[Sofia’s POV]
The campus buzzes with pre-match energy—what happens when two competitive men with vendettas decide to stab each other with expensive swords for sport.
I'm supposed to be following Alessandro around like his shadow, but he dismissed me an hour ago to warm up or psychologically prepare to destroy Dante Caruso or whatever violent pre-game ritual mafia heirs do.
So naturally, I'm using this freedom to commit light treason.
Tommy intercepts me near the library quad, emerging from the crowd like a spy movie extra. Columbia hoodie, hands in pockets, eyes scanning surroundings.
"Walk with me," he says quietly, falling into step beside me. "Make it look natural."
"Because nothing says 'natural' like telling someone to act natural," I mutter, but I match his pace, keeping my expression relaxed. Just two students chatting between classes.
We duck into a narrow walkway—public enough to seem casual, private enough to talk.
I pull out the folded paper. "Found this in Alessandro's desk yesterday. Don't know what it is—numbers and letters—but Dante said pass along anything unusual."
Tommy scans it, tucks it away. "Good work, Sof. This could be important."
"Could be his gym locker combination," I say, anxiety crawling up my spine.
Tommy studies my face. "You okay? You seem different lately."
Different. Because infiltrating your enemy's home and almost sleeping with him definitely changes a person.
"I'm fine. Just tired." I shrug. "You know, classes and playing maid and pretending my boss doesn't make me want to commit violence hourly."
"Sophie." He touches my arm. Tommy's known me since I was ten—since after the massacre, when Dante brought him into our family. He's basically my cousin. One of the only people who had seen me cry, rage, do stupid shit, and still stay. "These people are dangerous. If Alessandro suspects anything—"
"He doesn't. I'm being careful."
"Are you? Because Dante says De Luca's been protective. Getting attached."
My face heats. "He's possessive. There's a difference. I'm his property—that's literally the arrangement."
"Sof—"
"I need to go. Match starts in twenty." I check my phone. "If I'm not there, Alessandro will notice."
Tommy nods reluctantly. "Be careful. I mean it."
"Always am," I lie.
The gym is packed to capacity. Watching two hot guys try to stab each other with rapiers: peak entertainment for Columbia students who should be studying.
I find a bleacher spot with a decent view. The air is thick with anticipation and floor polish.
Then they enter from opposite sides.
Dante first—controlled grace in white fencing uniform. My chest aches. My brother, who I can't acknowledge. Who has to pretend I'm nobody.
Then Alessandro appears, and the gym shifts.
He moves like violence contained—every step deliberate, every gesture controlled. They watch each other like vultures (at least, that’s what I imagine).
Oh, this is going to be bad.
They salute. The referee gives instructions. They begin.
It's not a match. It's a fucking war.
They move across the strip with lethal precision, rapiers flashing, both clearly fighting something deeper than team captain. Every attack is personal. Every parry is furious. They're matched perfectly—terrifyingly so.
Dante lunges—Alessandro parries and ripostes in one fluid motion that makes the crowd gasp. Alessandro advances—Dante explodes forward with pure calculated violence.
First blood goes to Dante—a hit to Alessandro's shoulder drawing red through his sleeve. Alessandro doesn't flinch. Just resets and comes back harder.
Second blood goes to Alessandro—a strike to Dante's thigh that makes my jaw clench in worry.
The match becomes brutal. Both drawing blood. Both scoring points. Both clearly wanting to do more damage than sport allows.
I watch Alessandro on the strip, and something twists in my chest.
This is a different side of him. Not the controlled heir who makes rules and plays games. Not the man who touches me like he's claiming territory.
This is the fighter underneath. The violence he keeps carefully leashed except when he doesn't.
And it's terrifying how attracted I am to it.
Focus, Sof. He's the enemy. His family killed your parents. This is all temporary.
But watching him move—all lethal grace and barely contained rage—makes those justifications feel… not as easy to believe in.
The final point is contested. Both claim the hit. The referee deliberates.
Draw.
Perfect tie. Both are team captain.
The crowd erupts, but Alessandro and Dante stand frozen. Neither wanted to share. Neither will accept this.
They salute mechanically, the gesture somehow more threatening than respectful, and leave from opposite sides.
I should leave. Go back to the brownstone. Pretend I'm a good little maid who wasn't cataloging her boss's fighting style while watching her secret brother.
Instead, I stay frozen as Alessandro cuts through the crowd, eyes locked on mine, blood staining his sleeve.
He doesn't say anything. Just takes my hand—grip firm, possessive, thrumming with adrenaline—and pulls me from the gym.
"Alessandro—" I start, but he's not listening.
He navigates hallways with purpose, dragging me along until we reach the locker area. The men's section. Off-limits, but Alessandro doesn't care about technicalities right now.
He backs me against the wall between lockers, and his mouth crashes into mine before I can form a protest.
The kiss is fierce. Violent. All teeth and tongue and barely controlled aggression from the match.
I should push him away. Should remember where we are, who might see.
Instead, my hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer, kissing back with equal desperation.
When he pulls away, we're both breathing hard. Grey-green eyes almost black with hunger and adrenaline.
"First lesson," he says, voice rough. "Since you asked so nicely for me to teach you."
His hand slides up my thigh, under my skirt. I gasp against his mouth.
"Did you enjoy watching?" His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, teasing. "Watching me fight? Watching him?"
"Alessandro—"
"Tell me." His thumb presses against my sweet spot, making my hips roll forward. "Is he who you want? Dante fucking Caruso? Is that why you were staring?"
He's my brother, you possessive idiot.
But I can't say that. Can't explain the ache watching Dante had nothing to do with attraction.
"No," I gasp out. "Not him. Never him."
"Good." Alessandro's mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping my pulse as his fingers slip inside me, stretching me out deliciously. "Because you're mine, Sofia. Your life is in my hands now. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."
The possessiveness should repulse me.
Instead, heat coils tighter in my belly, my body responding even as my mind screams this is wrong, this is my enemy making me fall apart against a locker room wall.
His fingers curl inside me, his thumb rubbing my clit with diligency, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
"That's it," he murmurs against my throat. "Let me feel you. Let me own this."
I'm close. So close. My nails dig into his shoulders, my hips moving against his hand, chasing release—
And he stops.
Just pulls away completely, leaving me gasping and furious and aching.
Again.
"What—"
Alessandro straightens my skirt deliberately, then brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me while holding my gaze. I watch his tongue slide against his knuckles, tasting my slick. My face burns as I stand there frozen.
"Lesson one: your pleasure belongs to me. I decide when you get it."
He steps back, leaving me boneless against the wall.
"Go back to the brownstone, Sofia. I'll be home later." His smile is dark and satisfied.
He walks away, leaving me trembling and furious, my body screaming for relief denied.
I'm going to kill him.
Right after I figure out how to walk again.
And after I stop replaying the way he said "mine" like it was a promise and a threat wrapped in one devastating word.