faint scars that told stories of a violent past. He held a glass of amber liquid, swirling it slowly before taking a sip. He did not turn around immediately.
"You didn't listen to the waiter at your hotel," Liam said, his deep voice carrying easily across the quiet room.
Mary clutched the strap of her handbag, fighting the urge to shrink backward. "How do you know what the waiter said?"
"I own the hotel, Mary. I own the street you stood on. I own the port where you took pictures of fishermen this morning. There is very little in Palermo that escapes my attention."
He finally turned. Those dark eyes locked onto hers, holding her in place with a gravity that felt physical. "You should have packed your bags this morning and taken the first flight back to Rome."
"My mother told me to respect family," Mary retorted, finding a sudden surge of defiant courage. "And you told me to be careful. I am just exploring your city."
"You were looking for me," Liam countered, stepping away from the window and closing the distance between them with unsettling grace. He stopped just a few feet away. Close enough that she could smell the clean scent of sandalwood and expensive soap mixed with the faint, sharp tang of espresso. "You stood by the harbor for four hours taking pictures of empty boats, waiting for a black motorcycle."
Mary’s face burned hot. "I was not—"
"You were," he interrupted quietly, his gaze softening by a fraction. "And now you are here. In a house where journalists, rival bosses, and corrupt politicians pray they never set foot. Do you understand what kind of danger you are walking into?"
"I understand that you saved me in the storm," Mary said, her chin lifting defiantly. "People like you don't just pick up lost tourists out of the goodness of their hearts. What do you want with me, Liam Salvatore?"
Liam stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. A slow, dark intensity flickered in his eyes. "I wanted to see if you were as foolish in the daylight as you were in the dark."
May you like
"And?"
"I haven't decided yet," he murmured, reaching out. His hand hovered inches from her cheek, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, yet it set her skin on fire. "But I know one thing for certain. You are entirely out of your depth, Mary."
