I go very still, my mouth forming into a concentrated little “o” at Christian’s question. My eyes flick immediately to Nico, my coffee pressed tight between my palms. Because…if Nico’s here, it means that he is on Christian’s side. Right? I’m shocked when Nico’s answer isn’t an immediate yes.

The boys begin their plans, and I almost immediately start to lose track of what they’re talking about. It’s not that they’re deliberately trying to keep me out of it by speaking in codes or anything – I just don’t understand half of the people they’re making reference to, or the places, or the stra

We walk for hours along the beach – long, languid hours, chatting about small things – the way the sand feels, the sea looks, how the sun feels on our skin. It’s only when I can feel myself burning – even under my stupid fisherman’s cap – that Christian drags me home. Even then I’m reluctant, though

“I’m sorry, Iris,” Christian says, looking down at his plate and settling his hands in his lap. “You’re right.” My eyebrows go up as my spine straightens. Because, I mean, those are not two sentences I’ve heard very often over the past two months. Christian lifts his eyes to mine. “It is difficu

“And it doesn’t hurt,” I whisper, horrified and fascinated, “that you already took the power from your father once.” My mind returns, suddenly, to how Christian got the Mafia King title from the media anyway – he’s the one who took over control of his family when his dad got sick – not his older b