[Sofia’s POV]
Alessandro leaves before I'm even awake, which is both a relief and mildly offensive.
Mrs. Bianchi mentions something about family business meetings—territory negotiations with another family—and that he'll be gone most of the day. She and Chiara are heading out too for some charity luncheon that probably involves judging poor people while eating overpriced salad.
Which leaves me alone in the brownstone for the first time in weeks.
Opportunity. Thy name is empty house.
I wait thirty minutes after Mrs. Bianchi leaves before I head straight for Alessandro's study.
The door isn't locked. Because apparently even paranoid mafia heirs get careless when they think their obedient little maid is too scared to snoop.
Surprise, asshole.
My hands shake as I start going through his files. Not from fear—from adrenaline. This is what I came here for.
Financial records. Territory maps. Business dealings with names I recognize from Dante's briefings. Everything the Caruso family would need to understand De Luca operations.
I photograph documents with my phone, fingers fumbling with the camera, heart hammering so loud I'm certain someone three blocks away can hear it.
Each click of the shutter feels like a gunshot.
I send them to Dante through Tommy's encrypted channel, watching the upload progress with the kind of anxiety usually reserved for defusing bombs.
Come on, come on, come on—
The files transfer. I delete the evidence from my phone, return everything to exactly where I found it, and get the hell out of Alessandro's study before my luck runs out.
Mission accomplished. Information secured. I should feel triumphant.
Instead, I feel vaguely nauseous.
It's just guilt. Ignore it. This is what you came here to do.
* * *
Alessandro comes home that evening, and I know immediately something's wrong.
His energy is different—darker, more tense, like violence is simmering just beneath his skin waiting for an excuse to explode.
He doesn't acknowledge me when he walks past. Just heads straight for the stairs.
I should leave him alone. Should let him brood in peace or punch walls or whatever mafia heirs do to decompress.
Instead, I follow him upstairs like an idiot with a death wish.
"Alessandro?"
He stops in his bedroom doorway, shoulders tense. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." His voice is flat, controlled in a way that suggests he's absolutely not fine. "Go back to your duties, Sofia."
I should listen. Should turn around and leave.
But there's something in his posture—something exhausted and raw—that makes me step closer instead.
"You don't look fine."
Alessandro turns finally, and his eyes are shadowed. Tired in a way I've never seen before. "The family business is complicated. Territory negotiations with people who'd kill you for looking at them wrong. Constant threats that need managing. Violence that's always one wrong word away from exploding."
He runs a hand through his hair, and the gesture is so uncharacteristically uncertain that my chest tightens.
"And my father..." He stops, jaw working. "He expects me to handle it all perfectly. No mistakes. No hesitation. Just execute and move on."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Sometimes I wonder who I'd be if I wasn't born into this. If I could just be... someone else."
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off-guard. Because this isn't the controlled heir who makes rules and plays games. This is just Alessandro. Tired and human and real.
Who would Sofia Caruso be if her parents hadn't been murdered? If she wasn't here playing dress-up in someone else's life?
"You'd probably still be unbearably arrogant," I say, trying for lightness. "Just with less murder."
His lips quirk slightly. "Thanks. Very comforting."
"I try." I pause. "For what it's worth, you don't have to be perfect all the time. At least not with me."
Alessandro looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "Don't I?"
"I'm just your maid. What do I matter?"
"You'd be surprised." The words come out quieter than I think he intended.
The air between us feels charged, but different from the usual sexual tension. This is something deeper. More dangerous.
Then he does something unexpected. He walks to his bed and lies down, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.
"Come here."
I hesitate. "Sir?"
"Alessandro," he corrects, and there's that crack in his voice again. "And I'm not asking twice."
I cross to the bed, confusion and caution warring in my chest. He pats the space beside him.
"Lay down."
"I don't understand—"
"Sofia." His eyes meet mine, and they're so raw it hurts to look at. "Please. Just... lay down next to me. No games. No rules. Just… stay."
I do, lowering myself onto the mattress beside him, hyperaware of every point where our bodies almost touch.
Alessandro turns onto his side and pulls me against him, arms wrapping around me like I'm an anchor and he's drowning.
We lie there in silence. His chest rises and falls against my back, his breath warm on my neck. No sexual tension. No power plays. Just holding.
"My mother died when I was fourteen," he says finally, voice muffled against my shoulder.
My breath catches. I don't move, don't speak. Just let him talk.
"Car ambush. They shot the driver first, then opened fire on the backseat." His arms tighten around me. "I was supposed to be at football practice, but she'd insisted on picking me up early. Said she missed me."
Oh god.
"She bled out in my arms in the back of that Maybach. I kept trying to stop the bleeding, kept telling her she'd be fine, that help was coming." His voice cracks. "But she knew. She looked at me and said 'Ti amo, il mio ragazzo coraggioso,' and then she was just... gone."
My brave boy.
"I've never told anyone that," Alessandro whispers. "Not Padre. Not Chiara. No one."
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. Because this is the most vulnerable he's ever been with anyone. This is trust, raw and unguarded and terrifying.
And I'm lying to him.
But my hand moves anyway, running fingers through his hair, offering comfort I have no right to give.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
"She would have liked you." His voice is barely audible now. "Mom. She liked people with fire. Who didn't take my shit."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "I don't take your shit?"
"You pretend to. There's a difference." He pulls me closer. "Thank you. For staying."
"Anytime."
Alessandro's breathing evens out slowly, his grip relaxing into something gentler. Within minutes, he's asleep.
I lie awake, staring at the darkening ceiling, guilt crushing my chest.
Because today I stole from this person. And tonight he trusted me with his deepest wound.
I close my eyes against the truth I don't want to face. Somewhere between the rules and the games and the vulnerability, something shifted.
And I'm terrified it's too late to shift it back.
Alessandro's breath is steady against my neck. His arms are a cage I don't want to escape.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and continue the mission. Continue the lies.
But tonight, just for tonight, I run my fingers through his hair and let myself feel the weight of what I'm doing.
The girl who's falling for the wrong person at exactly the wrong time.
The girl who's absolutely, catastrophically fucked.