HAZEL

I’m sitting behind the teacher’s desk in my dingy little classroom, trying not to think about my past. But that’s the funny thing about it. The more I try, the harder it becomes.

All too soon, I’m thrown back there. Like a gut punch, I feel it. Hard. And all I want to do is run away. All I ever wanted to do was run away. I succeeded, didn’t I? But if that’s the case, why can’t I shake these thoughts?

In my mind’s eye, I see a little girl—naïve, stupid. It’s me, back when my nightmares first really started in earnest. I hate the way that I cried as I ran through the house. I hate the fear in my eyes. I hate the way I screamed as I scrambled like a fleeing rodent under the bed.

Then I hear it.

The rumbling of my father’s voice.

He’s drunk, that bastard. That two-faced, hot-and-cold, Jekyll-and-Hyde bastard. For years, I was terrified that whatever craziness was in him was in me, too.

Maybe it is, just a little.

I’ve spent years pretending it’s not. But lately, I’m less certain than ever.

In this memory, he wants to hit me. The alcohol always made his fists swing. But before he can find me, before he can let loose, my big brother lies and tells that snarling, heaving animal that I went out the back door.

That was before my brother became just as bad. Maybe the craziness was in him, too. Maybe even worse. Or maybe—

I’m jolted from my reverie by the arrival of my first student. Lucille is a Mexican woman with sass for days and hair that sits on top of her head like a halo.

“You up in the clouds, girl,” she tuts.

I can only nod and smile sheepishly. She’s caught me red-handed. “I’m up in the clouds.”

“No good up there.” She shakes her head.

I think she senses something off about me, which is not good at all. I’m supposed to be a regular woman living a regular life. Introducing: Hazel Conway, anonymous twenty-four-year-old and woefully underpaid teacher of an English-as-a-second-language class for adults at the local recreation center.

That sounds so innocent and simple. I wish things were what they seemed.

“Down here better,” she says sagely.

“It is better down here,” I correct, taking on my instructor’s voice.

She echoes me, chuckling. Her laugh is infectious. More students arrive behind her, some of them taking cookies from the little table at the front. I spent all last night baking, losing myself in the process. Life is simpler when I’m cooking.

I shake my head to clear the thoughts and get started with teaching the class.

Lucille, Max, Johnny, and Sofiya sit at the front. Max and Johnny are Korean twins who have refused to give me their real names, just laughing and telling me I’d never in a million years be able to pronounce them. They are black-haired and brown-eyed and move with eerie similarity, like they’re each other’s shadows. Sofiya is a Ukrainian girl who sits quietly and takes diligent notes.

At the back is where the troublemakers sit, just like in high school. I guess some things never change.

In my case, the troublemakers are four Italians wearing sharp suits and sharper expressions, without an ounce of desire to be here. They smack loudly on the cookies I made. Their leader, a vending machine of a man with a flat face and flinty eyes, starts dealing a hand of poker.

I ignore them and keep teaching.

They have done the same thing the last two sessions, just generally being pains in the ass. I’ve managed to get them in line a couple of times, but I sense that there’s something shady about them. I’ve got a good radar for that. Too good. So I’m wary about overstepping. I know what men like that are like. They could blow up this new life I’m trying to build for myself.

Focus, I warn myself silently.

“I love sooker,” Johnny says.

“Soccer, honey,” Lucille corrects, giggling.

“Sooker!” Max echoes. Both of the brothers laugh.

At the rear of the class, another Italian stands up. He’s tall and very, very thin, with combed-over gray-brown hair and a vague scar over his left eye. He looks worn-out. He keeps his hand near his hip, like there’s a gun there. I know that little nervous tic. I’ve seen it too many times. It’s like he’s expecting an attack.

Sometimes he’ll walk in and out of the classroom—which is exactly what he does right now, not even bothering to look at me on his way out the door.

I bite my tongue. Don’t make a fuss. Keep your head down. That’s the whole point of this fresh, shiny new life.

But then one of the hard-eyed Italians lights up a cigar, grinning like he’s daring me to say something, anything.

Consider the camel’s back well and truly broken.

He thinks I won’t say anything. He probably believes my patience is never-ending.

Wrong on both counts.

The cigar smoke billows under the fluorescent lights. Sofiya, who has had a cough recently, throws a pained glance towards the back. She won’t say anything; she’s too nice.

But I’m not. Before I know it, I march over there and stab my finger in his face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to learn? This is a no-smoking building. Just because you want to give yourself cancer, doesn’t mean we all need to go down with you. Put it out or get out.”

He blinks at me, pretending not to understand. But I know for damn sure that he comprehends far more than he’s letting on.

