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I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. But, of course, I’m an idiot. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I glance back, which is a big mistake.

He’s standing up now. And he’s wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hang ridiculously low on his hips, sitting on that perfect V-cut like some kind of sculpted god.

My brain short-circuits when I see his nipple piercings. Yep, I’m staring in full-on dog-in-heat mode at his giant, fucking hot dog. My brain is screaming abort mission, but I’m unable to look away.

Someone clears their throat, pulling me back to reality. Paola, right, she’s still here and probably wondering where exactly I took a wrong turn in life.

I yank my eyes away from Alessio like I wasn’t just undressing him with my retinas and practically drooling.

“I’ll make you a plate,” Paola offers, her tone is all calm and unbothered, as if she isn’t witnessing me eye fuck her boss.

“Thank you,” I mumble, forcing my voice to sound casual, while I’m being branded by a pair of cold, blue eyes.

Paola sets a mountain of pancakes and bacon next to Alessio’s seat, but all I can feel is his eyes drilling into me like he knows exactly what the hell I’m thinking.

When I think I can’t take it anymore, he moves past me. His bare chest skims against my back, and I swear my body goes rigid with tension. It’s not a full-body press, not even close, but it might as well be a damn collision.

Every muscle in my body locks up. A shiver cuts through me so fast my breath hitches, a sharp inhale that I pray he doesn’t hear.

I stay frozen, hyper-aware of every step he takes as he crosses the kitchen and slides his plate into the sink, the clink of it barely registering in my frazzled brain. He doesn’t break eye contact—he returns to his seat, still shirtless, still watching me.

“Sit.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command.

And I hate myself for it, but I listen. My body moves before my brain can protest, and I slide into the seat beside him, stiff as a damn board.

God help me.

“Coffee, dear?” Paola’s voice is gentle, oblivious to the silent war inside my head.

“Yes, please,” I blurt, way too fast.

I want to say something to him, but the words are stuck in my throat. So, I decideI’ll eat and not say a word.

Alessio shifts, his body angling toward me. Not much, but just enough to steal the air from my lungs. Just as I stuff a massive bite of pancake into my mouth.

“I heard you were causing trouble last night,” he says, not even pretending to ask if it’s true. His voice is calm but firm, like I’m five and just said a bad word in church. I can’t chew fast enough to defend myself, to explain that it’s not my fault and that Alonzo, the human gorilla, needs to be locked up in a cage somewhere.

“Until I figure out what to do with you, you will behave. Do I make myself clear?”

Alessio’s eyes lock onto mine, and I’m just staring back at him, chewing as fast as I can. I try to force myself to swallow the dry ass pancake, but it feels like my throat’s closing. The pancake’s trying to choke me. I’m just sitting here, panicking, trying not to look too much like I’m struggling, and praying to whatever god exists that he doesn’t notice how much I’m starting to freak out. If he wasn’t watching me so closely, I’d spit the damn thing out.

But of course, my greedy self has to shove the biggest forkful in my mouth, and now I’m stuck chewing like my life depends on it, because it kind of does. I finally manage to swallow, chasing it down with a gulp of coffee, desperate not to full-on choke to death in front of the mafia psycho currently holding me hostage.

I take a deep breath through my nose, willing my racing heart to calm the hell down. Then, in the most casual voice I can manage, I say, “You could just let me leave… or do you plan on stabbing me with whatever you injected in me until I pass out again?”

I arch a brow, lifting my mug to my lips again like I’m not trying to hide the fact that my hands are shaking.

He doesn’t even blink. “Or you could tell me what you found on the Commission, and I will if I need to.” His tone turns serious and sharp, like he’s daring me to lie. “Until you tell me what I need to know, I can’t trust letting you go. How the hell am I supposed to know you won’t try to have me arrested? Or worse, killed? So, for now, you’ll do as I say. Got it?”

I blink at him, brain spinning, grasping for a response that won’t land me in an unmarked grave. My mouth opens, then shuts. What the hell am I supposed to say?

I’m not stupid enough to argue with a guy who probably has a hundred ways to kill me without breaking a sweat. Or, you know, another syringe tucked away in his pocket, with my name on it.

“Got it, Warden,” I mutter, shoving another bite of pancake in my mouth before I do something reckless.

But seriously, how do you tell a killer that you think he murdered your parents? I miss them, but I’m not exactly eager to join them. Not yet, anyway.

I need answers.