A business arrangement forced us together.
His power keeps us tangled.
And every time I try to pull away... I want him even more.
" * " indicate more mature/ explicit scenes, the more the spicier
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ALESSANDRO
Her fucking perfume is still on me.
It's faint—but there. Sweet, warm, and something pastry-like I can't even name. I know the scent by heart now. It's in the sheets, on my shirt, in the goddamn air I'm breathing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees, dragging a hand down my face. My body's awake, but my mind? Still stuck in that moment when she shifted in her sleep and curled into me like I was safe.
Like she trusted me.
She doesn't.
She shouldn't.
I glance back over my shoulder. She's up now, sipping the water I gave her, avoiding my eyes like they might slice her open.
Her hair's a mess. Mascara faint under her eyes. Dress wrinkled from sleep.
And still, she's the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen.
I hate that she makes me forget what this is supposed to be. A deal. A negotiation. A blackmail contract built on tension and resentment. She reminds me often enough—I'm the reason for this.
Not... whatever this is that keeps pulling at me.
Definitely not me waking up beside her and wondering what she'd look like smiling at me on purpose.
I reach for my blazer off the chair and slide it on over my shirt. No point buttoning it—I'll be taking it off again soon. Another meeting. Another bastard to handle. Another reason to be cold, sharp, untouchable.
I glance back once more.
She looks up. Our eyes lock.
Just for a second.
Quiet.
Still.
Her hands are tight around the cup. Breathing steady—but only just.
She's hungover. But that's not all of it. Never is, with her.
My hand grips the doorknob.
Say something.
Something real.
But I don't.
"Get some sleep," I say, voice low. "You've got another event tomorrow. Don't show up looking like hell."
She snorts. "Thanks for the heartfelt goodbye."
I smirk—because if I stay here any longer, I might say something I can't take back.
I leave.
And as the door clicks shut behind me, her scent still clinging to my skin—
I try to convince myself that this is nothing.
That she's nothing.
But the tightness in my chest says otherwise.
And that terrifies me more than anything else today.
***
The rain hasn't stopped.
It patters against the windshield like a countdown. A slow, steady reminder that something's about to end.
I lean back in the SUV, watching the rain gloss the alleyway ahead. Narrow. Dim. Cold. At the end of it: a warehouse. Fabrizio's last mistake.
"Cinque minuti," Enzo says from the front seat, glancing at me through the rearview. (Five minutes.)
"Fallo adesso." I don't wait. Do it now.
He nods, stepping out.
Silence again.
I check my watch. 2:03 a.m.
She's probably asleep by now. Maybe dreaming about Mario. Another round of tequila. My jaw tenses.
I focus.
Because this is what I do, I clean up the messes that threaten the famiglia. I keep the blood off the family name—unless we want it there.
The warehouse doors creak open.
Muffled voices.
Then silence.
Good.
Five minutes later, Enzo returns. His gloves? Speckled with something that isn't rain.
"È pronto." It's ready.
I adjust my cuffs, step into the cold.
The rain touches my shoulders like a warning.
Inside, the warehouse smells like bleach and betrayal.
Fabrizio's on his knees. Zip-tied. Bleeding. Pathetic. He flinches when he sees me.
"Alessandro," he breathes. "Ti prego, fratello—"
"Don't call me fratello."
I stop two feet away. The man who once toasted loyalty with thousand-dollar wine? Sold us out for a few bills.
I crouch low, meeting his eyes.
"You broke blood." My voice is steady. "Hai svenduto la famiglia." (You sold out the family.)
He stutters. "I didn't tell them everything—"
I grab his jaw. Tight. "You told them enough."
Silence.
Behind me, Enzo cocks the gun.
"No."
I press my forehead to Fabrizio's, eyes locked.
"Your punishment isn't a bullet. It's knowing you betrayed us—and you're still breathing."
He exhales like it's relief.
I shoot him in the elbow.
He screams.
"Portalo al sud," I say, standing. Take him south. "Fai sapere che non l'abbiamo ucciso. Lascia che sia la vergogna a finirlo." Tell everyone we didn't kill him. Let shame do the job.