He mutters something to his pals in Italian. They all laugh. Behind me, I hear a chair scrape. I don’t have to look back to know that it’s Lucille, readying herself for war. It’s nice to know that she has my back, but right now, it’s not necessary. I’ve got this.

“Out,” I snarl. “Now.”

The thin man walks back into the class just then. He glances at us, chest-to-chest like wrestlers in a grudge match. His eyes narrow instantly. “What is going on here?” he demands.

I throw my hands up. “Look, I haven’t said anything for the past two weeks, but this is getting ridiculous. He can’t smoke in here. And they need to stop disrupting the class. If they can’t focus, fine, go somewhere else. But I’ve got students here who actually want to learn.”

The vending-machine man dispenses more drawled Italian. More laughter from his pals ensues. Lucille is at my shoulder now.

“The fuck you say, pendejo?” Lucille aims her blood-red fingernails, freshly manicured, at him. They’re like weapons. I wouldn’t want them pointed at me. “If you think you got cojones, spit in English. I’ll make you my lapdog.” She flounders for the words, but I’m quite proud. It seems like anger makes her articulate. “Lick my boot, you will, motherfucker.”

Absurdly, I hear the last in Yoda’s voice: “Lick my boot, you will …”

“Bitch,” the Italian growls. “Mexican bitch.”

“The fuck you—”

The thin man steps forward as Lucille makes to leap at him and the Italian jumps to his feet. More hands stray towards more hips. It’s more of an instinct, I think—at least, I hope; I pray. They’re not really going to start shooting, are they?

I feel myself go cold in anticipation of violence, the way I have many times before. My skin pricks. The air seems thinner.

“Okay, okay.” The thin man steps between us. “There is no need for this. I understand that he has crossed a line, Miss Conway. I also understand that you need some order in your class. Believe it or not, they are learning.”

I swallow a moment of surprise at the perfect, unaccented English flowing flawlessly from his lips, but I choose to take his support instead of asking why the hell he's in an ESOL class if he already speaks the freaking language.

"I don't believe it," I tell him. "Nor do I care. I just want them to stop being disruptive. That's all."

The thin man waves a hand at the smoker. He barks something in Italian and, immediately, the man stubs out the cigar. But he takes a vicious pleasure in grinding it into one of my cookies and then tossing both into the trash. Trying to, at least. His aim isn't as good as his ability to annoy me. They bounce and end up on the floor.

"Pick that up!" I snap.

The thin man shakes his head. "Don't push your luck," he mutters. "I think it's best if you get back to your instruction."

I stare at them for a long time. A few violent thoughts go through my head, including a vivid image of stiletto heels coming into kissing contact with arrogant Italian balls. But in the end, I know I've been backed into a corner. Time to take my minor moral victory and go home.

"If he lights up again," I say, "I'll shove it so far up his ass his liver will get lung cancer."

Lucille snickers and even Sofiya laughs. I make a mental note to start incorporating more humor into my lesson plans.

I get back to my teaching, but the whole time I feel the Italian's eyes on me. His beady eyes don't fit in his face properly. They go back and forth as I walk around the front of class, never leaving me. I get the uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen.

Which, unfortunately, is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

"You let me know if you want me to orchestrate that pendejo," Lucille says with plenty of finger wagging.

We are standing outside the rec center, the sun long gone now. The parking lot is pitch-dark in its absence, since several of the street lamps are broken. Johnny, Max, and Sofiya have already left, but the Italians are taking their sweet time. The thin man is ushering them into a black minivan like they're headed out on a field trip, almost invisible in the night.

"Orchestrate?" I ask, confused.

She makes a snip-snip motion with her fingers by way of explanation.

"Oh, castrate."

"Cut his balls off," she says. "That clear enough? You want me to stay?"

I shake my head. "I'll be okay."

"Too tough for your own good," Lucille tuts, giving me a hug. "See you next week."

She struts away and I return to the rec center, winding my way through back to the classroom. I normally hang around for a little while to prepare for the next class. If I'm feeling particularly charged up, I'll sometimes sketch a little. But tonight, I just want to get my things and go home. I throw my handbag strap over my shoulder, lock the door behind me, and head back towards the lobby to leave.

No such luck.

He's waiting for me in front of the glass double doors-Mr. Lung Cancer, with a nasty gleam in his eye.

"Rude lady," he says, clearly trying hard to find the words. "Slut lady."

I reach slowly for my purse, which contains my pepper spray. I think, not for the first time, that I need to get a gun. Nothing drastic; a small caliber, something for defense. He sees me reaching for the flap of the bag and he waggles an eyebrow at me knowingly. He expects me to open it, and he wants me to know that he knows what I'm trying to do.

