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An hour later I lie sprawled across Alessio's bed, my body sore and marked from our second round. My hair is still damp from the shower and I'm wrapped in nothing but a towel when Alessio returns to the room carrying a stack of clothes.
"These should fit, at least that's what Ginerva said" he says, placing them on the bed. "We'll shop online tonight for your own things."
I finger the fabrics—soft cashmere, silk and a dark designer denim. "I don't really care about clothes right now." After everything that's happened, fashion seems trivial.
Alessio's jaw tightens. "I do."
Something in his tone makes me look up. His eyes burn with intensity as they sweep over my towel-covered form. This isn't just about clothes—it's about providing for me.
"Thank you," I say softly. The simple words feel inadequate for everything swirling between us. I sit up, keeping the towel clutched to my chest. "This dinner... it isn't just about eating, is it?"
Alessio runs his thumb along his bottom lip, considering his next words. "Damiano always wants to meet his guests. In this house eating together is something of an old habit."
"Who's going to be there?" I ask, anxiety building in my chest. Meeting the head of the Feretti family is nothing to take lightly.
"Besides Enzo, Noah, Daniel, Matteo and Damiano, no one else."
I notice the absence immediately. "What about women? His wife? Family?"
Alessio's expression darkens. "Damiano sent Zoe, his wife, Sofia, his daughter, and Lucrezia to Italy because of what's going on with your father."
I nod slowly, considering this information. It's strange to think of another mafia family being so protective of its people—especially the women and children. My father never showed such concern. To Antonio Lombardi everyone was expendable, even his own daughter.
"That's... different," I say finally, twisting my mother's ring. "My father would never—" I stop myself, the comparison too painful to complete.
"Your father would never what?" Alessio probes.
I shake my head, looking away. "My father would never prioritize anyone's safety over business. Not even his children's."
Alessio crosses the room in two strides, sitting beside me on the bed. "You don't have to hide it,piccola. Not with me."
"Hide what?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means.
"Your emotions. Your pain." His calloused fingers brush my cheek. "I can see it in your eyes."
"What good would showing it do? Falling apart won't help anything." I sound hard, I know, but I can’t help it. "Crying about my father wanting me dead or about the man I... I killed... it's not productive."
"Not everything has to be productive, Melania."
"Right now, it does." I straighten my spine, summoning the composure I've perfected since childhood. "The only thing to do is stay focused. If I let myself think too much about everything that's happened..."
I don't finish the sentence. I don't need to.
Alessio nods, understanding without me having to explain further. Then he pulls me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other wraps around my waist.
"I'm not good with talking," he admits, his voice rumbling through his chest against my ear. "Never have been. But I hate seeing your face full of pain."
The simple honesty in his words cracks something inside me. I don't cry—I've cried enough today—but I melt into him, letting his warmth seep into my bones.
I pull back just enough to look into his eyes. The dark brown depths that once terrified me now feel like the only safe place in my storm-tossed world. His gaze holds mine, unguarded for once, allowing me to see beyond the ruthless enforcer to the man beneath.
Is it possible? The thought forms before I can stop it. Is it possible that I've fallen in love with him?
The realization should terrify me. This man kidnapped me, threatened me, has killed people without remorse. And yet he's also protected me, listened to me, respected my mind in ways no one else ever has.
My heart bounces around my chest as I continue to stare into his eyes, searching for answers to questions I'm not brave enough to ask out loud.
Alessio's hands cup my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. The tenderness in his touch contrasts with the lethal strength I know those hands possess.