Page 11

ALESSIO

I watch from the bottom of the stairs, jaw slack, breath locked somewhere in my chest as Sophie descends like a goddamn fantasy, one I’ve had more times than I’ll ever admit.

Fuck.

Her gown is silk and sin, hugging her body with a lethal kind of elegance. The fabric drapes over her hips like a promise, clinging to the curves of her waist and molds to her breasts with a reverence that makes it hard to breathe.

It’s the kind of dress that makes men stupid, and me, absolutely feral.

The high slit flashes a toned thigh with every step, her long legs moving with a grace that makes my blood heat.

The neckline dips low, showcasing the swell of her breasts, full and tempting, framed perfectly by the soft shimmer of the fabric.

Her hair is swept up, exposing her neck, smooth, elegant, kissable.

“Damn,” I whisper, because it’s all I can manage.

She hasn’t even left the apartment yet, and she’s already the most beautiful woman in any room. In every room. And she’s walking toward me like she doesn’t know she owns me.

She’s not mine.

Not officially.

Not permanently.

But if I have my way?

She will be.

The limo is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the muted flashes outside.

Sophie sits beside me, spine straight, legs crossed tight at the knee, her hands smoothing over her clutch like she’s trying to iron out her thoughts. There’s a tension in her shoulders she can’t hide, polished, composed, but wound tight.

I don’t think her nerves are about the gala itself.

She’s done press and boardrooms and a hell of a lot worse. But this, being next to me, paraded around as if she belongs in my world, in this world of old money and silent weapons, this shakes her. Because she knows what one wrong move could cost.

Her job. Her reputation. Her control. Maybe even her life.

"Here’s the deal,” she says. “You smile. You charm. You don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.”

I grin. “You sure you don’t want me to just flash a smile and wave my dick around?”

She glares, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Please don’t.”

Her voice breaks for a split second until she regains her composure. The crack in her armor is almost unrecognizable. But I catch it.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whisper, “I'll behave, but remember, you’ve got this, dolcezza . Don’t think about them. Just pretend it’s only us. You, me… and your vibrator.”

Her gasp is audible, and her hand smacks my arm before she even thinks about it. “I don't have a hot clue what you're talking about.”

Her cheeks flush a glorious pink.

Paparazzi bulbs pop outside the window, catching us mid-movement.

She exhales sharply. “Great. Caught mid-smack. They’ll think I hate you.”

“I think you like me,” I letting my gaze drop with my voice, slow, deliberate, to the curve of her thighs before meeting her eyes again.

Her breath hitches.

And my heart skips a beat when she doesn’t deny it.

The gala is a glittering blur of champagne flutes, expensive perfume, and smiles that slice sharper than knives. The kind of room where every handshake is a deal, every laugh a calculated move.

I know these people. I’ve played this game. And I’m good at it.

But tonight, I’ve got Sophie on my arm.

And suddenly, none of them matter.

She moves beside me with practiced grace, but I can feel the stiffness in her spine, the tension humming beneath her skin. She’s trying too hard not to look out of place. Trying not to hear the whispers coming from the women who fell into money because of who they're fucking.

Those voices behind their well-manicured hands and diamond-draped necks. When you've been around their circles long enough, their type is easy to spot.

So, I do what I do best.

I charm. I grin. I distract.

I throw an arm around a donor’s shoulder, spin a story that has influencers laughing too loud, and pour drinks like I belong here. Because I do. I was raised in rooms like this. Dad bought me my first tailored suit before I learned to drive.

But Sophie?

She looks like a goddess dropped into a viper pit. Glowing, divine, and far too good for the type of shit she puts up with.

And all I can think is how wrong she is for this world, and how badly I want to be the one who shields her from it.

And for the first time in one of these parties, especially tonight, I’m not thinking about fitting in, saying the right thing or the headlines. I’m thinking about her.

When I see her confidence falter, just for a second, eyes shifting to the floor, I reach for her hand.

It’s instinct. Protective. Possessive. Both.

“You’re not alone,” I murmur, my thumb brushing over hers.

She looks up at me, startled. Then something in her eyes softens. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

Dragging her hand in hand to the center of the marbled floor, I take her in my arms, and we dance.

Close. Too close.

My hand on the small of her back, hers resting lightly against my chest.

She fits against me like she’s always belonged there, and something in my chest aches with how right it feels.

I’ve been missing this, missing her , and I hadn’t even known it this whole damn time.

“Who taught you how to dance?” Her chin tilts, eyes searching mine.

“My mom,” I say quietly. “Before my first school dance. She made me lead. Said a Marchetti always leads.”

She laughs softly. “Sounds like something my mom would’ve said. Except I think she liked animals more than people sometimes. She loved animals, horses, mostly. Always told me that animals tell the truth more than people do.”

There’s a pause, a breath suspended in time. Her voice softens. “She passed away years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry. I remember Denver telling me it was hard on both of you.” The words catch somewhere behind my ribs.

"At least you guys had each other. It's always hard to let go, especially if you're not ready to.” My voice reduces to a whisper as I fight back the emotion thinking about my mother.

Our bodies are still moving to the music, but something else shifts between us. Something deeper, heavier.

“She was the only person who really saw me, you know? Through the performance.” I'm not sure why I’m saying it now, only knowing that I want her to hear it. “Not just the name. Not the suits or the attitude. Me.”

Sophie swallows hard. “I think mine would’ve liked you.”

“Think so?”

“She had a thing for charming troublemakers with good hearts.”

I chuckle, but it’s quieter this time. “She sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was.”

