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ALESSIO

I stand at the window of the apartment, coffee cooling in my hand, untouched.

The skyline doesn't blink. But I do.

Too much rides on today to pretend this is just another morning.

The city blurs beneath a haze of early morning fog.

My suit’s pressed and perfect, but it doesn’t matter. I wore one just like it at the gala, and that night still spiraled out of control.

Today isn’t about appearance. It’s about redemption. Survival.

If I screw this up, one wrong word, we don’t just lose the merger. We lose the investors, the reputation, the momentum.

I lose Sophie's trust.

And she's the only person that’s ever made me want to be better.

For myself. For her. So I can deserve her.

The ride over to the Prestige building is silent at first. Tense.

Sophie sits beside me in the back of the company car, legs crossed, gaze glued to her phone like she’s studying for war.

She looks like a fucking masterpiece in that black dress. Legs for days, curves that defy reason, and a cleavage that makes her tits bounce with every bump in the road.

It’s a crime how good she looks, like temptation tailored in satin and secrets. The silky black fabric clinging to every curve like it was designed to ruin me.

I don’t know how the hell she expects me to focus when she looks like a sin I want to commit in ten different ways.

Blood rushes down between my legs.

Down, boy.

I watch her for a moment, then smirk. “You know, this feels like one of those mafia documentaries. The fixer and the fuckup off to charm the press.”

She doesn’t even blink. “If anyone’s getting whacked today, it’s your public image.”

I laugh, can’t help it.

It’s the first sound in the car that doesn’t feel like a loaded weapon.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice just enough that she is the only one who can hear me. “You keep wearing dresses like that, and I’ll forget we’re on camera. Might give the press a different kind of show. One with a lot less talking and a hell of a lot more moaning.”

Her eyes flick up. Sharp. Unamused. But there’s a flush creeping up her throat she can’t hide fast enough.

“Control yourself, Marchetti.”

I grin. “Trying. Really. But you’re not making it easy, dolcezza .”

She finally looks at me fully, exasperation and warning dancing in her expression. “Just don’t make me regret trusting you.”

“I won’t. Not this time.” And that is my vow to her, whether she knows it or not.

She doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t look away either.

***

The studio smells like nerves and artificial lemon polish.

I settle into the chair under lights hot enough to fry a fucking egg, the cameras like eyes that never blink.

Across from me, Sophie stands poised in heels and hellfire. Sleek black dress. Clipboard clutched like a shield. Her face is composed, but her eyes…her eyes flash like storm warnings.

She’s all business, and I know that mask well. I've worn it. Hell, I’ve perfected it.

But I’ve seen her cracks. The ones no one else gets close enough to notice. The ones that show when she thinks I’m asleep or not watching.

My heart beats harder than I want to admit.

This isn’t a press appearance. It’s an ambush. Not by her, but by the version of me I have to kill if I want to survive this. If I want to protect her. To earn her.

The red light clicks on.

Showtime.

Sophie’s voice slices through the hum of the studio like a scalpel, precise, calm, lethal.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining me this morning. We’re joined today by Alessio Marchetti, brother to the heir to the Marchetti wine empire, Valentino.

And son of Enzo Marchetti. As you already heard, Alessio is currently at the center of an international merger and potentially, a media firestorm. ”

I keep my posture relaxed, my mouth twitching with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

She continues, smooth as silk. “Alessio, let’s start simple. Do you consider yourself reckless?”

There’s a beat of silence. I let it hang. Let them feel the weight of the question.

“I did.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “But I think ‘reckless’ is just a mask people wear when they’re scared of letting anyone see the cracks.”

A pause.

That landed. Even Sophie’s expression falters. Just slightly, but enough for me to see it.

So, I keep going.

“People think charm makes you bulletproof. It doesn’t. It just makes it easier to hide when you’re bleeding out.”

I talk about the rumors. The scandal. The night with the Bratva girl. I lay it bare without flinching, because for once, I’m not spinning the truth. I’m owning it.

“I’ve lived a life where everything came easy. Money, women, power. But if I strip all that away... I realize I never really had anything. None of it was ever really mine. Not the way I thought it was.”

I shift slightly, eyes still on Sophie.

“It’s easy to be charming when you’re rich. It’s harder to be good when no one’s watching.”

The room feels still. Even the cameras seem to be holding their breath.

And Sophie? Sophie’s not just listening.

She’s seeing me.

Really seeing me .

Sophie glances down at the clipboard, hesitates for half a second.

Her voice is softer this time, lower, more dangerous.

“Why did you agree to this interview?”

