Things between Alessandro and me have shifted into territory I didn't anticipate.
Which is to say: we're having a lot of feelings, and I'm handling them with approximately the same grace as a drunk giraffe on roller skates.
Tonight starts innocently enough—if "innocently" can describe anything happening in Alessandro De Luca's bedroom after dark. We're tangled together on his bed, city lights filtering through the windows casting golden shadows, and for once there's no urgency. No games. No power plays.
Just us.
Alessandro kisses me like he has all the time in the world. His mouth moves against mine slowly, thoroughly, while his hands slide up my sides with reverent slowness, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I arch into the touch with a soft gasp.
"Let me see you," he murmurs, and his fingers find the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly. When the fabric clears my head, his eyes track across my body with an intensity that makes heat bloom under his gaze.
"You're so beautiful," he says quietly, his palm cupping my breast, thumb circling my nipple through lace until it tightens. "So fucking perfect."
I tug at his shirt impatiently, needing to feel his skin. He helps me pull it off, and then we're chest to chest, and the contact sends electricity racing through me.
His hands slide down my spine, pulling me closer until I'm straddling his lap and can feel exactly how much he wants this. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse before his tongue soothes the sting.
"I want to take my time with you tonight," he says against my throat, voice rough. "No rushing. No games. Just us."
"Yes," I breathe, my hips rolling forward. "Please."
He lays me back with such tenderness it makes my chest ache. His mouth trails down—kissing my collarbone, between my breasts, my ribs, my stomach—while his hands work my remaining clothes off. When I'm bare beneath him, he sits back and just looks at me.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his hand sliding up my thigh. "How much I need you."
His fingers find my center, already slick, and he groans. "So wet. Always so perfect."
He circles my clit with maddening slowness, watching my face. When I start to squirm, he smiles and slides two fingers inside, curling them just right.
"Patience, bella," he murmurs. "I told you I'm taking my time."
The stretch feels perfect, his fingers moving steadily while his thumb finds my clit again. Pleasure builds in waves, each one higher than the last.
"Look at me," he says, and I force my eyes open. "I want to see you when you come."
The combination of his touch and the intensity in his eyes sends me over the edge. My back arches, thighs trembling, his name falling from my lips as pleasure crashes through me. He works me through it until I'm boneless and gasping.
When I can breathe again, Alessandro sheds his clothes and settles between my thighs. He pushes inside slowly, and we both groan at the stretch.
"God, Sofia," he breathes, one hand cupping my face. "You feel incredible."
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He moves deliberately, each thrust controlled, his eyes never leaving mine. His thumb brushes my cheekbone with surprising gentleness.
This isn't just sex. It hasn't been for a while.
Alessandro shifts slightly, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. My nails dig into his shoulders, pleasure building again—slower this time, deeper.
"That's it," he murmurs, pace increasing. "Let me feel you. Let me make you mine."
His words, his touch, the way he's looking at me—it all combines into something overwhelming. My second orgasm builds gradually, pulling tighter until I'm trembling beneath him.
"Alessandro," I gasp, and he captures my mouth, swallowing my moans as I come apart around him. The sensation pushes him over the edge too, and he buries his face in my neck with a broken sound.
We stay tangled together for a long moment—hearts racing, breathing hard. His weight pins me to the mattress, solid and real, and I run my fingers through his hair, feeling simultaneously more whole and more fractured than I've ever been.
Finally, he pulls back enough to look at me, and his expression is so open it steals my breath.
"Sofia," he says quietly, and something in his tone makes time stop. "I'm in love with you."
All my guilt crashes down at once—every lie, every betrayal. But underneath it all, there's one truth burning brighter, so much so that I forget how to breathe.
"I love you too."
Alessandro pulls me closer, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth with devastating tenderness.
"I know this is complicated. I know we started wrong—you were supposed to just be my maid, I was supposed to just want you physically. But you're not just some girl to me. You're everything."
Everything.
I almost confess right then. Almost tell him who I really am, what I came for. The truth sits on my tongue.
But fear paralyzes me. Telling him means losing him.
So instead, I whisper, "You're everything to me too."
We fall asleep wrapped together, and I lie awake trying not to think about how this ends.
* * *
Morning arrives, and Alessandro kisses me awake before heading to shower. Eventually I drag myself downstairs.
Alessandro joins me, and we eat in comfortable silence.
Then Chiara appears like a designer-clad harbinger of chaos.
She takes one look at us and her face twists into something ugly.
"This is getting out of hand," she announces. "Your little infatuation with the help is going overboard, Alessandro. It's embarrassing. People are talking, and it's affecting my reputation too. You need to lock the fuck in."
Alessandro doesn't even look up from his coffee. "Chiara. Shut up."
"I'm serious! You're making us all look ridiculous—"
"I said shut up. Mind your own business. I'm a big boy. I can decide what to do myself. And considering your stupid actions always leave marks on my reputation, I'd say we're even."
Chiara's face cycles through several shades of rage. "You don't understand—Sofia doesn't even matter. People like her very soon wind up dead, just like your mother did. Maybe you should—"
She doesn't finish.
Because Alessandro moves faster than I've ever seen him—standing, crossing the space, fisting his hand in her shirt and hauling her up until she's gasping on her toes.
"If you ever," he says, his voice so quiet it's terrifying, "dare to threaten me or anyone under my protection again, Chiara, I will overlook that you are my sister. Do you understand me?"
Chiara's eyes are wide, actually frightened. She nods frantically, and Alessandro releases her with a shove.
"Get out. Now."
She flees.
Alessandro stands breathing hard, hands clenched. Then he turns to me, expression shifting from rage to something fierce and protective.
He sits beside me—not across from me, beside me. His hand finds my thigh, and the touch isn't sexual. It's grounding. Desperate.
"She won't touch you," he says quietly, fingers pressing like he's trying to physically anchor me to him. "No one will. I don't care what it costs. Do you understand?"
I nod, throat too tight for words.
Because Alessandro De Luca just threatened his own sister to protect me.
And I believe him. I believe he'd burn the entire world down to keep me safe.
Which makes what I'm about to do to him so much worse.