Alessandro surprises me with breakfast in bed the next morning—actual breakfast, not a metaphor—which is either romance or a trap. With the De Lucas, it's honestly fifty-fifty.
"Pack a bag," he says, setting down coffee that's exactly how I like it. Which is suspicious and also devastatingly sweet. "We're going somewhere."
"Somewhere specific, or are we being purposefully mysterious?"
"Somewhere with no Mrs. Bianchi. No Chiara. No interruptions." His eyes meet mine, and there's something vulnerable underneath the confidence. "Just us."
Oh. Oh no. My heart is doing complicated gymnastics it has no business attempting.
"For how long?"
"Tonight. Maybe longer if you want." He sits on the edge of the bed. "I have a property outside the city. By the water. It's empty right now."
"And you want to take me there because...?"
"Because I want you all to myself for once." His hand cups my face. "Just Sofia and Alessandro figuring out what the hell we're doing."
I should say no. Should maintain distance. Should remember that intimacy makes betrayal exponentially harder.
Instead, I nod.
Because I'm an idiot who's already so far gone there's no point pretending otherwise.
The house is beautiful in that understated way that screams "we're so rich we don't need to prove it." Modern glass and stone nestled among trees, with a private dock stretching into dark water.
"This is yours?" I ask as Alessandro unlocks the front door.
"Family property. But no one uses it much." He holds the door open. "Which makes it perfect."
The interior is minimalist—open floor plan, huge windows, furniture that probably costs more than most people's cars. It feels simultaneously impersonal and intimate, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled with memories.
"It's gorgeous," I say, setting down my bag.
"It's quiet." Alessandro pulls me against him, arms wrapping around my waist. "That's what I like about it. No one watching. No one judging. Just silence and privacy."
I lean back into his chest, and for one moment I let myself pretend this is real. That we're just a normal couple escaping to a beach house for the weekend. That I'm not lying about literally everything.
Stop. Don't ruin this. You have tonight. Just take it.
"So what's the plan for this romantic getaway?" I ask. "Besides privacy and questionable decision-making?"
"I'm making you dinner." His voice is confident, which should absolutely be my first warning sign.
"You? Making dinner? Alessandro, I've seen you burn toast."
"That was one time—"
"Three times. I've witnessed it three times." I turn in his arms. "And one of those times the toast wasn't even in the toaster. It was just sitting on the counter, and somehow you made it catch fire through sheer force of will."
"I was distracted."
"By what? The existential void? Your own reflection?"
His laugh is low and genuine. "By you walking past in that fucking uniform."
Heat crawls up my neck despite my best efforts. "So this is my fault?"
"Everything is your fault." But he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes in a way that makes my chest tight. "Come on. Let's see if we can avoid burning down my family's property."
* * *
The kitchen is a disaster.
Not a cute disaster. Not a "whoops we made a little mess" disaster.
A full-scale catastrophe involving smoke detectors, charred vegetables, and Alessandro swearing in Italian while frantically waving a dish towel at the ceiling.
"I told you to watch the vegetables!" I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe, tears streaming down my face. "They're not a security threat! They don't need surveillance!"
"You said stir occasionally!"
"I said stir constantly! Those are two very different adverbs, Alessandro!"
He shoots me a look that's half-frustrated, half-amused. "How am I supposed to stir constantly while also watching the pasta?"
"By being a functional adult with basic motor skills?" I rescue the pasta from its impending doom. "Here. You drain this. I'll handle the vegetables before they achieve sentience and file a restraining order."
"I'm a mafia heir. I don't do domestic activities."
"You're about to become a mafia heir who starves." I hip-check him away from the stove. "Watch and learn, De Luca."
We actually manage to salvage dinner—carbonara with slightly traumatized but edible vegetables. We eat on the couch instead of the dining table, wine glasses balanced precariously, laughing about Alessandro's cooking disasters.
"My mother tried to teach me once," he says, twirling pasta on his fork. "I was twelve. Set the kitchen on fire within ten minutes."
"A new record, even for you."
"She laughed so hard she cried." His expression goes soft, distant. "Said I was hopeless but charming enough that someone would eventually feed me."
"She was right." I lean against him. "About the hopeless part."
"Thanks for that." But he's smiling.
We talk about nothing important—favorite movies, embarrassing childhood stories, whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, and I will die on this hill).
The conversation flows easy and natural, and I keep forgetting to guard my words, to remember Sofia Russo's carefully constructed backstory instead of my own actual memories.
After dinner, Alessandro pulls me onto his lap on the couch, and kissing leads to touching leads to us tangled together right there. He moves inside me slowly, deliberately, like we have all the time in the world.
His forehead rests against mine, breath warm on my lips, and when we come apart together it feels less like sex and more like something I don't have words for. Something that terrifies me because it feels too much like belonging.
Later, we migrate to the master bedroom. City lights are distant sparkles through the windows, and the sound of water lapping against the dock is hypnotic.
Alessandro props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression that makes my heart stutter and forget how to function properly.
"Be with me," he says quietly. "Really be with me. Not just physically. Commit to this. To us."
The truth sits heavy on my tongue—I can't. You don't know who I am. This is temporary. I'm going to destroy you.
But what comes out instead is: "Yes. I'm yours."
His kiss tastes like relief and something deeper. "I'll protect you. Whatever it takes. I promise."
Don't. Don't make promises you can't keep.
"I know," I whisper against his mouth, and it's the most honest thing I've said all night.
He falls asleep as we’re wrapped around each other, and I should feel peaceful. Should feel content.
Instead, I lie awake listening to Alessandro's steady breathing while my phone buzzes on the nightstand—once, twice, insistent.
When I finally check it in the early morning darkness, Alessandro still sleeping beside me, the message from Tommy makes my stomach drop:
Dante needs you to make the final push. Get the evidence we need. Now.
I stare at the screen, and reality crashes back with devastating force.
Because I've been so wrapped up in Alessandro—in us—that I've barely thought about the mission in weeks. But the investigation has been happening in the background this whole time, pieces falling into place, evidence mounting.
And now everything's about to collide.
I look at Alessandro's sleeping face—peaceful, vulnerable, trusting—and something inside me cracks.
I know I'm out of time.