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“It will be,” he promises, his words heavy with certainty. “I’ll be in town a while longer if you change your mind. I’ll tell Paolo you had nothing important to share. Consider this my olive branch,amico.”
I don’t respond well to threats, and if it wouldn’t cause complications, this man would be missing fingers. For now, though, I let him live. I’m curious to see his next move—and howit might affect the woman whose green eyes haunt me even in meetings like this.
As he walks away, I’m struck by the realization that time is running out. I need Alessa to talk—not just for my future with the Commission, but for her own survival. The predators are circling, and I’m no longer certain which role I’m playing, hunter or protector.
Maybe both.
Chapter eighteen
Alessa
Agiggleescapesmeasthe lock rewards me with a satisfying click. In just thirty minutes, I charmed Dominic’s impossibly strict cook into giving me access to the one place I’m definitely not supposed to be.
She caught me hunting for something sweet in the pantry after eating dinner alone. My fingers were inches from fancy Italian gelato when she swatted my hand with a wooden spoon. Early seventies with graying black hair and laugh lines framing shrewd brown eyes, her disapproval was immediate.
“Even Mr. Gianelli is not allowed in here,” she spat in Italian. “Esci subito!” Get out right now!
I steady myself against the doorframe, pushing into the forbidden sanctuary. The room exhales its secrets—aged paper, dusty shelves, and the warm vanilla whisper of old books. My fingers fumble along the wall until I find the switch. A flood of golden light unveils my prize: Dominic’s private office.
I step inside, the alcohol in my veins making everything shimmer with possibility. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books—their spines worn, titles faded—create a strange intimacy. But what steals my breath is the collection of swords hanging on the far wall, each blade gleaming under the soft light with deadly perfection.
I force my mind away from whose blood they’ve drawn, whose lives they’ve ended. Instead, treacherous heat pools between my thighs as I imagine Dominic wielding them—all lethal grace and controlled power. Goddamn wine turning me into a horny captive with Stockholm syndrome.
“How the fuck did you get inside?” His gravelly voice slices through the quiet, making me flinch. The intercom—of course he’s watching. Of course he’s everywhere. My jailer, my shadow, my unwanted obsession.
“I’m talking to you,” he snaps when I don’t answer, his voice hardening with warning.
“God, you’re everywhere, aren’t you?” I roll my eyes, trailing fingers across leather spines, savoring each forbidden touch. 1984 by Orwell. Invisible Cities by Calvino. The Republic by Plato. The Intelligent Investor by Graham. A strange intimacy, touching what belongs to him.
“You’re trespassing in my office,” he accuses as I wander deeper, deliberately ignoring how his commanding voice stirs something in me. “How’d you find the key?”
“I befriended Rosaria and she asked Timmy to give me the key,” I confess, laughing softly. “Well, she threatened him while feeding me dessert. Did you know she knew my mom? She said she taught her and Sofia to cook, but Isabella Russo is, and I quote, ‘good at a lot of things but cannot cook to save her life.’”
I’m rambling, but the stories Rosaria shared—about my mother and her best friend Sofia, Dominic’s mother—feel like precious stolen treasures. She knew how my mother’s laughter could fill a room, how her eyes sparkled when plotting escapes from stuffy galas, how she and Sofia would raid the kitchens at midnight like schoolgirls breaking curfew.
“It’s how I knew you were your mother’s daughter,” she had said, passing me a glass of wine she claimed was my mother’s favorite. Her smile held decades of memories. “You’ve got the same determined gleam in your eyes when it comes to sweets.”
My throat tightens. I’m sick of hearing about my mother the killer, my mother the torturer, my mother the fearsome La Falciante. Rosaria’s stories make her human—a woman with friends, dreams, weaknesses. Not just the myth that haunts me.
“Are you drunk?” Dominic’s question slices through my thoughts.
“Tipsy,” I correct, grinning as I find classics I haven’t touched in years. Austen. Brontë. Shakespeare. “Rosaria gave me some strong-ass wine.”
“Get out of there,” he demands, voice hard through the intercom. “Do you have any idea how many valuable things I have in there?”
What does he think I’ll do—steal and run? Where would I even go?
“Is there a reason why you have so many swords?” I ask, genuinely curious but also wanting to provoke him. “Is it like a collection or a kink?” Heat floods my cheeks as forbidden images flash in my mind—his hands gripping the handle, his eyes dark with intent. Christ. What was in that wine? Pure liquid lust?
“Memorabilia,” he answers curtly. Though I can’t see the cameras, I know his eyes are on me. I deliberately sway my hips as I move to another shelf, a small rebellion in the only currency I have left: my body.
“What do you want, Alessa? Please don’t break anything.”
“God, I love it when you beg,” I tease, pulling another book to read its blurb. “I’m looking for a book. It’s boring in here.”
“I told you—if you want something, you have to earn it,” he says, and something in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. Haven’t I earned this small freedom? I endured dinner with him, talked about my mother’s death—somethingI rarely discuss—and even tolerated his accusations about my father’s involvement. “Besides, I don’t have anything you’d like.”
“You don’t know what I like,” I snap, shutting a book with more force than necessary.