The New Bodyguard

New York glittered best when it was lying.

From the top floor of the Rossi Luxury Group headquarters, the city looked almost holy—glass towers dipped in gold, streets burning with ribbons of headlights, the Hudson reflecting the last bruised colors of sunset. It was beautiful in the way expensive things often were.

Shiny.

Sharp.

And hiding rot beneath the surface.

Aria Rossi stood barefoot in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office, one hand wrapped around an espresso cup, the other flipping lazily through a report she had absolutely no intention of reading tonight.

She was still dressed for the boardroom—black silk blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, diamond studs, and a watch so understated it cost more than some people’s cars. Her heels had been kicked off half an hour ago and were lying on their sides near the sofa like they’d offended her personally.

Behind her, Mia was losing patience.

“Aria.”

No answer.

“Aria.”

Still nothing.

“Aria Maria Rossi, if you jump out of a building again, I’m resigning.”

Aria took a slow sip of coffee and didn’t turn around. “That only happened once.”

Mia made a strangled noise. “You climbed out of your own office window to escape a board meeting.”

“It was a terrible board meeting.”

“It was a merger presentation.”

“It was a terrible merger presentation.”

Aria finally looked over her shoulder, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re still upset about that?”

“You used the emergency maintenance ledge on the forty-seventh floor.”

“And yet,” Aria said, gesturing at herself, “I survived.”

“That is not the point!”

“It’s always the point.”

Mia closed her eyes as if searching for spiritual guidance. She was twenty-seven, terrifyingly competent, and the only person in the company who could glare at Aria Rossi without fearing immediate termination. She’d been Aria’s assistant for four years and had developed the permanent expression of a woman who deserved hazard pay.

Aria crossed the office and dropped into her chair with all the elegance of a queen who had no respect for furniture. Her office was exactly what every magazine expected from the CEO of Rossi Luxury Group—sleek white marble, black steel accents, abstract art, and a skyline view worth millions.

It was also currently full of shopping bags, three abandoned coffee cups, contract folders, one motorcycle helmet, and a crystal paperweight Aria had stolen from her grandfather’s office when she was seventeen.

Mia looked around and sighed. “You know, sometimes I wonder why the media calls you the Ice Queen of Business.”

Aria leaned back in her chair. “Because I’m elegant, ruthless, and gorgeous?”

“Because no one sees this disaster in private.”

Aria gasped. “Excuse you. This is curated chaos.”

“This is not curated enough to qualify as chaos.”

Aria grinned.

Mia, tragically, did not.

Instead, she marched forward and dropped a black folder onto the desk. “Your grandfather wants you at the villa tonight.”

Aria’s smile vanished.

“No.”

Mia blinked. “No?”

“No,” Aria repeated, already reaching for her coffee. “I have plans.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I do.”

“Lying to your assistant is disrespectful.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “Wow. I’m hurt.”

“Good.”

Mia opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet. “Your grandfather didn’t ask this time. He said—and I quote—‘Bring my reckless granddaughter home before she gets herself shot again.’”

Aria nearly choked on her espresso.

Mia narrowed her eyes. “Would you like to explain why he said again?”

“No.”

“Aria.”

“No, Mia.”

Mia folded her arms. “You know what? Fine. Keep your suspiciously life-threatening secrets. But you’re still going.”

Aria stood and reached for her leather jacket draped over the back of the sofa. “Tell him I’m busy overthrowing capitalism.”

“You own four luxury fashion houses.”

“Exactly. No one suspects me.”

Mia stared at her. “One day I’m going to write a book about working for you.”

“Make sure I’m glamorous in it.”

“Oh, you’ll be glamorous,” Mia muttered. “You’ll also be the reason I need therapy.”

Aria laughed all the way to the elevator.

---

The Rossi villa stood at the edge of Manhattan like old money had personally bullied the land into making room for it.

The gates alone were obscene—black wrought iron framed by stone pillars, flanked by cameras, guards, and enough discreetly armed security to monitor a small country. The mansion beyond was all old European elegance, white stone and ivy and manicured gardens lit by soft golden lamps.

