The first time I met Alessio Russo I was eighteen. He’d barged into my room. I yelled. He yelled. We argued. I slammed the door into the jerk’s face. Then I discovered that the drool-worthy prick was my best friend’s oldest brother -- who had connections to Cassio King and the mafia. The freaking mafia! The second time I saw him was at his mother’s funeral. He didn’t seem to recognize me. Or so I thought until we ended up tangled up between the sheets and he referred to our first encounter. The next time we saw each other was at his father’s funeral - the funeral of the very same man that had threatened my life. It turned out Alessio Russo was a gentleman even when he was a savage. We bickered. We kissed. We fought. We made love. He thrilled me and scared me. Still, we slowly started to find a way to each other but before I had a chance to come clean with him, I had to leave the country. Then all hell broke loose.