Laundry day at the De Luca brownstone is apparently a full-contact sport I didn't sign up for.
I'm in the basement with Alessandro's clothes—expensive shirts, designer pants, and enough dark fabric to outfit a fashionable funeral. The whole pile smells like him. Fabric softener mixed with his cologne, and I hate that I notice.
I gather the stack and head upstairs, telling myself this is just laundry.
Normal maid activities that don't involve cataloging someone's scent profile.
I stop outside his bedroom door. Through the gap, I see him fresh out of the shower. Sweatpants. That's it. Just sweatpants, damp black hair, and tattoos on display.
It’s almost obscene, his damn sleeve of tattoes. I should get seconhand embarassment, but instead it just makes heat coil in my lower belly. If this guy got anything, it’s taste.
And a body of someone who could bench press me with one hand, all hard lines and muscles.
I definitely should leave and come back when he's discovered shirts.
"Are you going to hover in the doorway all day, or are you actually going to come in?" His voice is amused, knowing.
I step inside, hyperaware that this is the most undressed I've seen him. My brain is cataloging water on his collarbone, messy damp hair, the criminal way those sweatpants hang low on his hips.
"Your laundry, sir." I hold out the stack. "I'll just leave it here and—"
"Hang them in the closet." He gestures from the bed. "You're the maid, aren't you?"
Right. Because a simple handoff would be too dignified.
I move to the closet, feeling his eyes tracking me. It's like being watched by a dangerous cat deciding if you're prey or entertainment.
Both. Definitely both.
I hang his shirts with shaking hands, trying to focus on the task instead of the shirtless mafia heir six feet behind me.
"You're always this tense, or is it just around me?"
I turn, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "I'm just trying to do my job, sir."
He laughs, low and dark, and stands. "You're a terrible liar."
Then he moves closer, backing me against his dresser in one smooth motion that makes my pulse spike. He reaches past me—supposedly for his watch on the dresser top—but his chest nearly brushes mine, and the heat radiating off his bare skin makes my breath catch.
"Are you scared of me, Sofia?"
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away, to submit, to remember I'm supposed to be harmless. "No."
His hand comes up to rest on the dresser beside my hip, caging me in. "Maybe you should be."
"Maybe." My voice is steadier than it has any right to be. "But the way you protected me from Chiara—even if it's only because I'm your possession—and the way you talked about the debt system, about understanding how cruel it is... All of that shows me you're not the one I should fear."
The air between us goes electric. For a long moment, neither of us moves.
I can count his heartbeat from here. Can see the way his jaw tightens. Can feel the heat of him like standing too close to a fire.
Then Alessandro steps back, and I can breathe again. "You can go."
I flee. There's no other word for it.
I practically ran out like staying would've been a terrible idea. It definitely is.
* * *
That evening, I'm making dinner because apparently being a maid includes personal chef duties. Mrs. Bianchi has the night off, Chiara's terrorizing a party, and Alessandro informed me I'd be cooking for both of us.
So here I am, making pasta from scratch while trying not to think about earlier.
His bedroom. The way he looked at me. The way my body responded, without my conscious decision, without me even wanting it.
The way I felt hot for an hour afterwards, and how my gaze lingered on his body, and how it’s all wrong, I shouldn’t, his father is responsible for my parents’—
"What are you making?"
I nearly drop the pot. Alessandro leans against the counter, fully clothed now—thank god—watching with that amused expression that means trouble.
"Pasta." I focus on the boiling water. "Carbonara."
"Hopefully you can actually cook and won't poison me. That would be inconvenient for both of us."
My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice even. "I've been cooking for my younger siblings since I was twelve. I think I can handle pasta without committing accidental homicide."
"Impressive. A maid who can cook, clean, and look good doing it." He tilts his head, studying me. "I've gotten lucky."
I try to will the blush on my cheekbones away, because my self-esteem is not low enough to preen from his compliments. It’s barely even a compliment, just a way to rile me up, but it’s warming my chest and my lower belly all the same.
I don’t look at him and don't respond. Just plate the food with hands that are steadier than they should be, given that my entire nervous system is apparently in open rebellion.
"Taste it first," Alessandro says as I'm about to set his plate down. "Make sure it's good enough for me."
I take a bite, hyperaware that he's watching my mouth. "It's fine."
It’s great, actually. But why do I kinda want him to keep watching me? Stupid…
"I'll be the judge of that." His eyes don't leave mine. "Feed me a bite."
My hands freeze mid-motion. He can't be serious.
Except his expression is dead serious, challenging, and I realize with sinking horror that he absolutely is. This is another test. Another way to see how far I'll go, whether I'll push back, whether Sofia Russo is as obedient as she claims.
I keep my face neutral, spear pasta on a fork with trembling fingers, and bring it to his mouth. Alessandro's eyes stay locked on mine as he takes the bite, his lips closing around the fork in a way that makes every nerve ending in my body light up.
The moment stretches, impossibly intimate, and I hate that I notice the exact curve of his mouth, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"Acceptable," he says finally. "Barely."
We eat together then right at the kitchen island, and the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Or possibly with the fork I'm currently gripping like a weapon.
Alessandro makes occasional comments, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "You always glare at your food like it personally offended you?"
"Only when I'm forced to hand-feed it to people."
"See, there she is." He smiles, and it's almost genuine. "The girl with teeth. I was wondering when she'd show up again."
"I don't have teeth. I'm a completely harmless maid who's grateful for this opportunity."
I take another bite, chewing with more aggression than strictly necessary.
"Right. And I'm a completely harmless mob heir who definitely doesn't notice the way you look at me sometimes." He leans back, studying me. "Like you can't decide whether you want to stab me or—"
"Stab you," I interrupt. "Definitely just stab you. No other options on that menu."
"Liar." My face flushes hot, and I focus very intently on my pasta. "You need to relax or you'll give yourself an ulcer before you're twenty-one."
"Medical advice from my boss. How thoughtful of you. It also can be good for a person to follow its own recommendations, sir."
“You can call me Alex when it’s two of us.” But something in his voice has softened, just slightly. "And maybe I'd relax if I didn't have to constantly test whether my maid is actually harmless or just really, really good at pretending."
I met his eyes then, and for one unguarded moment, I let him see the truth.
The anger. The fear. The complicated mess of emotions that I've been drowning in since I walked into this house.
"I assure you," I say quietly. “I don’t have the strength or guts for this kind of play. Sir.”
Alex's expression shifts—something complicated flickering across his face that I can't quite read. Then he stands, collecting our plates, and the moment breaks.
"Go get some rest, Sofia. Tomorrow's another day of being completely harmless."
I leave the kitchen, my pulse still racing, and I know with absolute certainty that I just revealed too much.