Aria rolled her motorcycle to a stop in front of the entrance and removed her helmet. The evening wind slipped through her dark hair as one of the guards hurried forward to take it.

“Welcome home, Miss Rossi.”

“Is my grandfather in one of his moods?” she asked.

The guard hesitated.

Aria sighed. “That bad?”

“He’s in the drawing room, Miss.”

“Of course he is.”

She stepped inside, heels clicking across polished marble floors. The familiar scent of cedar, old books, and expensive wine wrapped around her instantly. Nothing about the villa had changed much over the years. The walls still wore antique paintings and portraits of dead Rossis who all looked like they’d either committed a crime before breakfast or were about to.

Home sweet home.

Aria walked toward the drawing room already preparing herself for whatever ambush her grandfather had arranged this time.

A marriage lecture.

A political dinner.

A business alliance disguised as a social gathering.

Another attempt to introduce her to some rich heir with a weak jawline and an overinflated opinion of himself.

The possibilities were endless.

She pushed open the drawing room doors without knocking.

“Grandpa, if this is another attempt to marry me off to a man with bad hair, I’m leaving.”

Silence.

Aria stopped.

Her grandfather was exactly where she expected him to be—sitting in his favorite leather armchair with a cane resting against one leg and a wool blanket over his knees in what would have been a convincing elderly image if Aria didn’t know for a fact that he could still terrify armed men without raising his voice.

But he wasn’t alone.

A man stood near the fireplace, one hand in the pocket of a charcoal-gray suit, broad shoulders outlined by warm lamplight. He was tall—offensively tall, really—and so still he didn’t look like a guest at all.

He looked like a weapon pretending to be a man.

Aria’s gaze traveled upward.

And then stopped.

…Oh.

Well.

That was inconvenient.

Because the stranger standing in her grandfather’s drawing room was the sort of handsome that felt less like a blessing and more like a legal liability.

Dark hair brushed neatly away from his face.

Sharp jaw.

A calm, unreadable expression.

A body built like expensive trouble.

The kind of face that belonged on the cover of a business magazine above a headline like HOW TO DESTROY YOUR ENEMIES IN A PERFECTLY TAILORED SUIT.

For one humiliating second, Aria forgot how to blink.

Then she recovered.

Naturally, the first thing she said was, “You’re too handsome to be a bodyguard.”

Her grandfather shut his eyes like a man asking God for patience.

The stranger, however, didn’t react.

Not even a flicker.

His gaze moved over her—helmet hair, leather jacket, dark lipstick, and the expression that usually preceded bad decisions—and stopped somewhere between unimpressed and mildly disapproving.

Then he said, in a low, even voice that was entirely too attractive for Aria’s peace of mind—

“You’re too reckless to stay alive.”

The room went silent.

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

Her grandfather made a sound that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Aria slowly turned toward him. “Did you hire him to insult me?”

“No,” Grandpa Rossi said. “That part was free.”

“Wonderful.”

She looked back at the stranger. “And who exactly are you?”

“Adrian De Luca.”

The name landed between them with the weight of recognition.

Of course she knew who Adrian De Luca was.

Everyone did.

CEO of De Luca Security International. Former military prodigy turned billionaire security king. The man governments called when they didn’t trust their own systems. A ghost in expensive tailoring. A strategist. A legend in boardrooms and war zones alike.

Aria’s face remained calm, but several thoughts collided at once in her mind.

First: Why was Adrian De Luca in her grandfather’s house?

Second: Why did he somehow look better in person than in the magazines?

Third: Why did his voice sound like it had no business speaking directly to her while wearing a suit that fit him like a sin?

And most importantly—

Fourth: absolutely not.

“No,” she said.

Her grandfather frowned. “I didn’t ask a question.”

“I know,” Aria replied, pointing at Adrian. “But the answer is still no.”

“This is your new head of security.”

Aria laughed.

Actually laughed.

It burst out of her bright and sharp, and for the first time Adrian’s expression shifted—barely, but enough for her to catch the faintest flicker of annoyance.

Good.

She liked him less already.

