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πππππππ πππππππ β When Lorenzo Moretti was nine, he was already arrogant, sharp-eyed, and too proud for his age. Isabella De Luca was sixβwild, fearless, and always ready to fight him. Their fathers, both powerful mafia men, laughed at their constant wars. He pulled her braids. She stole his toy guns. He shoved her into mud. She scratched his face until he bled. They hated each other with terrifying passion. Years later, they became heirs to the same empire. Isabella grew into a beautiful disaster in sharp heels and dangerous smiles. But what ruined Lorenzo most were the two damn molesβone above her lip, one on her neck. Every time he saw them, desire burned through him so hard it made him furious. He wanted to kiss them, bite them, taste them. He called it hate because admitting love would destroy him. So he fought her harder. If another man touched her, that man disappeared before sunrise. She wasnβt hisβbut no one else would ever have her either.
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