[Alessandro’s POV]
The De Luca compound smells like money, power, and Padre's Cuban cigars—the ones he pretends he doesn't hoard like a dragon with gold.
I adjust my cufflinks. Family dinners are necessary evil. Like root canals or talking to Chiara.
The dining room is packed. Various family heads, representatives, soldiers pretending they know which fork is for salad. Carmine, one of the underbosses, to the left of me, two seats away. Don Marchetti, three seats down, nursing his wine. Padre is next to me, suffocating my entire willpower with his presence alone.
This is going to be a fun one.
Padre commands the room without effort. Vittore De Luca doesn't need volume. People lean in desperate for approval scraps.
I watch him work—calculated comments, strategic silences. Machiavelli himself would take notes.
"Alessandro." Padre's voice cuts through conversation like a knife through butter. Or through someone's throat. Either works. "Your sister tells me you've been quite protective of your new maid lately."
Cazzo. Of course Chiara ran to daddy. She has the spine of a chocolate éclair.
"Does she?" I cut into my steak. "Chiara has a vivid imagination."
"So you didn't intervene when she disciplined the help?" Padre's eyebrow raises. "Publicly, in the university cafeteria?"
"The girl works for me." I keep my tone neutral. "I don't let anyone damage my property. Basic asset management."
Then Carmine leans forward. "The Russo girl, right? Working off her family's debt?"
"That's the one," I confirm.
"How much do they owe?" another family head asks.
"Seventy-three thousand," Padre says before I can answer. "Twenty percent annually. Standard terms."
Marchetti swirls his wine. "And the girl's what—cleaning your house? Seems like a slow way to work off that kind of money."
"She's my personal maid," I say. "Handles my schedule, my space, my daily needs. Mrs. Bianchi vouches for her work."
"Your personal maid." There's something in Marchetti's tone I can't place. "How convenient. Pretty girl like that, young..."
My jaw tightens. "She does her job adequately. That's all that matters."
"Of course." Marchetti smiles. "I meant no offense. Just noting that some arrangements work out better than others. The debt system can be quite effective when properly leveraged."
Padre nods. "It's kept order for generations. People understand consequences. They understand ownership."
"They do," Marchetti agrees. Then, almost casual: "Speaking of ownership—Alessandro, I hear you have a fencing match tomorrow. Against young Dante Caruso, no less."
The table goes quiet for exactly two seconds. Just long enough to notice.
"Team captain position," I confirm, reaching for my wine. "Should be interesting. Caruso's skilled."
"He is." Marchetti butters his bread like we're discussing the weather. "Takes after his father. Franco Caruso—now there was a swordsman. One of the best I ever saw. Same intensity, same focus."
I study his face, but it's perfectly neutral. Conversational.
"Shame what happened to families like the Carusos," he continues. "Good people, from what I remember. But these things happen in our world, don't they? Territories shift. Alliances change. Bloodlines end."
For less than a heartbeat, something flickers in my padre's expression. Something unreadable before his mask returns.
"Indeed," Padre says quietly. "These things happen."
Carmine clears his throat. "The Caruso massacre was—what, ten years ago now?"
"About that," Marchetti agrees. "Terrible business. The whole bloodline nearly wiped out in one night. Only the son survived, didn't he? Dante."
"I believe so." I keep my voice neutral, but something about this conversation feels deliberate. Staged. "He doesn't talk about it."
"Can't blame him." Marchetti raises his glass. "Well. To tomorrow's match then. May the best man win."
The conversation shifts to other business, but I file the moment away. The flicker in Padre's eyes. The careful neutrality. Marchetti's testing smile.
Interesting.
I tune out the rest—territory negotiations, shipment schedules. My mind drifts to Sofia this morning. Those hazel eyes promising murder and something darker.
The way she said "Master" two days ago and cracked my control.
Stupido. Getting this worked up over with a maid. Mom would've loved it—she always liked the ones with fire.
After dinner, Marchetti corners me near the massive fireplace.
"Looking forward to the match tomorrow?"
"Should be a good fight," I reply. "Finally, some good challenge."
"Indeed." He studies me. "You know, Alessandro, sometimes the greatest victories come from knowing which battles to fight. And which enemies to make."
What the fuck does that mean?
I smile politely. "Wise words, Don Marchetti."
"Your father raised you well." He claps my shoulder. Too friendly. "Good luck tomorrow. As much as I respect Caruso’s fencing style, I’m going to cross my fingers for you."
He walks away. I stand holding untouched cognac, feeling like I just had a conversation in a language I only half understand.
* * *
By eleven, I'm back at the brownstone. The house is quiet, shadows long.
I need coffee. Or whiskey. Maybe both.
Sofia's in the kitchen. Of course she is. The universe has decided my life should be continuous self-control training.
She's at the counter in her normal uniform—thank fuck I returned those clothes. Hair down for once, dark honey waves past her shoulders. When she turns at my footsteps, those hazel eyes hit like a physical force.
"Working late, sir?" Her voice is soft, respectful.
Except I've tasted her mouth. Felt her shake under my hands. And now she’s polite.
"Family dinner," I say, loosening my tie. "Riveting conversations about territory disputes. You would've loved it."
"Sounds delightful." The tiniest edge of sarcasm.
"Making tea at this hour?" I move closer.
"Couldn't sleep." She glances up through her lashes. "Would you like some, sir?"
Sir. After everything.
"Coffee. Strong. Make it the way I like it."
She turns to the machine. I watch her move like she belongs here. Like she's crawled into my head without permission.
How those eyes throw daggers while her mouth says "yes, sir."
Sofia hands me coffee—four sugars, excessive milk, exactly right—and I let my fingers brush hers deliberately.
She inhales sharply. Small sound. I catch it.
"You know what's funny?" I say, taking a sip. "I had this fascinating conversation tonight about knowing which enemies to make. About choosing battles."
"Oh?" Carefully neutral, but her shoulders tense. "Sounds philosophical."
"Doesn't it? Made me think about battles happening under my nose." I step closer. "People playing games."
Sofia's pulse jumps at her throat. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Don't you?" I tuck hair behind her ear, watching her eyes darken. "You've made yourself very useful, Sofia. Irreplaceable."
"That's my job. To be useful." But her voice is breathy now.
"Is it?" I tilt her chin up. "Or is there something else happening here?"
For one moment, she looks at me with pure want. No masks. Just Sofia wanting Alessandro in a way that makes my chest tight.
Then her walls slam up.
"I should go, sir. It's late. You need rest before your match."
"Running away?" My thumb brushes her lower lip. "That's not like you."
"Not running. Retreating strategically." Those killer eyes meet mine, defiant and desperate. "There's a difference."
Dio. Magnificent.
"Go then." I step back, giving space. "Get some sleep, bella. Dream of me."
Sofia's face flushes. She nods once and leaves with that careful walk that doesn't hide how rattled she is.
And I stand in the kitchen, clutching my coffee, not thinking about tomorrow’s match at all, even if I should.