“You hired a head of security,” she said, “without asking me?”

“You’ve had six assassination attempts in the last three months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“The one in Milan barely counts.”

“The car exploded.”

“It exploded beside me,” Aria corrected. “Accuracy matters.”

Grandpa Rossi looked one second away from ordering a priest.

Adrian somehow looked even less impressed than before.

Aria turned toward him, smile sharp enough to draw blood. “And you accepted?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because someone wants you dead.”

“And?”

“And unlike you,” Adrian said coolly, “I consider that a problem.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “I’m touched. Truly.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s my job.”

The nerve.

The absolute nerve of this man.

Aria crossed the room, stopping close enough to make most men nervous.

Adrian didn’t move.

Interesting.

Up close, he was somehow worse.

Or better.

Worse for her peace of mind. Better for his face.

He smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive and clean. His tie was perfectly straight. His expression remained calm in a way that felt almost insulting, as if nothing in the world surprised him—not billion-dollar negotiations, not bullets, and certainly not Aria Rossi standing in front of him trying very hard not to notice how annoyingly attractive he was.

“Let me make this simple, Mr. De Luca,” she said sweetly. “I do not need a bodyguard.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the thin scar near her wrist.

Then lifted back to her face.

“Clearly.”

The smile slipped from Aria’s lips.

For a fraction of a second, something cold flashed through her eyes.

Not because he was wrong.

Because he had noticed.

Very few people ever noticed.

And almost no one was stupid enough to comment on it.

Grandpa Rossi cleared his throat sharply, as if he had caught the shift in the room and decided he disliked it. “Adrian will be staying with you until this matter is resolved.”

Aria tore her gaze away from Adrian. “Staying with me?”

“Yes.”

“In my penthouse?”

“Yes.”

“In my personal space?”

“You say that like you respect personal space.”

She ignored him. “Absolutely not.”

Grandpa Rossi folded his hands over his cane. “You have two choices. Adrian protects you, or I assign twelve armed guards to follow you into every board meeting, charity event, brunch, showroom, and bathroom.”

Aria stared.

Her grandfather stared back.

It was a battle of wills that had begun when she was thirteen and had only grown more dramatic with age.

Finally, she turned slowly toward Adrian.

He met her gaze without blinking.

Aria smiled—a beautiful, dangerous smile that had destroyed men, negotiations, and at least one journalist’s confidence in under thirty seconds.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “You’ve just accepted the worst job in New York.”

And for the first time since she’d entered the room, Adrian De Luca smiled.

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t charming.

It was the kind of smile a wolf might wear right before deciding whether to bite.

“I know,” he said.

Something in Aria’s stomach flipped.

She hated that immediately.

---

Dinner was a disaster.

Adrian stayed.

Aria objected.

Grandpa Rossi ignored her.

The table was set for three in one of the smaller dining rooms, though “smaller” in the Rossi villa still meant enough space to host a minor royal family. Crystal chandeliers hung above polished wood. Silver gleamed under candlelight. The staff moved quietly around them, delivering courses with the kind of discreet professionalism that suggested they had all seen too much and chosen silence for survival.

Aria spent the first ten minutes pretending Adrian didn’t exist.

Adrian spent the first ten minutes watching the room with the cold alertness of a man who catalogued exits before menus.

Grandpa Rossi spent the first ten minutes enjoying himself far too much.

“Adrian,” he said, cutting into his sea bass with infuriating calm, “tell me. How long have you been in security?”

“Long enough to know your granddaughter is a nightmare.”

Aria looked up from her wine. “I’m sorry?”

Grandpa Rossi nearly smiled into his plate.

Adrian didn’t even glance at her. “She left her office without informing anyone. Arrived here alone on a motorcycle. Has a pattern of escaping secure locations. Dismisses active threats. And I’ve been assigned to her for less than an hour.”

Aria leaned back in her chair. “I don’t remember asking for a performance review.”

“You’re getting one anyway.”

“How generous.”

Grandpa Rossi took a sip of wine. “You’ll have to forgive her. Aria has never responded well to authority.”

“I’ve noticed,” Adrian said.