And for the first time tonight, her hand doesn’t tremble in mine.

Our eyes lock again. My gaze flicks to her mouth, plump, slightly parted, flushed.

Kissable. Dangerous. Impossible to forget.

We’re inches apart. Breath mingling. The air between us thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

Her gaze flicks to my mouth.

And I almost kiss her.

Almost.

“She’s just his latest flavor,” one of the socialites purrs, her voice laced with faux sympathy and sharpened cruelty. “Didn’t the last one leave crying? Or was she paid to disappear?”

Her friend chuckles behind her champagne flute. “Either way, give it a month. He’ll be on to the next one with longer legs and a thinner waist.”

The words crack the moment like a whip.

Sophie stiffens. Her hand slips from mine. She steps back.

"Soph, wait. Dolcezza. "

She turns and walks away, but I don’t go after her.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I don’t know how to explain the weight pressing into my chest. The ache behind my ribs that flares the second her fingers slip from mine.

I’ve heard worse things said about me. Hell, I’ve earned worse.

But this time?

It’s different.

Because it’s her.

And after the way I’ve been behaving, maybe they’re not wrong. I was just a playboy with a short attention span and a long list of sins.

I've been reckless with a woman's hearts before. I'm kind of guy who crashes into women’s lives and leaves them wrecked. Not caring about the consequences. Because they didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not even me.

But watching Sophie walk away like that, chin lifted, mouth tight, trying to pretend like the words didn’t slice her open? It stings in a way I didn’t expect. Because in that moment, I see it.

She did believe in me, maybe more than I deserve.

And now, I’ve watched that belief crack. It scares the hell out of me… because no one's ever looked at me like I could be more.

Except her.

It fucking hurts.

I don’t want to be the man they believe me to be. I want to be the one who’s worthy of her. Even if I don’t know how. Not anymore.

As soon as my legs decide to start moving to chase after her, an announcement comes. Unexpected, loud, and echoing across the ballroom like a bomb wrapped in charm.

Nikolai Sokolov is standing at the front of the room. He raises his glass, his voice carrying above the hum of the crowd. “Tonight’s most generous donation comes from none other than Mr. Alessio Marchetti.”

Heads turn. Murmurs ripple through the room.

Every stare, every whisper curls like smoke in my direction.

I glance at Sophie.

She’s across the room, half in shadow, her expression unreadable. She wasn't aware of this.

I was able to sweet-talk Valentino into making a charitable donation on my behalf, along with getting me a custom suit for this occasion.

Thank god for my tailor, an absolute stud for sending me a tux this short notice.

I catch Nikolai winking at me from the stage, a silent acknowledgment. A reminder of the game we’re playing.

The applause crashes over me, and I nod once, the perfect picture of cool detachment.

But my heart’s not here.

It’s with her.

And I don’t know if I’m winning… or about to lose everything.

I duck out from the wave of applause, heading toward the bar with a forced smile. I need something cold, something sharp, anything to dull the storm brewing under my skin.

But the crowd parts in a strange way, too clean, too easy.

That’s when I see the woman.

Elegant. Cold. Walking with the kind of purpose that sets off every internal alarm I’ve got.

A navy, satin dress clings to her like second skin, her dark hair swept in front of her face, making it hard to discern any facial features.

She bumps into me. Deliberately.

“Sorry.” Her voice is ice. Russian-accented. Familiar in a way that turns my spine to stone.

Before I can reply, her hand dips into my jacket. A flick of her fingers. Smooth. Practiced. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like she was never there.

I reach into my pocket.

A folded note. Thick paper. Heavy ink.

My pulse hammers.

I open it.

“You'll both suffer like I did.”

No name. No signature.

Just a threat.

But it feels real. Too fucking real.

I spin, eyes scanning the ballroom.

But she’s gone. No trace. No echo. Just shadows and crystal chandeliers.

I crush the paper in my hand, jaw tight.

Not here. Not tonight. Not with Sophie in this room.

Because if this threat is what I think it is, if it's tied to the Bratva mess, or worse, then someone just painted a target on Sophie’s back.

And I’ll be damned if I let them get away with it.

My fist curls around the note, knuckles white, rage pulsing like a war drum in my ears.

“You’ll both suffer like I did.”

Who the hell is targeting her through me?

I stare at the words, the ink bleeding into my skin like poison.

The threat isn’t subtle. It’s personal. And that line, you’ll both suffer, it’s not just about me anymore.

Sophie’s in the crosshairs.

I lift my head and find Sophie across the ballroom.

She’s radiant in that gown, half-turned toward the stage, unaware of the storm crashing toward her. She’s laughing politely with some investor in a navy tux, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s putting on a show, flawless as ever.

But I see it. The slight shift in her stance. The weariness in her expression.

Unaware that someone just promised to drag her down with me. My chaos. My enemies.

The air thickens around me, like smoke before fire.

And suddenly, this whole damn night, with the tux, the donation, the charm, feels like a fucking illusion. Like I’ve been playing dress-up while someone loaded a bullet with her name on it.

My jaw tightens.

I’ve lived my life like a goddamn grenade, pull the pin, enjoy the blast.

But Sophie?

She’s not collateral.

She’s the only thing in this mess worth saving.

Even if it means burning every bridge I’ve got.

Even if it means stepping back from her, for her sake.

Even if it means I’ll burn myself.

I shove the note into my pocket, crumpled like the resolve I used to have about keeping things casual.

Not anymore.

I’ll protect you, Soph.

Even if it means protecting you from me.