So I do the exact opposite. I stride to the left, shove open the side door, and walk out into the night. That jerk can wait in there until the sun rises for all I care.

"Rude lady," I hear from behind me. He moves way too quickly for an ogre. In a flash, I'm somehow backed up against the exterior wall of the building, his bulk a shield I can't get past. Thankfully, he's not touching me. Yet. "Teach some respect."

I assess my options: a knee to the gonads, spit in his eye, rake his cheek with my fingernails. All viable, but I need to make sure it's effective enough so that I can duck and run. And he looks intent.

"Women need respect," he goes on, sounding like a sexist caveman. Tarzan love Jane. Jane grovel for Tarzan. "I teach."

"No, what you'll do is back the fuck off before I make you regret it," I hiss. Miraculously, I sound calm. "I mean it. Back. Off."

Over his shoulder, I see a limo pull up. Wait, a limo? The sight is so strange in this rundown part of town that for a second, everything seems to stop. Mr. Lung Cancer glances at it. Something in him changes, melts.

Who is in there?

The back door swings open. The man who steps out and strides over to us is jaw-droppingly handsome. Over six feet, muscled, his thick arms filling out his steel-gray suit. Even in the low light, I can make out the glinting blue-green of his eyes, sharp and intelligent.

As he exchanges words with the thin, scarred man, he barely glances at him. He stands like a man used to being in control. The only thing that moves is his hand, a tiny twitch in his fingers, as though he's strumming an invisible guitar. He's clean-shaven, with slightly smirking lips. A proud sneer in the set of his jaw. He must be thirty, maybe a little older.

I turn away from him, a little unnerved by how flustered I've gotten. This is not the time to be swooning over good-looking strangers.

"You have five seconds," I tell the big Italian, "or I'm going to make you regret it."

"I'd listen to her." The handsome stranger is talking to the Italian but looking at me. "She doesn't seem the sort to make idle threats. Step back."

The smoking asshole steps back right away. Bowing his head, he makes as if to apologize. The limo man waves a hand toward the minivan, and my would-be-attacker skulks off like a dog with its tail between its legs.

"I must apologize for my friend," the stranger says, those blue-green eyes like jewels at the bottom of a pool of water. His voice is deep, smooth, and tugs at things within me I haven't felt for a long time.

I push it all down. New life does not equal new man. Nope. No way. I have far too much at stake to throw that kind of dynamite into the middle of things.

"I was handling that," I tell him.

"Oh?" His lips twitch ever so slightly, threatening a smile. He seems amused. "And how, precisely, were you going to handle it?"

"What? You think I can't deal with one handsy jerk? I've dealt with worse, believe me."

"I do believe you," he says. "Or rather, I believe that you believe it."

"Oh, we're doing riddles now?" I ask sarcastically. "How fun. Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order," he interrupts, still standing completely still. Except for his eyes, and those lips: full, tempting, arrogant as hell. I repress a million warring urges. "Don't you?"

I gape at him in disbelief. A thank you? Clearly, that guy and his friends are this dude's employees or whatever. Which means this is the one who's responsible for them being here in the first place. Which means, really, that he's the one who's been disrupting my class.

And this asshole wants me to thank him?

Maybe when hell freezes over.

CARLO

The only reason I'm here is to check in with Nario about the possibility of the Irish showing up. We could easily have these classes at my mansion, or one of my clubs. But Nario-ever the strategist-suggested that we hold them publicly, on the off chance that we could tempt the Irish out into the open. I was hoping for a fight. Something to get my blood pumping.

But now I've found something else to get me going instead.

The woman isn't my normal type. Her hair is fire-red, and she has a light smattering of freckles around her cheeks. Her face is thin and her cheekbones are set high like a princess. Her body is lithe, fit, tempting. The kind of body you go to war with. Bedding her would be a fight in its own right-a fight I couldn't possibly lose.

She is clearly not Italian. Her skin is far too pale, like snow. Fire-red hair and snow-white skin, this woman, tempting me.

"You want me to thank you?" She shakes her head, loosening more strands of hair. "You're crazy."

I can't help but smile. I feel Nario watching me, but I ignore him. For the time being, the rest of the world doesn't exist. I haven't felt desire like this in ... ever, perhaps. The base of my manhood throbs.

I incline my head. "Yes, thank me. Isn't that what helpless maidens usually offer up to their rescuers? Among other things?"

"Helpless maiden?" she snaps. "I was-"

"Handling it, yes. You mentioned that."

She seems surprised when I walk closer to her. She smells of strawberries and perfume and chalk and, faintly, a smell that is all her own. Perversely, it's the last that draws me in: her distinctive odor. I want to smell more of her. I want to taste her. "But you must know something. That man, had I not arrived, would have done whatever he wanted with you. What is your name?"

