The day after our weirdly intimate dinner where I hand-fed pasta to my mafia boss like some kind of deranged Renaissance painting, I'm trying very hard to be a normal, inconspicuous maid who definitely doesn't have ulterior motives.
It's going great. By which I mean it's going terribly.
I'm standing in the doorway of the home gym secretly watching Alex train with a rapier. And I have exactly zero excuses for how I ended up here.
Okay, that's not entirely true. I could claim I was looking for cleaning supplies.
Or that I got lost on my way to literally anywhere else in this brownstone.
Or that I'm conducting a thorough security assessment of all rooms as part of my totally legitimate maid duties.
But the reality is much simpler and significantly more embarrassing: I walked past, saw him shirtless, and my brain just... stopped. Completely flatlined.
All higher cognitive functions replaced by a single screaming notification that said DANGER: HOT SHIRTLESS MAN DETECTED.
So here I am. Staring. Like a creep.
Alex is shirtless and gleaming with sweat like he's auditioning for the world's most dangerous Calvin Klein ad. His movements are precise, controlled, violent in a way that should not be attractive but absolutely is.
Each thrust and parry of the rapier is executed with the kind of lethal grace that makes it very clear this isn't just a hobby—this is training for actual combat.
The tattoos I've only glimpsed before are on full display—intricate designs covering his shoulders and arms, dark ink stark against his skin, the De Luca crest inked over his heart like a brand of ownership.
Heat pools low in my belly, which is incredibly inconvenient given that I'm supposed to hate him and also he's literally the target of my revenge mission.
But my body, apparently, did not get that memo.
Then he catches me watching. Of course he does. The universe hates me.
"Enjoying the show?" His tone is mocking, but there's something darker underneath.
Interest, maybe. Or amusement at my expense.
I stammer like an idiot caught doing exactly what she was doing. "I… no— I just needed to ask you a question about—"
"Get me a towel instead of staring." He gestures with the rapier, and I'm momentarily distracted by the way his muscles move. "Unless you want to keep standing there with your mouth open. Your choice."
My face flushes hot as I turn toward the bathroom, mortified.
But then my brain kicks into gear.
His bedroom is just down the hall. And I still don't have a phone—I haven’t been able to meet with Dante or Tommy yet—which means I have no way to pass information to Dante.
Information like the details about how the De Lucas currently control their finances, how they keep records, the hints Alex dropped during our conversation about the debt system.
This is my chance to deliver the crumps until flow is changed.
I grab the towel from the bathroom and then, heart hammering, slip down the hall into Alessandro's bedroom. The tablet is on his nightstand—unlocked, because apparently even paranoid family heirs get careless sometimes.
My fingers fly over the screen, opening the messaging app me and Dante decided on for emergencies. I type quickly:
‘Financial records kept in the main office. Debt system managed through ledgers. Vittore makes final calls. Alessandro uncomfortable with father's methods—possible leverage. — S’
I hit send and started covering my tracks, running the program Dante suggested to delete evidence of any access. Then I noticed it—my actual uniform, the normal one, stuffed in the corner of Alessandro's walk-in closet.
The absolute bastard stole my clothes and hid them here.
Probably thought it was hilarious.
While the deletion program runs, I make a split-second decision. I'm taking them back. This is my clothing hostage rescue mission.
I yank off the ridiculous revealing uniform, down to my bra and underwear, and reach for my real clothes.
That's when I hear footsteps.
Oh no. Oh no no no…
I glance at the tablet—the program is still running, progress bar at seventy percent. I can't let him see it. Can't let him know I've been accessing his devices.
I kick the tablet under the bed just as Alessandro appears in the doorway, still shirtless and sweating, and his expression shifts from surprise to suspicion in about half a second.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is dangerously quiet. "The main bathroom is up the hall. Not in my bedroom."
My mind races. I'm half-naked, his tablet is not far enough under his bed with evidence of my snooping on it, and I have approximately three seconds to come up with an explanation that doesn't end with me dead.
Because everything hinges on this moment—the revenge, the secret, the mission. I cannot let my brother, our parents down. Cannot let Alessandro find out because I wasn’t careful enough.
I need to do something that will throw Alessandro off my scent. And there’s only one thing I can offer.
Myself.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I move toward him, letting my voice drop.
"I-I’m so sorry, gosh, I…” I take a deep breath and let the truth mix with the lie in a way that terrifies me. “Watching you train… it did something to me. I came here because I needed a moment. Because… I've been fighting this… attraction between us."
The words tumble out, and horror washes over me as I realize they're not entirely false.
Alessandro's expression shifts to dark interest. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.
"Is that so?" His tone is mocking, amused, but his eyes are hungry. "And you thought breaking into my bedroom while I was training was the appropriate response?"
"I wasn't breaking in. I was—" I swallow hard, committing to this absolutely terrible plan. "I've never been with anyone before and…"
That gets his attention. He goes very still.
"And watching you with that rapier, so focused and dangerous, remembering how you protected me from Chiara…" I take a shaky breath. Fuck, this is so embarrassing… "I thought maybe you could teach me. Show me how to handle… a different kind of rapier."
The silence stretches for three agonizing seconds.
Then Alessandro laughs—low and genuinely amused. "That might be the worst pickup line I've ever heard. And I've heard some truly terrible ones."
My face burns with humiliation, but he's stepping closer, and the hunger in his eyes hasn't diminished at all.
If anything, it's intensified.
"But points for creativity, little virgin." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a way that makes my breath catch. "Tell me something, Sofia. Are you sure about this? That I should be the one."
No, I'm not sure.
I'm not sure about anything except that if he looks under that bed, I'm dead.
If he finds that tablet, the mission is over. Everything is over.
"Yes, Master…" The word comes out deliberately breathless but steadier than I expected. "This is my choice."
Something in Alessandro’s expression fractures, like a glacier splitting open to reveal the inferno underneath.
His eyes go almost silver with raw hunger, and then his mouth crashes into mine, no warning, no gentleness, just pure, violent possession. Teeth scrape my lower lip, tongue forcing past every defense I ever pretended to have, claiming every inch of space inside me.
His hands are everywhere at once: one fist knotting in my hair hard enough to arch my neck, the other clamping my waist and yanking me flush against him. I feel the slick heat of his skin straight from the gym, sweat cooling under my palms, every cut of muscle flexing like steel under silk.
He walks me backward, step by punishing step, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. One ruthless push and I’m falling, air leaving my lungs in a gasp that he swallows with another bruising kiss. The mattress takes my weight; he follows instantly, caging me beneath six-foot-four of lethal, barely-leashed control.
His thigh forces between mine, spreading me open, pinning me exactly where he wants me.
My pulse is a war drum. My mind screams traitor, enemy, run.
My body arches up to meet him, fingers digging into the inked skin of his back, and the only thought left is a single, desperate truth:
I am so completely, catastrophically screwed.