Dinner at the De Luca brownstone is usually controlled chaos—Chiara making passive-aggressive comments about carbs and peasants, Alessandro pretending to read emails while actually monitoring everyone like a very attractive security system, and me cataloging exits while serving food that costs more than my fake family's monthly income.
Tonight, Vittore De Luca is here.
The Don himself. In person. Which is about as relaxing as defusing a bomb while someone reads your browser history aloud and judges your streaming choices.
I'm in full servant mode—eyes down, breathing minimized, moving through the dining room like a ghost who's really committed to the bit. Mrs. Bianchi is in the kitchen, which means I'm the only staff visible, which means I'm under a microscope operated by a man who probably invented the concept of paranoia and then patented it for profit.
"More wine, Father?" Alessandro's voice is carefully neutral.
Vittore waves a hand dismissively, his attention fixed on me as I refill Chiara's glass. His eyes are sharp, calculating, the kind of gaze that sees through walls and lies and probably your entire childhood trauma.
"Your maid," he says, watching me refill Chiara's glass with wine that probably costs more than my theoretical family's theoretical annual income. "Sofia Russo, yes?"
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression blank, neutral, the picture of harmless servitude. "Yes, sir."
"Tell me about your family. Your father—how did he come to owe us money?"
Oh good. Interrogation time. My favorite after waterboarding and dental surgery without anesthesia.
"Bad investments, sir." I keep my voice soft, grateful, exactly what Sofia Russo would sound like. "He tried to expand his business, but it failed. He couldn't repay the loan before he died."
"And your mother?"
"Passed away when I was young, sir. Cancer."
The lie slides out smooth as silk, practiced to perfection in front of mirrors and Dante's skeptical face. Vittore studies me with the intensity of someone performing a psychological autopsy, and I can practically see him cross-referencing my answers with whatever terrifyingly thorough background check he ran.
"You have siblings?"
"Two younger ones, sir. I'm working to keep them safe."
"Admirable." The word doesn't sound like a compliment. It sounds like he's filing the information away in a mental folder labeled "Potential Threats" next to my photo and probably my astrological chart. "And how did you come to work for my son specifically?"
Alessandro's jaw tightens, but he stays silent, which is either restraint or plotting murder. With the De Lucas, could go either way.
"Mrs. Bianchi recommended me, sir. She knew my family's situation and thought I'd be suitable for the position."
"Suitable." Vittore sips his wine, eyes never leaving me. "Yes. Very dedicated to your duties. Quite thorough, I imagine."
There's something in his tone that makes my skin crawl like it's trying to escape my body and flee to Canada.
Chiara, bless her oblivious heart, chooses this moment to interject. "She follows Alessandro around campus like a lost puppy. It's mortifying. Everyone's talking about it."
"Is that so?" Vittore's attention shifts to his son with the precision of a sniper finding a target. "You seem quite attached to your maid, Alessandro."
The temperature in the room drops approximately twenty degrees. I'm surprised frost doesn't form on the wineglasses.
Alessandro sets down his fork with deliberate calm. "She does her job well."
"Does she?" Vittore leans back. "Though one wonders if her duties have expanded beyond traditional service."
Oh, you absolute bastard.
"Her duties are exactly what they should be." Alessandro's voice stays level, steel underneath. "She manages my schedule, maintains my space. That's all."
"Of course." Vittore smiles without warmth. "I'm simply observing that you've become protective. The incident with Chiara, bringing her to family dinners—"
"Mrs. Bianchi is preparing dessert. Sofia is perfectly capable."
The tension is thick enough to package and sell as premium insulation.
Chiara adds: "He even lets her take notes in his classes. Like she's his personal secretary instead of just the help."
I keep my eyes down, expression neutral, while internally composing a strongly worded letter about setting this entire dinner table on fire.
Vittore makes a small sound—not quite approval. "Tell me, Sofia—do you enjoy working for my son?"
"Very much, sir." I meet his eyes briefly before looking away. "He's been very generous."
"Generous. Alessandro has always had a soft spot for strays. Even as a boy, bringing home injured animals, always wanting to fix them."
Alessandro's hands curl into fists.
"Though he learned eventually that caring for broken things only leads to disappointment. They either die, or they bite the hand that feeds them."
"I'm not broken, sir." The words come quietly. "Just working to improve my circumstances."
Vittore's eyebrows rise. "How refreshing. Most people in your position simply accept their fate."
"Sofia isn't most people," Alessandro says, protective.
The rest of dinner passes in excruciating tension. Finally, Vittore stands. "Alessandro, walk me out."
They leave, and Chiara turns to me with venomous satisfaction. "You're so fucked. Daddy thinks you're a problem."
"Thanks for that observation," I mutter, clearing plates.
"When Father decides someone is a liability, they disappear."
"Good thing I'm not a liability then."
Chiara laughs. "Keep telling yourself that."
After she leaves, I finish cleaning. Vittore's suspicion is a problem.
I find Alessandro in his study, sitting in the dark with whiskey. Light comes from the city outside.
I slide down to sit on the floor next to his chair.
Long silence. Just breathing and distant traffic.
"My father destroys things I care about," Alessandro says finally, barely above a whisper. "He always has."
I wait.
"When I was eight, I had a dog. Golden retriever named Apollo." He takes a drink. "Father said I was getting too attached. That it made me weak. One morning, Apollo was gone. Father said he ran away, but I found his collar in the trash with blood on it."
My chest tightens.
"When I was sixteen, there was a man—our consigliere. He taught me strategy, history. He was more of a father than my actual father." Another drink. "I made the mistake of telling Father I respected him. The man disappeared that week. I never saw him again."
"Alessandro—"
"He'll see you as a weakness," he continues, staring into darkness. "And he'll do something about it. He removes anything that makes me vulnerable."
I reach up and take his hand. His fingers curl around mine immediately.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say, and the lie tastes like ash.
He pulls me up into his lap, and I go willingly. His face buries in my neck, arms wrapping around me.
This isn't sexual. Isn't about control.
This is just two people holding each other in the dark.
His breath is warm against my throat, and I feel the exact moment he relaxes—shoulders loosening, tension bleeding out.
"I can't lose you," he whispers against my skin. "Not to him. Not to anyone."
I run my fingers through his hair. "You won't."
Another lie for the pile. Another piece of me that's starting to belong to him.
We sit like that for a long time—tangled together, silent, both needing the closeness more than words.
And I understand with devastating clarity that I need this too. Need him. Need this moment of honest vulnerability in a life built on deception.
Which makes everything worse.
Because when this falls apart—and it will, inevitably, catastrophically—the person I'll hurt most is the one currently holding me like I'm precious.
Like I'm worth protecting.
Like I'm not the enemy he should have destroyed the moment I walked through his door.