I wake to the rich scent of fresh coffee—either a miracle or a trap.
Alessandro De Luca doesn’t serve coffee in bed. He has people serve him while he rules the world and looks unfairly gorgeous doing it.
Yet here he stands beside the bed where I fell asleep last night, holding a steaming mug like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re awake,” he says, setting it on the nightstand without ceremony. “Good. Drink.”
I blink at him, then the coffee, then him again. “Am I hallucinating?”
“Drink your coffee, Sofia.” He sits on the edge of the mattress, making it dip under his weight. “We need to talk.”
Oh god. This is it. The 'we need to talk' talk. The death knell of whatever weird thing we have going on.
I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet with me because I'm suddenly very aware that I'm wearing his t-shirt and nothing else. The coffee is perfect—four sugars, excessive milk, exactly how I make his.
Which means he paid attention. Which means I'm in even more trouble than I thought.
“About yesterday,” Alessandro says, his voice low and carefully measured. “About Tommy.”
My stomach plummets. “Alessandro, I already told you—”
“I know what you told me.” He cuts me off gently, but his grey-green eyes pin me in place. “I want the truth. Why sneak around? Why lie?”
I sip the coffee to stall; it burns my tongue and tastes like pure guilt. “Tommy had information about my family’s debt,” I say, the practiced lie sliding out smoother now. “Programs to reduce it faster.”
His expression stays neutral, but something sharp flickers behind his eyes. “And you didn’t think to ask me?”
“I was embarrassed.” The half-truth slips out before I can stop it. “You’ve already done so much—given me this job, protected me from Valentina…” I swallow. “I didn’t want to seem like I was taking advantage.”
He studies me in silence, gaze stripping layers I didn’t know I had. Then he stands, crosses to his dresser, and pulls out a thick file folder.
He drops it into my lap.
My fingers tremble as I open it. Inside: official documents stamped with the De Luca crest, payment schedules, interest calculations.
The Russo family debt. Seventy-three thousand dollars. Twenty percent compound interest. Twelve years to clear at my current “salary.”
The numbers hit like ice water, even though none of it is real.
“This is my father’s business, not mine,” Alessandro says, voice flat. “He wanted a maid in the house; I never asked for one. I don’t give a damn about the debt.”
I look up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes the air too thin.
“I could erase it today. One call.”
My breath snags. “Why would you?”
“Because if you need anything—anything—you come to me.” He takes the file, tosses it aside, and cups my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Not strangers in libraries. Me.”
And God help me, it doesn’t sound like ownership this time.
It sounds like he actually cares.
Warmth blooms in my chest, treacherous and unwanted, and I panic. Because I'm not supposed to feel grateful for the forgiveness of a debt that has nothing to do with me. I'm not supposed to want to thank him for coffee and normal conversation and basic human decency.
But I do. God help me, I do.
It's just because a guy you like to have sex with sometimes can be a decent human being, I tell myself firmly. It's nothing else. This is fine. Everything's fine.
"Thank you," I whisper, because Sofia Russo would be grateful. "For understanding. For being—"
"Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't thank me for basic shit. Just promise me you won't sneak around anymore."
"I promise." Another lie for the pile.
Alessandro's thumb brushes my cheekbone. "Good girl."
The praise makes heat pool low in my belly. Suddenly I'm very aware of how close he is, how I'm only wearing his t-shirt.
"I should probably—" I start, but the words die as his hand slides into my hair.
"You should probably what?" His voice drops. "Get dressed? Go make breakfast? Pretend last night didn't change things?"
"Yes. All of those."
"Too bad." He leans in, mouth hovering above mine. "I have a better idea."
I pull him down by his shirt and kiss him hard. Self-preservation is dead; poor decisions are my new job.
Alessandro kisses back with that same possessive intensity. His hands slide under the t-shirt, and I arch into his touch.
"Wait," I gasp against his mouth, and he pulls back. "I want—let me—"
I push at his chest until he's sitting on the bed, then slide onto my knees between his legs.
His eyes go dark. "Sofia—"
"Let me thank you properly." I reach for his belt. "For the coffee. For understanding. For everything."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Please?"
Alessandro's control fractures. "Fuck. Yes. Okay."
I make quick work of his belt and zipper, the leather whispering free, metal teeth parting with a sharp rasp. My fingers brush the heated length of him through thin fabric first—already rock-hard, throbbing under my palm—and his hips jerk involuntarily.
When I free him and take him into my mouth, hot velvet over steel, his sharp inhale slices through the quiet room like a blade. The taste of him—salt and clean skin and raw want—floods my tongue.
“Cristo, Sofia—” His voice cracks, low and wrecked. One hand fists tight in my hair, not guiding, just anchoring, knuckles white against my scalp. “Just like that. Perfect.”
I swirl my tongue around the head, tracing the ridge, then sink lower, taking him deeper until he hits the back of my throat. The groans that tear out of him are filthy—deep, guttural curses in Italian, my name gasped like a prayer he never meant to say.
Every twitch of his thighs, every flex of his abs under my spreading fingers, sends power surging through me, electric and intoxicating.
This is control. This is Alessandro De Luca coming undone because of me.
His breathing turns ragged, hips rocking in tiny, desperate thrusts he’s fighting to restrain. “I’m close,” he warns through clenched teeth, grip tightening until my scalp stings deliciously. “Sofia—if you don’t want—”
I hum around him, take him even deeper, hollowing my cheeks and sucking hard.
He comes apart spectacularly—body locking, a hoarse, broken cry of my name ripping from his throat as he pulses hot and thick across my tongue. I swallow every drop, milking him through the shudders until he’s trembling, spent, fingers loosening in my hair to stroke almost reverently.
When I pull back, Alessandro looks at me like I've just personally destroyed him.
"Come here." He pulls me onto his lap, kissing me deep. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Is that a complaint?"
"Absolutely not." He rests his forehead against mine. "But we should probably get up before Mrs. Bianchi comes looking."
Reality crashes back. Right. The real world. Where I'm a lying infiltrator and he's the heir who destroyed my family.
"Yeah," I say, climbing off his lap. "Probably a good idea."
Alessandro stands, tucking himself together. He pauses at the door.
"Sofia? About the debt—I meant what I said. I'll take care of it."
The warmth in my chest spreads, devastating.
"Thank you, Alessandro."
He nods and leaves. I'm alone with my coffee and guilt and the growing realization that I'm falling for the wrong person at exactly the wrong time.
This is fine. Everything's fine. I'm definitely not completely, catastrophically fucked.