Aria narrowed her eyes. “You’re both enjoying this too much.”

“Not true,” her grandfather replied. “I’m enjoying it exactly enough.”

She turned toward Adrian. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t take orders well.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I also don’t like strangers in my home.”

“Then stop getting targeted by assassins.”

Aria blinked.

Grandpa Rossi choked on his wine.

For one stunned second, the room went quiet.

Then Aria laughed—a bright, disbelieving laugh that startled even some of the staff.

“You know what?” she said, reaching for her glass. “I hate you already.”

“Good,” Adrian said, not sounding bothered in the slightest. “That means you’re paying attention.”

She stared at him.

He calmly took another bite of dinner.

Infuriating.

Completely infuriating.

And somehow, against all reason, Aria could already feel the edges of her curiosity sharpening.

Who spoke to her like that?

Who sat in her grandfather’s house, insulted her to her face, and somehow made it sound like strategy?

Most people in Aria’s world fell into one of two categories. They either wanted something from her or they were afraid of her. Sometimes both.

Adrian De Luca, on the other hand, looked at her like she was a problem to solve.

She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or entertained.

Probably both.

By dessert, she’d made up her mind.

She was going to get rid of him.

---

By the time Aria left the villa, it was fully dark.

And Adrian De Luca was walking behind her.

She stopped halfway down the front steps and turned. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I’m assigned to you.”

“You’re not assigned to me until tomorrow.”

“I prefer to start immediately.”

“Of course you do.”

She snatched her helmet from the guard’s hands and shoved it onto her head. “I’m going home alone.”

“No.”

Aria froze. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Adrian repeated, like a man who had never once in his life feared the consequences of saying no to the wrong person. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

The night wind stirred through the gardens. Somewhere behind them, a fountain splashed in elegant indifference. One of the guards very wisely took several steps away.

Aria stepped closer. “I don’t take orders well.”

“I noticed.”

“I fire people for less.”

“I don’t work for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Technically, you do.”

“Technically,” Adrian said, “I work to keep you alive. Whether you cooperate is your choice.”

That did it.

Aria took off her helmet and shoved it into his chest.

It was not a light helmet.

Any normal man would have stumbled.

Adrian caught it one-handed without even glancing down.

Aria hated him a little more.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You want to protect me? Keep up.”

Then she swung one leg over her motorcycle, started the engine, and shot him one last look over her shoulder.

“Try not to die, Mr. De Luca.”

And then she sped through the gates like a bullet.

For exactly three glorious seconds, Aria felt victorious.

For exactly three glorious seconds, she imagined Adrian De Luca standing in the driveway in silence while she disappeared into Manhattan traffic, forced to admit defeat on his very first night.

Then headlights appeared in her side mirror.

A black Aston Martin.

Fast.

Very fast.

Aria’s jaw dropped inside her helmet.

“You have got to be kidding me—”

The car stayed with her through every turn.

Every lane change.

Every light.

When she accelerated, it accelerated.

When she cut through traffic, it followed with smooth, terrifying precision.

By the time she reached her penthouse building, Aria was no longer angry.

She was offended.

Deeply, personally offended.

She pulled into the underground garage, killed the engine, and ripped off her helmet just as the Aston Martin slid into the spot beside her with infuriating elegance.

Adrian stepped out a second later, adjusted his cuffs, and looked entirely unaffected by the fact that he had just chased her across Manhattan like this was a perfectly reasonable way to begin employment.

Aria stared at him. “Are you insane?”

“No.”

“You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“At high speed.”

“Yes.”

“Through Midtown traffic!”

Adrian closed the car door. “You were the one speeding.”

“That is not the point!”

“It’s one of several points.”

Aria made a sound that was not fit for polite society.

Adrian held out her helmet.

She snatched it from him.

Then, because the universe clearly enjoyed testing her patience, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s that?”

“A revised security schedule.”

Aria blinked. “A what?”

“Your current one is inadequate.”

She stared at the paper. Then at him. Then back at the paper as if it might burst into flames and save her from this conversation.

“You made me a security schedule.”