"Hazel," she answers, and then furrows her eyebrows as though annoyed at herself for saying anything. "Not that it's any of your business."

We are close now. Her breath is coming quickly. "My name is Carlo," I tell her. "It is a mutual pleasure, I am sure. What are your plans for this evening, Hazel?"

"Home, bed, just generally being done with jerks for the night, really."

She pushes past me. I feel the contour of her hip graze against my side. "I was hoping you'd join me for a drink," I say, not moving.

She pauses. I have her, I realize. She should have kept walking, not revealed her desires so brazenly. Does she want me as badly as I want her? Her ass is a tempting curve in those tight jeans, just begging me to peel the material away and reveal the gift beneath.

"Now why would I do that? Especially considering you're the asshole who's responsible for messing up my class these past two weeks."

"Because you want to," I say. "And, in life, I have found there is no better reason."

"So if I, like, want to dropkick an elderly lady because she's taking too long at the checkout, I should just go ahead and do it?"

My own laughter hits me like a slap. How long since I have laughed with anybody but Mother or Emily?

The red-haired woman-Hazel, she said-smiles despite herself, half-turned toward me, a silhouette of sin in the night.

But, just as quickly, the smile is gone. "I don't know you. We just met. You're clearly in charge of these animals. There you go: three reasons not to go for a drink with you."

Slowly, I move up behind her. She doesn't turn, but her body gets stiff.

"Desire," I say. "There is nothing more important in this world."

"Save the bullshit philosophy," she whispers, but it comes out in a strained voice that says the exact opposite. "And back the fuck up."

"One drink, Snow White. Or rather, Fire and Snow White. What can it hurt?"

"Fire and snow?" she snaps. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk?"

I point to her hair. "Fire." And then I grab her wrist and flip it upside down, exposing her pale forearm to the moonlight. "Snow." She's still facing away from me, her back flush against my chest, so I can't read her expression. But I sense a shiver coursing through her. "Not to mention," I add, "you seem to pinwheel from feisty to submissive and back again. 'Hot and cold' might be the more common iteration of what I'm saying."

"Are you in the habit of making up little nicknames for women you just met?" she asks quietly.

"No," I tell her honestly.

"Then why me?"

"Because I can't help myself."

She glances at me then, and the fire in her hair spreads to her green eyes. "One drink," she says. "But only because I've had a long, long day, and considering you pulled up in a limo and I got here in a jacked-up Civic, I think it's safe to assume that you'll be paying."

I'm still holding her wrist. She's hot to the touch. Her fingertips shake, too, as though her heartbeat is outrunning her ability to think clearly. I know the feeling.

As if she can sense what I'm sensing is happening inside of her and she doesn't like the transparency, she abruptly yanks her arm out of my grasp, takes two steps away and pivots to face me.

"Shall we go, then?" I ask her, amused.

"I drink top shelf only," she says with the bluster of someone who never, ever drinks top shelf.

But I say nothing. I just nod and point towards the limousine, waiting for us with the door yawning open like the mouth of a cave.

"I can't believe we're doing this," she says as the limo glides lazily through the city. The lights get brighter as we reach the high-class area where Sole Nero, the club I own, is situated.

"We haven't done anything yet."

"'Yet'?" She laughs. "Don't get any ideas, big fella. We're just going for a drink."

Just then, the car veers wildly to the right. The tires screech, and the unexpected jolt sends Hazel tumbling into my lap. I catch her.

For the briefest of moments, I marvel at how light and weightless she feels in my hand. Like a snowflake that might melt away at any moment. My hand is on her thigh, keeping her steady, tracing each corded muscle. She must be a runner, or a weightlifter. She feels thin but strong, like braided wire. She's all woman.

"Sorry, boss," the driver calls back to us. "Accident."

I glance out the window to see a delivery truck flipped on its side, smoke emanating from the hood. We slide past it and leave it behind.

Again, Hazel seems to be on the precipice of falling over the cliff's edge of emotion before she collects her thoughts and thrusts herself away from me. I let her go. My cock throbs again.

We say nothing for the next few minutes, nor do we look at each other. Only when the limo stops outside the club's glittering red façade do I walk around to her side of the car and offer my hand to help her out.

She brushes it away with a toss of the head. "Thanks but no thanks. I think I can manage the six-inch drop-off. I'm not a-what'd you call me?-a helpless maiden."

I nod solemnly. "You have a lot to say, Hazel. More than most."

She tilts her head. "Would you prefer to be drinking with a woman too scared to tell you to go fuck yourself?"

"No," I say. "No, I would not."