[Alessandro’s POV]
Padre's warning from last night won't stop replaying. "Someone's planning something. Watch your back."
Fantastic. Vague threats while I'm learning to run an empire and trying not to think about my maid's mouth.
The campus rumors aren't helping. Everyone's noticed Sofia. Everyone has opinions.
Which means she's visible. Exposed. A target.
Not that I care about her safety. She's just intriguing.
That's what I tell myself while planning the shooting range trip.
I find her in the kitchen making lunch—Mrs. Bianchi's day off again. She's humming something under her breath, completely unaware I'm watching.
Those hazel eyes that throw daggers. That stubborn tilt to her chin even when she's trying to be submissive. The way she tastes when I—
Cazzo. Focus.
"Sofia."
She jumps slightly, turning with that carefully neutral expression. "Yes, sir?"
"We're going out. Get your jacket."
Her eyes narrow just a fraction—the only sign of curiosity before she smooths it away. "Where are we going?"
"Does it matter?" I lean against the doorframe. "You follow me everywhere anyway. This time we're just leaving the house first."
"Of course." She sets down the knife she was using. "Should I change?"
I let my gaze travel deliberately down her body—university uniform, modest skirt, button-down shirt that somehow makes her look both innocent and dangerous.
"No. You're fine as you are."
Better than fine. Stupidly distracting.
Twenty minutes later, we're driving to the private range. Sofia sits in passenger seat, staring out the window.
"You're quiet," I observe.
"I'm always quiet around you."
"Bullshit. You're always thinking. There's a difference."
She glances at me, spark showing. "Is that a problem?"
"Depends what you're thinking about."
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Dio. There she is.
"Actually, I would. Care to share?"
"I'm thinking about how I never know what you're planning."
"That's literally your job description."
"Doesn't make it less disorienting."
We pull up to the range—private facility, hidden behind trees and security. No one else here.
Sofia takes in the setup slowly. "What is this place?"
"Family range. Where we teach people to not die stupidly."
"How reassuring."
I select a Glock 19—reliable, good for her smaller hands. Sofia watches with sharp eyes that catalog everything.
"You're going to teach me to shoot."
"Very observant. You're learning."
"Why?"
"Because you're visible now. Everyone knows you're my maid. Which makes you a target for anyone wanting to get to me. You need to protect yourself."
Her expression shifts. "How thoughtful. Making sure your property doesn't get damaged."
She has no idea how accurate that is.
"Exactly. Now come here."
I hand her the Glock. She holds it too tight, fingers wrong.
"Relax your grip. You're strangling it."
I move behind her, chest against her back, arms coming around to position her hands.
Her breath catches.
"Like this." I guide her arms up. "Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Stable base."
Sofia's pulse races—I feel it where my hand rests on her wrist.
"Now breathe. In through your nose." I demonstrate against her neck, and she shivers. "Out through your mouth. Slow and controlled."
Focus. This is about teaching. Not about how perfectly she fits.
"When you're ready, squeeze the trigger. Don't pull—squeeze. Gentle, steady pressure." My mouth is by her ear now. "Feel the weapon. Become part of it."
"That's very philosophical for shooting lessons."
I smile against her hair. "I'm a man of many depths. Now aim and fire when ready."
She takes another breath and squeezes.
The shot goes wide—outer ring.
"Not bad for first try." I adjust her stance. "But you're anticipating recoil. Stay loose."
She fires again. Closer to center.
"Better." My hands stay over hers. "Again."
Three more shots. Each more confident. The last hits just outside the bullseye.
"Brava, bella. You're a natural."
Sofia lowers the gun, turning in my arms. We're too close for this to be purely instructional. Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed.
"Thank you for teaching me."
"You're welcome. Though I have ulterior motives."
"Do you?" Her voice drops. "And what would those be?"
"Making sure you stay alive. Can't have my favorite maid getting killed. Would be very inconvenient finding a replacement."
"So considerate." But she's smiling slightly.
"Always."
The air between us is charged—that electric thing that happens when we're alone. My control hangs by a thread.
I move us backward, away from the main range toward the private area behind the armory. Where no cameras reach.
Sofia goes willingly, eyes locked on mine, questioning but not resisting.
"Another lesson. About rewards for good performance."
"I like rewards." Her voice is breathy.
I back her against the wall, hands framing her face. "Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then let me show you what happens when you do exactly what I tell you."
I kiss her hard—all restraint burning away. She kisses back with equal desperation, hands fisting in my shirt.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"Turn around. Hands on the wall."
Sofia obeys, and I drop to my knees behind her, hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt up.
"Alessandro—"
"Shh. You did well today. This is your reward." I hook my fingers in her underwear, pulling them down. "And I've been wanting to taste you properly since that disaster in the locker room."
I spread her legs wider, forcing her thighs apart with my shoulders until she’s completely open to me, slick and glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights of the empty shooting range.
I lean in and drag my tongue up her center in one long, deliberate stroke—slow enough to feel every tremor, filthy enough to make her gasp my name like a prayer.
Cristo santo. She tastes like forbidden paradise, sweet and sharp, utterly addictive.
Sofia’s hands slam flat against the cold concrete wall, nails scraping for purchase as her hips jerk forward, chasing my mouth.
I grip her thighs bruisingly tight, holding her pinned, and feast—tongue swirling mercilessly around her swollen clit, then plunging deep inside, teasing every hidden spot that makes her legs buckle and her breath fracture.
“Oh god—Alessandro—please—”
“That’s it, bella,” I rasp against her dripping heat, the vibration pulling another broken moan from her throat. I slide two fingers deep, curling them hard while my tongue lashes without pause. “Let the whole fucking house hear who you belong to.”
She’s unraveling fast—walls clenching greedily around my fingers, slick coating my lips and chin, body arching like a bowstring pulled to breaking. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper, aching, but I ignore it; this is about her surrender.
“Please—” she sobs, grinding desperately against my face, tears of overwhelm glittering in her eyes. “I need—”
“I know exactly what you need.” I suck her clit sharp and relentless, fingers pumping faster. “Come for me, Sofia. Come on my tongue right fucking now.”
She shatters spectacularly—a raw, guttural cry echoing off the range walls, her entire body convulsing, pulsing wildly around my fingers as waves of pleasure rip through her. I don’t stop, licking her through every aftershock until she’s limp and trembling, utterly spent in my hands.
When she finally goes boneless, I stand, turning her to face me. Her eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide, and she looks absolutely wrecked.
Bellissima.
"That is what happens when you follow orders perfectly."
Sofia stares at me, still catching her breath. "You're insane."
"Probably." I straighten her skirt. "But you liked it."
"I—yes."
"Good. Now come on. We should head back before Mrs. Bianchi notices we're gone."
We drive back in silence—different from before. Heavier. Charged with something I refuse to name.