Heat warmed my cheeks while I sipped my cappuccino and waited for Leona’s response to my text.

The back of my neck tingled while I glanced around furtively to make sure no one could see my phone screen. I was a grown woman and could make my own choices around sex, but I still felt like I was going to get in trouble. Virginity was still highly prized in the Mafia, and no matter how many times I told myself it was a patriarchal construct, it was hard to undo a lifetime of programming. Things had changed for the better in the past few generations. My papà had put a stop to the tradition of displaying a couple’s wedding bed sheets the morning after, and Matteo had prohibited the punishment or forced marriage of daughters who were discovered to have had sex, but waiting until marriage was still the expectation for all of the women in the Family.

That was my excuse for why I’d never experienced anything beyond a few hurried make-out sessions at college parties, but the real reasons were that the college boys never interested me and I refused to be with a Made Man.

Which, unfortunately, eliminated all the options in my social circles.

Made Men would always be beholden to the Family, their priorities split between their allegiance to their Don and to their wives. I didn’t want to wait alone at home, wondering if my husband would return safely. And I certainly wouldn’t tolerate him going out and sleeping with others the moment a ring trapped me in our marriage.

Maybe it was a selfish, childish perspective on romance, but I wanted to be the center of someone’s life. I wanted to be the priority, the most important person to them.

Leona dropped a pin in the text. The club wasn’t named on the map, but she had dragged me out to secret clubs around New York City, so I was used to entering nondescript buildings and basements. What I wasn’t used to was going by myself.

My cheeks flamed, totally ruining the cool-girl reputation I’d so carefully cultivated throughout the years. I shook out my shoulders and sipped my cappuccino. At home, I usually started my day with an energy drink, but I was pretty sure that was punishable by death in Paris, so I’d compromised by adding plenty of sugar to my coffee.

It was a hot, sunny day and I was sitting outside a gorgeous café near the hotel that provided unlimited opportunities for people-watching. At the table next to me, a little girl colored in a notebook while her mom read a book, glancing up every once in a while to compliment her daughter’s work. The sweetness of it made my heart ache. A little yap drew my attention to a fluffy white dog wearing a large pink bow. The puppy strutted by, snagging a fallen piece of croissant off the sidewalk while their owner—a man speaking in boisterous French on the phone—continued on none the wiser.

I grinned and glanced at the café on the opposite side of the street. It was smaller than mine, with about half the number of tables out front, but the beautiful cream awning was covered in pink flowers. It reminded me of the roses Juliet, Sofiya, and I had planted on our rooftop flower garden a few months ago. Sofiya was sending me daily pictures of Clementine and Noodle watering our first blooms and it made my heart twist. I wasn’t ready to return to the cage that was my life, but I missed my niece, dog-nephew, and friends fiercely.

Maybe I should have my breakfast at the flower café tomorrow morning. If I lived in Paris, I’d spend every morning in a new café, sampling all the pastries and coffee in the city until I found the best one.

A flash of movement snagged my attention when the waiter across the street dropped off an espresso to a blond man sitting at a small circular table. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, and he sat relaxed with his ankle braced on his knee, like he owned the place. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing thick forearms. His jaw was strong and chiseled, his expression serious as his thumb ran along his lower lip.

I was so mesmerized by him I reacted too slowly when his eyes fell on me. Electricity shot through me. My breath caught and my stomach tightened. I looked away, my heart pounding. I didn’t understand my intense reaction. He was just a man. A stranger. But there was something about him…

I picked at my pastry until I felt brave enough to glance up again. He was deep in conversation with the man across from him. The second man was striking with dark hair, stubble lining his jaw, and sharp cheekbones that made him look almost pretty. But I couldn’t keep my gaze from returning to the first man, eyes drawn to the way his blond hair fell over his forehead, the flex of his jaw, how his espresso cup looked tiny in his huge hands. My tongue ran over my lips.

If all Parisian men were like this, I would definitely need those condoms.

Some content on the website is uploaded by users. If it infringes on your rights, please contact us.