Page 24 of Lord of Little Italy

Elena, my wild-child cousin, is on her third glass of champagne, regaling us with her latest gallery opening drama. She's gorgeous even in casual travel clothes - all curves and classic Italian beauty, with our grandmother's dark curls and bedroom eyes. Men have been falling at her feet since she was sixteen, but she's never given them more than a passing glance.

Rachel just rolls her eyes at Elena's stories - after being her roommate at Columbia, she's heard it all before. "I still can't believe you convinced the infamous Isabella Rivera to leave NewYork," she teases. Her family's ranch has been trying to get me out there for years.

"Please," Elena snorts, crossing her long legs. "She needed a break from playing mafia princess."

"Crime boss's wife," I correct primly, making them both laugh.

The descent into Bozeman is gorgeous - mountains dusted with early snow, vast skies that make Manhattan feel small. But the real show starts when we land.

"That's not the ranch truck," Rachel frowns, looking at the massive black pickup idling near the private hangar.

A man unfolds himself from the driver's seat, and I hear Elena's sharp intake of breath. He's easily 6'4", with shoulders that stretch his heavy jacket and the kind of muscle you get from actual work, not a gym. Dark beard, harder lines around his eyes that speak of combat experience. His presence reminds me of Tony - that lethal grace, that tactical awareness - but wilder, more untamed.

Elena goes very still beside me. I've never seen my confident, flirtatious cousin react to a man like this.

"Ladies." His voice is deep, rough from disuse, with the kind of authority that comes from giving orders in life-or-death situations. "Jake Foster. Rachel's brother asked me to pick you up. Storm's coming in fast."

Rachel relaxes. "Oh right, Caleb mentioned you. You bought the old Miller property up in the mountains?"

He nods once, moving to load our bags with efficient grace. His shirt rides up, showing a glimpse of abs and what looks likea serious scar. Elena hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. She's usually the one making men speechless.

Jake's eyes lock onto her, something dark and hungry flickering in their depths. He takes in her curves, her city-polished beauty, like a man starving. "Ma'am."

"Elena," she manages, her voice huskier than usual. "I'm Elena."

The corners of his mouth twitch, and something about that almost-smile transforms his whole face. "I know."

Rachel and I exchange looks. Well, well.

Snow starts falling as we climb into his truck, fat flakes that promise a serious storm. Through the rearview mirror, I catch Jake watching Elena, his expression unreadable but intense. She pretends to check her phone, but I notice how her eyes keep drifting to his hands on the wheel - strong hands, scarred knuckles.

"How long have you been in Montana?" Elena asks, trying for casual but missing by a mile.

"Long enough." His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Everything about him screams 'lone wolf' - which, knowing Elena, just makes him more irresistible to her.

The truck crawls up the mountain road as visibility drops. Jake handles it with military precision, but the tension in his jaw says this storm is worse than expected. The close quarters in the truck cab feel electric - every time the truck sways, Elena shifts slightly, and Jake's shoulders tighten.

"We should have waited," Rachel mutters.

"Too late now." Jake's voice is clipped. He glances in the mirror again, meeting Elena's eyes. Something molten passes between them that makes me want to fan myself.

Suddenly the truck slews sideways. Jake corrects with impressive skill, his forearms flexing as he controls the vehicle. Elena bites her lip, watching him.

Despite the worsening snow, Jake manages to get us to Rachel's ranch. The main house glows warmly against the white landscape, looking like something off a Christmas card.

"Home sweet home," Rachel says, but I notice she's watching Elena and Jake in the rearview mirror.

Jake insists on carrying our bags inside, his muscles flexing under his jacket. Elena pretends not to watch him, but I catch her adjusting her hair in her compact mirror. My cousin never adjusts her hair for anyone.

The foyer is all rustic luxury - high beams, stone fireplace, the smell of cinnamon and pine. Jake sets our bags down with military precision, then straightens to his full height. His eyes find Elena again, lingering on the curve of her hip, the sweep of her neck.

"You should be fine here," he says, voice rougher than before. "Storm might last a few days."

Elena plays with her necklace, drawing his attention to her collarbone. "Thank you for the rescue."

Something flashes in his eyes - heat, hunger, maybe both. "Anytime, ma'am."

"Elena," she corrects softly.

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