“I made you a survivability schedule.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means you’re no longer allowed to disappear without telling anyone, leave through unsecured exits, bribe your own guards, or ride alone after midnight.”

Aria looked up slowly.

Then smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

“Mr. De Luca,” she said very softly, “I want you to listen to me carefully.”

Adrian slipped one hand into his pocket and waited.

She stepped closer.

Then another.

Until she was standing directly in front of him, chin tilted up, eyes sharp, every inch of her radiating challenge.

“I am going upstairs,” she said. “Alone. You are going home. Preferably far away from me. And tomorrow morning, I’m going to call my grandfather and explain exactly where he can put this survivability schedule.”

Adrian listened without interrupting.

Then he glanced toward the elevator.

Looked back at her.

And said the most infuriating words Aria Rossi had heard in twenty-nine years of life.

“I’ll take the stairs.”

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

The parking garage fell into absolute silence.

And somewhere deep in the cold, dramatic center of her soul, Aria knew one thing with perfect certainty.

This man was going to ruin her life.

---

Her penthouse occupied the entire top floor of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive residential towers.

It was elegant, private, heavily secured, and—despite what every magazine believed—not a minimalist masterpiece.

It was war.

There were books stacked on the coffee table in uneven piles, a half-open sketchbook on the kitchen island, two helmets by the door, and a throw blanket on the couch that Mia had once described as “evidence that you’re secretly a raccoon nesting in luxury.”

Aria unlocked the door and stepped inside without looking back.

She was fully aware Adrian was still there.

She was also fully committed to pretending he wasn’t.

“Take your shoes off if you’re coming in,” she called over her shoulder, tossing her keys onto the console table. “I don’t trust men who wear outdoor shoes across expensive rugs.”

A beat of silence followed.

Then Adrian’s calm voice came from behind her.

“I’m not staying.”

Aria turned around so fast she nearly laughed.

He was still in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame, his tie still perfect, his expression still impossible.

“Really?” she said. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all evening.”

“I’m posting two men downstairs and one outside the private elevator. I’ll be back at six.”

She blinked. “Six in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To review your schedule, inspect the building security, and go over route changes for tomorrow.”

Aria stared at him as if he had personally offended every ancestor in her bloodline.

“There will be no route changes.”

“There will.”

“There won’t.”

“There will.”

She folded her arms. “You know, I was trying to be civil.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But I could have started throwing things, so really you should appreciate my restraint.”

Adrian’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

It wasn’t quite a smile.

It was worse.

It was the hint that he might be amused.

Aria pointed at him immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing with your face.”

“My face.”

“Yes. That.”

Adrian looked entirely too calm for a man standing in the apartment of a woman who was one insult away from launching a decorative vase at his head.

“I’ll see you at six, Miss Rossi.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What would you prefer?”

Aria opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then narrowed her eyes.

“That was a trap.”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

Adrian inclined his head once, as if acknowledging a successful tactical maneuver. “Lock the door behind me.”

Then he stepped back into the hallway and left.

Aria stood in the middle of her penthouse in stunned silence.

She listened to his retreating footsteps.

Then to the soft click of the outer door.

Then to the absolute, offensive quiet he left behind.

A full ten seconds passed before she threw herself dramatically onto the couch and glared at the ceiling.

“This is a nightmare,” she informed the room.

The room, lacking sympathy, remained silent.

Aria sat up, reached for her phone, and dialed Mia.

Mia answered on the second ring. “Did you survive dinner?”

“No.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. My grandfather hired a bodyguard.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“A hot one?”

Aria sat bolt upright. “Whose side are you on?”

“That is not a no.”

“He’s impossible.”

“Still not a no.”

Aria flopped back against the cushions. “He’s arrogant, rude, bossy, and apparently under the impression that I’m a badly behaved package he’s been paid to deliver safely.”

Mia gasped softly. “So yes, hot.”

Aria dragged a hand over her face. “Mia.”

“I’m just saying, if your suffering happens to be aesthetically pleasing, I’m entitled to details.”

“He made me a survivability schedule.”

Silence.

