[Alessandro’s POV]
The package arrives Tuesday morning—no return address, no markings. Just a manila envelope on my desk waiting to blow up my life.
Should call security. Should do literally anything except slice it open myself.
But apparently I have a death wish and zero survival instincts when it comes to mysterious packages. Bene. Let's see what fresh hell this is.
Photographs spill out. Documents. Financial records.
The woman in the photos—mid-twenties, dark honey hair, California beach house, golden retriever, latte—is smiling like life is perfect.
She's also very much alive. Very much not working off her family's debt in my house.
Her name: Sofia Russo. The real one.
Which means the girl upstairs—who just spent the weekend with me, who said she loved me, who I held like she was precious—is someone else entirely.
Cazzo. This is monumentally, catastrophically bad.
The kind of bad that makes you question every life choice. Starting with "let's hire a live-in maid" and ending with "let's fall in love with said maid despite every instinct screaming this is a terrible idea."
Mom would be so proud. Really. Living up to the family legacy of spectacular romantic disasters.
Three calls. Marco in operations, Teresa in accounting, Giovanni for information gathering. All loyal. All discreet. All people who know better than to ask stupid questions when I sound murderous.
Which, fair assessment.
"Sofia Russo in California. The Russo debt file. Anyone who might've paid a girl to disappear."
I pour coffee instead of whiskey. Eight AM is too early to admit defeat, and I refuse to give this bella bugiarda the satisfaction of driving me to day drinking.
Marco calls back first: "Sofia Russo relocated to San Francisco as Emma Castellano. Two hundred thousand from an offshore account. Bought a house, started a business. Living the dream."
Two hundred thousand to vanish and keep quiet. That's "here's your new life, now disappear forever" money.
Professional. The kind of money that makes you wonder who has that capital lying around for identity theft schemes.
Teresa next: "The Russo debt is still active. Seventy-three thousand at twenty percent. Current balance with interest is eighty-nine thousand. Still owed in full."
So the debt's real. The desperation's real. The whole sob story checks out—just not for the girl currently in my house.
Clever. Use a real desperate situation, a real family in debt, just swap in a different desperate girl. No one looks too closely when the paperwork's in order.
"Send everything."
Giovanni calls last. "That offshore payment? Shell companies, cryptocurrency, the works. This wasn't amateur hour."
No. Someone identified Sofia Russo as the perfect cover—right age, right look, real debt, desperate family. Paid her off, studied her life, sent in a replacement.
Sent in a spy.
But who?
Teresa's files arrive. I scan through until—there. A notation from two years ago. Debtor inquiry—third party contact regarding payment arrangements. No name. Disconnected phone number.
Someone reached out two years ago about the Russo debt. Right when the real Sofia got paid to disappear.
Cazzo. This was planned. Someone wanted access to my house, my life, my family's business. Wanted to destroy us from the inside.
And I invited them in. Fell in love with a character I didn't know was acting.
Stupido. All Mom's lessons about trust, about keeping distance—thrown away for hazel eyes and a smile that made me think I could be something other than the monster Padre raised.
The pain feels wrong. Too sharp. Like someone rearranged my organs for maximum damage.
Padre texts about a meeting. I ignore it.
Right now, I need to deal with the spy in my house. The enemy agent playing me for the world's most trusting coglione.
And here I thought I was so smart. So careful. So good at reading people.
Turns out I'm just another idiota with a pretty girl problem.
Text to her: My study. Now.
I arrange the photographs. California Sofia with her dog. Payment documents. Relocation papers. All the proof that whoever's upstairs isn't who she claims.
The door opens. She's soft from sleep, hair mussed, wearing my t-shirt. Looks exactly like the girl I fell in love with last night.
Who doesn't exist.
I slide the photos across. Watch her go white.
"Want to explain why Sofia Russo is alive in California?" My voice comes out flat. Cold. Nothing like twelve hours ago when I was promising forever like some lovesick idiota.
She stares at the photos. Can't speak.
"I'm waiting. Your real name."
"Sophie." Barely a whisper. "Sophie Caruso."
Caruso.
The name hits like a bullet. Caruso. The family massacred ten years ago. Dante Caruso who I fence with at Columbia.
Cristo santo. His sister. She's Dante's fucking sister.
Everything clicks. The girl who supposedly died in the massacre—except she didn't die. She disappeared, learned to pretend, came back as someone else.
The careful questions about Padre's business. Her interest in financial records, territory, family structure. The way she memorized exits, studied security cameras, cataloged our routines.
Gathering intelligence. Finding evidence. Gathering proof—of what? That we are bad people?
Good fucking morning, sunshine, we all are.
And I gave her everything. Every access point. Every vulnerability.
Even my heart like some stupido who forgot love is leverage.
"And you came here to what?" I keep my voice steady. "Spy? Gather evidence?"
"Your family killed my parents ten years ago. I came to find proof." Tears stream down her face. Her voice breaks, her face is blotchy from tears, her hands tremble.
And somehow, after everything, I still feel like an asshole for making her cry. For pointing out every lie she created, for confronting her about that.
"Get out."
"Alessandro, please—"
"I said GET OUT." Quiet voice. Volcanic rage underneath. My hands grip the desk so hard the wood creaks. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
"I can explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." I stand. She flinches. Good. "You lied about everything. Your name. Your family. Your entire fucking existence. You infiltrated my home, my life, my bed to destroy us."
"I fell in love with you—"
"BULLSHIT! You fell in love with playing a role. With manipulating me."
"That's not true—"
"Then what is true, Sophie?" Her real name tastes like poison. "Because from where I'm standing, the girl I fell in love with never existed. Sofia Russo was just a character. And you—enemy, spy, liar—played your role perfectly."
She's sobbing. I turn away because looking hurts too much.
"Get out of my house. Before I call my father and let him deal with you the way we deal with spies."
Her face goes paler, realizing how much danger she's in.
"Five minutes to pack. If I ever see you again, I won't be responsible for what happens."
She stumbles to the door. Her hand pauses on the doorknob.
"I meant it," she whispers. "When I said I loved you. That part was real."
"Get out."
She leaves. The door closes.
I stand alone staring at photographs of a stranger who stole someone's identity and destroyed everything I thought I knew about trust and love and my own goddamn judgment.
The girl I fell in love with never existed. Sofia Russo was just a character.
And Sophie Caruso—enemy, spy, liar—played her role perfectly.
I pour whiskey. Drink it. Pour another.
Upstairs, drawers open. Footsteps.
The front door opens and closes.
She's gone.
I'm left with the wreckage of whatever the fuck I thought we had.