Alessandro’s hands are everywhere—rough palms branding my ribs, fingers digging into my hips like he’s staking permanent claim. My brain has officially checked out, leaving nothing but static and wildfire.
His mouth abandons mine, trailing fire down my jaw, teeth scraping the frantic pulse at my throat before he bites the curve of my collarbone hard enough to mark.
I’m sprawled across his black silk sheets in nothing but underwear, my panties soaked, skin flushed and glistening, every nerve screaming for more even as my mind howls traitor.
“You’re thinking too much,” he growls against my skin, voice gravel and smoke. His hand glides up the inside of my thigh, slow, deliberate, thumb tracing the trembling muscle until I’m shaking harder.
“I’m not—” The lie fractures into a sharp gasp as that thumb finally brushes the damp edge of my underwear, teasing the line where fabric meets skin. “Thinking.”
“Liar.” He lifts his head, grey-green eyes almost black with raw hunger, pupils blown wide. His fingers slip beneath the lace, one slow stroke that makes my back bow off the mattress. “Your body doesn’t lie. Look at you—shaking, dripping, begging without a single word.”
I am shaking. I am dripping. My hips roll into his hand without permission, chasing the pressure.
He smiles—slow, wicked, lethal—and crushes his mouth to mine again, swallowing my moan as his fingers slide deeper, curling exactly right, turning me into nothing but heat and need and the desperate, unstoppable sound of his name breaking from my throat.
Just when I'm about to fall apart completely, he stops.
Just... stops.
And pulls back entirely, leaving me sprawled on his bed like an abandoned science experiment.
"What—" I can barely form words. "What are you doing?"
Alessandro stands at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Get dressed. Go back to your room."
My brain, which has been on vacation, suddenly comes screeching back. "Are you serious right now?"
"I don't take virgins." His voice is rough, but he tries to act nonchalant—shrugs, shoves hands in his pockets—and I’m trying not to think about one of that hands being inside me just now. The empty space aches. "Too complicated. Too much emotional baggage."
Oh, you absolute bastard.
I sit up, reaching for my clothes with hands that are definitely shaking from sexual frustration. "So you just—what, wind me up like a toy and then send me away?"
"When we do this," he says quietly, "I want you desperate. Every wall torn down. So far gone you forget your own name."
My face burns with humiliation and anger. "How considerate. Edging me until I'm a complete wreck. Very chivalrous."
"I'm not chivalrous." He steps closer, and I hate that my body still responds. "I'm possessive. And when I finally take you, Sofia, I'm keeping you. No takebacks."
I should say something cutting.
But the threat—promise?—gets under my skin, somewhere in my lower belly, and lives there, hoping for it to come true.
So instead, I flee like my underwear is on fire—which, given what just happened, isn't entirely inaccurate.
Back in my room, I lie awake for hours, furious with myself. My body is humming with unfulfilled want, while my brain screams that I dodged a bullet.
Mission first. Revenge first. Everything else is noise.
Except the noise is really loud right now.
* * *
The next morning, there's a package outside my door.
I stare at it for thirty seconds, half-convinced it's going to explode. With the De Lucas, you never know.
But when I open it, I find a phone. Not some fancy flagship model, but a decent mid-range Android that looks like it came from a budget store.
My heart starts hammering as I turn it over. The universe—or more likely, Dante—has just thrown me a lifeline.
I power it on, making sure it's factory-reset before heading downstairs for breakfast.
Alessandro is already in the kitchen, because apparently the man runs on an internal atomic clock. He looks up when I enter, his gaze zeroing in on the phone.
"New phone?" His tone is casual. Too casual.
I nod, keeping my expression grateful and slightly embarrassed. "My aunt sent me her old one. She heard about what happened with Chiara and the soup incident."
It's a good lie. Solid. The kind that makes sense for Sofia Russo, the poor scholarship girl with family who cares about her.
Alessandro sets down his coffee cup. "Let me see it."
My stomach drops, but I hand it over without hesitation. "Of course, sir."
He takes it, studying the device with attention usually reserved for bomb disposal. Then he looks at me. "Unlock it."
I do, entering the generic passcode, and watch as he scrolls through the empty apps, the blank message history.
Because it is legitimately empty. I'm not an idiot.
Finally, Alessandro pulls out his own phone and adds his number to my contacts. Then he calls himself from my phone.
"Now you can reach me whenever you need me," he says, handing the device back. His fingers brush mine deliberately. "And I can reach you."
The implication hangs in the air like a particularly ominous cloud.
Surveillance. Of course. Because why would anything be simple?
"Thank you, sir," I say softly, and I even manage to sound grateful instead of like I'm planning his eventual dismemberment.
Alessandro studies my face for a long moment, weighing probabilities. Then he nods and returns to his breakfast like nothing happened.
I'm dismissed. Again.
But a while later, as Alessandro showers, I slip into his bedroom with my heart trying to escape my ribcage.
The tablet is still under his bed. I grab it, check the deletion program finished, and shove it onto his nightstand.
He never found it. Never even looked.
I make it back to the hallway as the shower shuts off, my nervous system staging a rebellion.
Later, Alessandro finds me in the living room and makes an announcement that almost gives me whiplash.
"You can have your regular clothes back." He gestures vaguely toward the upper floor. "The punishment period is over."
I blink at him. "Sir?"
"Your actual uniform. The normal one." His lips quirk into something that might be amusement if it reached his eyes. "Mrs. Bianchi will return everything to your room this afternoon."
Relief floods through me so fast I feel lightheaded. No more walking around in a skirt that could double as a headband. No more bending over and praying for structural integrity.
"Thank you," I say, and this time the gratitude is actually real.
Alessandro watches me for another moment, as if he’s going to say something else. Then he turns and leaves without another word.
I wait until I hear his study door close before I allow myself a small, victorious smile.
I'm back in the game.
* * *
That night, after the house falls silent, I lock my door and set up the encrypted messaging app on my phone. It takes forever—Dante’s security is paranoid for a reason—but finally the green dot appears.
I type: Back in business. Phone secure. Updates soon.
Dante replies instantly: Be careful. Trust no one. Good to have you back, Sof.
The words hit harder than they should. Trust no one—including the man whose bed I almost shared yesterday. The one who watches me like I’m both puzzle and prey. The one I’m here to ruin.
I delete the thread, shut the app, and flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes. A text from Alessandro: Sleep well, Sofia. Tomorrow’s another day.
I don’t answer. I just set the phone down and pretend his voice in my head doesn’t sound almost fond.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
I’m not in over my head at all.