I blink. That wasn’t on the list.

I could give a thousand clever answers. Spin something smooth. Charming. Safe.

But instead, I look at her.

Really look.

The lights blur at the edges of my vision, but her face is crystal clear. Eyes sharp and uncertain, mouth set like she’s bracing for impact.

“Because someone believed I could be more than a headline.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than they should be.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But I notice the tremble in her throat. The way her grip on the clipboard tightens just enough to turn her knuckles white.

This isn’t for the press. Not for the investors. Not even for the merger.

This is for her .

And maybe, just maybe, for me too.

The camera crews eat it up.

I can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off the producers on the other side of the glass.

But all I can focus on is Sophie. Still standing. Still watching. Still trying not to fall apart in front of the whole fucking world.

And I’ve never wanted to reach across that distance and touch her more than I do right now.

I glance down, then back into the lens. My voice drops just a little, but it doesn’t waver.

“I know I’ve made mistakes. I’ve lived a life that was reckless, loud, selfish. But when everything was stripped away, the money, the distractions, I had to figure out who the hell I really was. And what I realized is this. When I care, I don’t back down. I don’t run.”

I lean forward slightly, elbows on my knees, raw honesty thick in every syllable.

“You want to know why I’m not a liability? Because I’ve already lost everything once. And I survived. Now, I’ve got something to fight for. And I won’t let go of it, not for scandal, not for legacy, not for fear.”

I pause, then decide to go for broke. “I’m not asking for blind trust. I’m asking for a chance to prove I’m worth betting on. Not because I’ve earned it yet, but because I finally understand what it means to lose something that matters. And I’m not willing to let that happen again.”

A moment of silence.

The camera cuts. Crew whispers fill the studio. A soft word echoes. “Damn.”

Outside the frame, Sophie exhales like she’s been holding her breath the entire time.

I step off the platform, every muscle tight from the restraint it took to stay composed under the lights.

Sophie’s already there waiting for me, holding out a water bottle, a peace offering. Her other hand is fisted by her side, nails digging into her palm.

We don’t speak at first. The silence stretches, thick and electric.

“That was…” Her voice is lower, not her usual clipped PR tone. “That was honest.”

I take the bottle and let our fingers brush, just briefly.

Her touch is cool, but it sends a flare of heat up my arm.

“I wasn’t doing it for the cameras. Or the investors.”

Her gaze lifts to mine. Searching. Exposed.

I don’t say it’s for her. I don’t have to.

Sophie’s phone dings. She glances down, skims it, and raises a brow.

“Valentino says, and I quote, ‘That didn’t sound rehearsed. It sounded real. Damn good job. You’re not a total embarrassment today.’”

I snort. “High praise.”

Then another text comes through.

It's dad. Short. Brutal.

A forwarded message.

He might be immature, but he’s growing. We’re still in.

Sophie looks up. “That was from one of the holdout investors.”

My chest loosens just a little.

We’re still in.

My phone screen lights up with a message, causing my spine to stiffen.

Unknown number:

You looked good on camera. Shame it’ll be the last time.

The chill hits me like a splash of ice water.

I read it twice, then delete it before Sophie can glance over.

***

Back at the apartment, I try to breathe.

The success of the interview buzzes through every notification ping, every message lighting up my screen. The PR team forwards me their initial reactions: "A calculated vulnerability masterclass."

Even Denver texted. Didn’t know you had that in you.

Good.

If and when this whole fucking mess goes public, at least this interview can help with the public’s perception of me.

But none of it settles me.

I stand by the bedroom window again, same place I started the morning, the skyline now shrouded in dusk.

Sophie’s in the other room, finishing up her follow-up with the media team. Her voice comes clear through the wall, tight, focused, in control. The way she always sounds when she’s trying to hold the world together.

Except now she’s holding part of mine, too.

The memory of her eyes across the studio, not judging, just… hoping, won’t leave me.

And that message. The one I deleted before she could see it.

Shame it’ll be the last time.

My jaw locks as I scroll past another congratulatory text, the words blurring into static.

Whoever’s sending these threats, they want chaos. Fear. Hesitation.

But they’re not getting that from me.

Not this time.

I head for the bathroom, peeling off the suit piece by piece.

Every stitch feels like it’s broadcasting a signal, where to aim, where to hurt.

This isn’t just a change of clothes. It’s shedding the version of me they expect to destroy. The version of me I want to let go of.

In the mirror, I barely recognize the man staring back.

But I know what he’s ready for.

War.

No more games.

I'm not backing down.

These fuckers picked a fight with the wrong person.