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When I woke up this morning, his side of the bed was still warm. He left without waking me—probably off doing whatever mobsters do at the crack of dawn. Making threats? Collecting money? Who the hell knows?
I can’t stand that I actually pressed my face into his pillow before catching myself. Like some lovesick idiot instead of a woman being held against her will...Maybe I truly have finally lost it. The thought makes my stomach twist.
Stockholm Syndrome.
Is that what this is? Is that why, for one insane second, I let myself sink into the warmth of his scent, breathing him in like he belonged to me?
I shove the pillow away like it burns, my face heating with shame.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
He’s my damn captor. The man keeping me locked in this room, holding my freedom in his hands. And yet… my traitorous body still hums with the ghost of his touch. My lips still tingle from the way he kissed me, rough and demanding, like he wanted to own me. Like he already did.
I press my hands to my face and exhale shakily.
I can’t be this woman. I won’t be.
Because if I let myself fall, if I let myself believe for even a second that he could be something other than my enemy…
I might never fight my way back.
I rummage through the ridiculous walk-in closet that could probably fit half my Manhattan penthouse inside it. I’m already wearing a flowy champagne satin skirt that costs more than what most people make in a month. The price tag is still hanging from the waistband—seriously, who leaves price tags on clothes? Oh right, rich assholes who want to remind you they’re rich assholes.
I grab a deep green Saint Laurent top with a twisted front—modest enough for church, but expensive enough to remind everyone exactly who I belong to. The most dangerous man in the room.
My skin still tingles with the memory of last night, which is wildly inappropriate for a place of worship, but let’s be honest—there are worse sins happening under this roof.
My makeup is understated—just enough mascara to sharpen my gaze, nothing too bold. Can’t look like I’m trying too hard. My hair falls in loose red waves, the color making my freckles stand out even more against the emerald fabric. Something’s different about me, because whatever self-consciousness I usually battle seems quieter. But it’s not just the clothes. Not just the makeup... I look... alive.
And I hate that I know why.
The realization knots in my stomach, shame battling with a thrill... craving, and the sick satisfaction of being wanted by the one man I should fear.
Get it together, Alessandra.
Don’tmistake survival for softness. Don’t forget who he is. And most of all—don’t forget what he wants from you.
I need to get my head on straight. Sex is just sex. Amazing, mind-blowing, toe-curling sex—but still just sex. It doesn’t mean I’m going to hand over my father to the Commission on a silver platter. And this damn flutter in my stomach better be church anxiety—because if it’s actual feelings for the man holding me hostage, I’m screwed.
I’m reaching for the matching green heels when someone knocks. I open the door, hit immediately by his cologne. My brain short-circuits with a highlight reel from last night—his weight on me, the way he whispered my name, how he tasted.
Dominic adjusts his emerald green tie, his suit fits him perfectly, making him look like he stepped off a movie set. There’s a slight bulge under his jacket—his gun.Classic Dominic.
Even in church, this guy is armed.
His eyes flick over me with a glint of amusement.
“Coincidence?”I ask, raising an eyebrow at the matching green.
He smirks, looking me over with a touch of satisfaction.“Not exactly. I enjoy watching you, Alessandra.”
I freeze, narrowing my eyes.“What do you mean, ‘watching me’?”
He steps closer, voice smooth, his gaze calculating and nods toward the camera. “Every move… what you wear. How you react.Those cameras catch everything,bella. Everything.”
“Just say you wanted to check if I was naked,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself.
“I wanted to check if you were naked,” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave. “If I had worn a red tie, we’d look like fucking Christmas.”