Then Mia burst into laughter.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry,” Mia wheezed. “A survivability schedule?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the most psychotic bodyguard thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Is he actually staying?”

Aria closed her eyes. “Apparently he starts at six in the morning.”

Mia was quiet for one beat.

Then—

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For me definitely.”

Aria ended the call before Mia could get any more entertained at her expense.

She tossed the phone onto the couch, stood, and walked toward the kitchen in search of something stronger than espresso. The penthouse was dark except for the city lights pouring through the windows. From this height, New York looked distant and almost harmless.

It wasn’t.

Aria knew exactly how dangerous this city could be.

She knew how quickly a quiet street could become a crime scene.

How easily smiles in boardrooms hid knives.

How often powerful men mistook silk and diamonds for weakness.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the kitchen counter.

Six attempts in three months.

Milan.

A charity gala in Manhattan.

A brake line cut in Paris.

A sniper on a rooftop in Chicago.

A package bomb intercepted by luck more than skill.

And one man in a hotel hallway who had pulled a knife too slowly and died too fast.

Aria’s expression cooled.

Someone was getting desperate.

That was the only reason she’d tolerated tonight at all.

Not because she wanted a bodyguard.

Not because her grandfather was worried.

And certainly not because Adrian De Luca looked at her like he could see more than he should.

No.

She tolerated it because six attempts was not a coincidence.

Someone wanted her dead.

And someone was getting closer.

Her phone buzzed on the couch.

Aria crossed the room and picked it up, expecting Mia.

It wasn’t Mia.

The number was unknown.

No name. No history. Just a message.

Sleep carefully tonight, Miss Rossi.

The seventh attempt won’t miss.

The blood in Aria’s veins went cold.

For one still second, she stared at the screen.

Then her gaze lifted slowly toward the dark windows of her penthouse.

New York glittered back at her.

Beautiful.

Silent.

Watching.

Aria set the glass in her hand down without a sound and moved.

In one smooth motion, she crossed to the wall beside the bookshelf, pressed her thumb to a hidden panel, and waited for the soft click.

A narrow compartment slid open.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a handgun.

Aria picked it up with practiced ease.

Her heartbeat never changed.

Her face never changed.

Only her eyes did.

They sharpened.

Darkened.

Became something colder than any business magazine had ever captured.

She stepped away from the living room windows and into the shadows just as the lights in the building across the street flickered.

Once.

Twice.

A signal.

Aria’s grip tightened on the gun.

And for the first time that night, her smile returned.

It was not the smile of a billionaire heiress.

Not the smile of a CEO.

And certainly not the smile of a woman who needed anyone to save her.

It was the smile of someone who had just been threatened by a fool.

Someone who had no idea what kind of war he’d just stepped into.

“Interesting,” Aria murmured to the darkness.

Then she reached for her phone, already dialing a number she never used in daylight.

By the time the line connected, her voice was calm.

Deadly calm.

❄ “Wake everyone up.”

A pause on the other end.

Then a man’s voice, instantly alert.

“Yes, boss.”

Aria’s gaze stayed fixed on the city beyond the glass.

On the building across the street.

On the darkness hiding there.

❄ “Find out who sent me that message,” she said. “And if they’re stupid enough to still be watching my building…”

Her lips curved.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

❄ “Bring them to me.”

The line went silent for half a second.

Then—

“Yes, Phantom Queen.”

Aria ended the call.

Across the room, her phone screen still glowed with the threat.

The seventh attempt won’t miss.

Aria looked at it once.

Then deleted the message.

Tomorrow morning, Adrian De Luca would arrive at six with his tailored suits, his survivability schedule, and his infuriatingly calm bodyguard routine.

He would probably inspect her penthouse.

Question the security system.

Lecture her about reckless behavior.

And watch her like she was the most exhausting assignment of his career.

What he would not know—

what absolutely no one in Adrian De Luca’s polished, controlled world would know—

was that tonight, while he slept under the illusion that Aria Rossi needed protecting…

the Phantom Queen was going hunting.

And somewhere in the city, someone was about to learn a very expensive lesson.

Aria Rossi was never the prey.

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