~Camila~
"𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏'𝒕 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒂, 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕"
To the world, Camila is a breath of fresh air; a woman of gentle smiles and a joyful heart. Her charm is her armor, and her intellect is her weapon.
B...
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"Fuck! Do you really have to wear this dress, Gemma?" Luciano groaned beside me, his voice strained with frustration.
"Luciano fucking Dela-Lucchese," Lucien hissed through the earpiece. "Can you stop being a dick and let the pretty lady do her job?"
I ignored the beast fuming beside me, his jaw tight with anger.
"Tell me, what am I supposed to do?" I asked, focusing on the plan.
"Tesoro, Dylan is in his room," Russo replied, voice crisp and controlled. "He just sent for a waitress. We've already intercepted the original. You're up. Do you remember your lines?"
"Yes, I do."
"Good. He's already getting impatient. Be careful. If things get out of hand, call us immediately. We're listening."
I turned to Luciano, whose jaw was locked tight.
"I hope you know your limits," he said darkly, cupping my hips. "I'll be watching. If you cross a line—any line—you better prepare yourself for what comes next."
He slapped my ass hard enough to sting, then kissed me roughly before letting me go.
I adjusted the short black skirt, hiking it higher up my thighs.
My boobs strained against the white blouse, and I reapplied my red lipstick with a teasing swipe. Perfect.
Gripping the service tray, I walked to Dylan's room, nerves buzzing. I took a deep breath, steadied my shaking hand, and knocked.
The shuffle of feet on the other side made my pulse race.
"Gem, that skirt is way too fucking short," Luciano growled through the earpiece. I bit back the urge to roll my eyes.
"Luciano, I swear, one more word, and I'll make Camila a widow before she's even married," Lucien snapped.
The word marriage sparked a fleeting smile, my mind racing with thrilling thoughts of being Luciano's wife. But reality hit hard—he hadn't said he loved me. I didn't even know where I stood in his life. I'd have to ask him later, demand clarity on what I meant to him.
The door swung open, revealing a shirtless Dylan. His hair was a disheveled mess, his lips swollen and red, like he'd just been devouring someone's mouth.
I grimaced. Good thing I never gave him a chance.
"C-Camila?" His eyes widened in surprise.
I flashed a small, calculated smile. "Dylan? What are you doing in Italy?"
He scratched the back of his neck, his awkward smile faltering.
"Mom wanted me to come with her on vacation," he lied, the words dripping with falsehood.
"But it's not Christmas yet." I smiled tighter, pretending I bought the lie.
"You know how she is," he said awkwardly. "Come in."
