* Present *
My first morning at the De Luca brownstone starts at 6 AM. Which is when rich people who run criminal empires expect their coffee.
Mrs. Bianchi drilled the exact specifications into my head yesterday: dark roast, four sugars, twice more milk than coffee, and don't burn it or Alessandro will know.
I prepare it with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. Because honestly, screwing up Alessandro De Luca's morning caffeine feels about as safe as cutting the wrong wire.
He appears in the kitchen doorway at exactly 6:15, and I'm starting to suspect the guy owns a watch synchronized with some internal punctuality disorder. He's wearing sweatpants and a Columbia University t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower.
He looks irritatingly good for someone who probably murders people before breakfast.
I stand, the coffee cup extended like a peace offering. "Good morning, sir."
Alessandro doesn't take the coffee. Instead, he gestures at the chair across from him. "Sit."
I hesitate for exactly half a second before obeying, setting his coffee on the table. Strategic compliance. That's what this is.
"We need to discuss my rules," he says, leaning back in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who's never been told no in his life.
"Yes, sir. Rule One—I go nowhere you don't know about."
"Good. You were paying attention." His eyes track my face, and I keep my expression neutral, subservient. "Rule Two: you don't lie to me. Ever."
My pulse kicks up slightly, but I nod. "Understood."
"Do you?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Because everyone lies, Sofia. It's human nature. But in my house, with me, you tell the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable. Even when you think I won't like it."
"I understand, sir."
"Rule Three then." His voice drops lower, and something in his tone makes my spine straighten involuntarily. "You surrender to me completely. When I tell you to do something, you do it. No hesitation. No questions. Complete obedience."
The word surrender sits heavy in the air between us.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. "And what do I get in return?"
Alessandro's lips curve into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
"Safety. Protection. A roof over your head and your family's debt slowly disappearing." He pauses. "And if you're very, very good… Maybe I'll let you keep a few secrets."
If only he knew.
"That seems fair, sir," I say, because that's what Sofia Russo would say.
Grateful. Compliant.
"Does it?" He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and his gaze never leaves my face. "Tell me, Sofia. Do you think you're pretty?"
The question catches me off-guard, and I blink. "I… What?"
"It’s a simple question. Do you consider yourself attractive?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "I don't... I mean, I suppose I'm average—"
"You're deflecting." He sets down his coffee. "That uniform fits you well. Better than it should be for something Mrs. Bianchi picked out of a catalog."
My jaw tightens, but I keep my eyes lowered, my hands folded in my lap.
"Your hair…" he continues, voice casual like he's discussing the weather. "It would look better down. That severe knot makes you look older than you are. Harder."
Yeah, because I've had to be hard, you privileged asshole.
But I don't say that. I say nothing.
"Look at me."
I raise my eyes to meet his, and the intensity there makes my breath catch.
"There," Alessandro says softly. "That expression. Like you want to claw my eyes out but you're too well-trained to try. It's fascinating, really."
He's testing me. Pushing to see if I'll snap back, if I'll show teeth.
My fingers curl slightly in my lap before I force them to relax. "I'm just trying to do my job properly, sir."
"Are you?" He stands, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Prove it."
"Sir?"
"Kneel."
The word lands like a slap. For one horrible moment, my hands clench into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms hard enough to hurt. Every instinct I have screams to tell him exactly where he can shove his command.
But Sofia Russo wouldn't do that. Sofia Russo needs this job. Sofia Russo is desperate and grateful and completely, utterly harmless.
I stand slowly, then lower myself to my knees on the kitchen floor before him.
The tile is cold against my skin. My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears, but I keep my face blank, my posture submissive.
Alessandro doesn't touch me. He just watches, sipping his coffee like this is completely normal. Like girls kneel for him every morning.
Maybe they do. Maybe that's the horrifying part.
"Loyalty means something in my world," he says conversationally. "Understanding exactly who you work for, who you belong to now. It's crucial to be faithful to the right people. To know how to keep secrets." He pauses. "Can you keep secrets, Sofia?"
"Yes, sir." My voice is steady. I'm proud of that.
"We'll see."
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text. My hand twitches instinctively toward it, muscle memory from a life where I was allowed to exist as a person instead of property.
"I didn't tell you to move."
Alessandro's voice cuts sharp, and I freeze. My hand hovers halfway to my pocket before I force it back to my side. He walks over slowly, deliberately, taking his time.
Then he crouches down in front of me, and suddenly we're eye-level. This close, I can see the exact shade of gray-green in his eyes, can smell his cologne, can count the individual dark lashes framing his gaze.
He reaches out with one finger and traces along my jawline. His touch is warm, deliberate, possessive. He tilts my face up slightly, forcing me to maintain eye contact.
"Obedience," he says softly. "The girls who understand that get rewarded. The ones who don't..." He trails off meaningfully. "They learn quickly in a hard way. Or not at all."
My skin feels like it's on fire where he's touching me. I hate it. I hate him. I hate that my body is responding like this is something other than a power play.
Alessandro stands, and I feel the loss of his touch like a physical thing.
"Undo the top button of your uniform."
My breath catches. My mind races—what is he doing, how far is he going to push this, where is the line—but my fingers are already moving, shaking as they fumble with the small button at my collar.
It comes undone with a soft pop of fabric.
Alessandro watches for a long moment, something dark and satisfied flickering across his expression. Then he nods once.
"Keep it like that. It suits you." He turns toward the door, then stops. "And tomorrow you’re going to be by my side at university. All the time. You will follow and if I need anything, you do it. Now you can get back to work, Sofia."
After he leaves the kitchen, I stay on my knees for a moment longer. My whole body is trembling—with rage, with humiliation, with something else I absolutely refuse to name or acknowledge.
Finally, I reach for my phone with shaking hands expecting some important updates from Tommy. The text is spam. Some bullshit promotion for a gym membership.
I almost laugh. Almost. But instead I just sit there on the cold kitchen floor, my uniform button undone, and the memory of Alessandro's finger tracing my jaw burns hotter than it should.
This is going to be harder than I thought.