Clara Devlin is very good at reading rooms. She’s just not always good at reading people. At twenty-seven, she’s the sharpest communications specialist at a boutique London agency that speaks fluently in luxury — five-star hotels, private yachting clubs, brands that don’t advertise because they don’t need to. Clara knows how to make power look effortless. She just doesn’t always recognise it in the wild. Leo Conti is legitimate. Technically. He has offices, holdings, a name that appears in the right financial press. He is google-able, photographable, plausibly boring. He is none of those things. When Clara’s agency lands a commission on the Amalfi Coast and specifically requests her by name, she thinks it’s a coincidence. It isn’t. La Cosa Nostra — Italian for this thing of ours — is a slow-burn dark romance about a woman who talks for a living walking into a world built entirely on silence, and the man who let her in knowing exactly what it would cost. Some things, once started, cannot be undone.