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ALESSIO

The scent of sex hangs in the air, part expensive perfume, part loathing.

I stretch between two very naked women, one draped across my chest, the other curled around my thigh.

Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spotlighting the chaos. Discarded heels, champagne bottles, someone’s bra hanging off a lamp.

I should be hungover. I should be gloating. I should be—

I don’t even know what I should be, b

ut I know it’s not this because all I feel is emptiness.

I ease one arm out from under the blonde—Cassie? Courtney? Something with a C—and wiggle free from the other one.

I slide out of bed with the stealth of a man well-practiced in morning-after maneuvers. If only it helped me feel better.

My foot knocks over an empty Dom bottle, and it rolls under the bed like it’s ashamed. Much like I am.

This is what freedom looks like…on the surface, anyway. Scratch just a little deeper, and it's something else entirely.

But this is all no strings. No guilt. No awkward goodbyes. Just a mutual fun and a high thread count. Until I look in the mirror, anyway.

I pad across the marble floor, grab a glass of water, and peer out at the Manhattan skyline.

With the merger going through, I'll have more money and more ways to spend it, and absolutely no one breathing down my neck.

It’s all mine, money, power, freedom. No strings. No drama. No consequences.

At least, that’s the story I’ve been trying so hard to tell myself.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, loud and insistent.

I squint at it.

Only one person calls me like it’s a moral obligation. My brother, Valentino.

I groan as

I swipe to answer, putting the call on speaker as I stretch again, arms wide.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Valentino snaps without preamble.

Not a hello. Not even a grunted insult. Just rage. Pure, uncut, big brother rage.

I blink, still half asleep. “Didn’t what?”

“There’s a leak, Alessio. A fucking leak tying you to the Bratva. Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

That word.

Bratva.

A jolt of ice runs down my spine. “Come again?”

“Apparently, you already did. With Mikhail Orlov’s daughter.”

I freeze mid-step, staring at the reflection of my very naked, very irresponsible self in the glass.

My heart thuds once. Hard.

Shit.

Her.

“Look,” I start, suddenly way too sober, “I didn’t know who she was.”

“You should’ve. You think this is a joke? Life is not a casino, Alessio. There's no jackpot waiting at the end of this mess. If this hits the press before the merger finalizes—”

“It won’t.” I sound more confident than I feel.

There’s a long pause. Heavy, barely restrained fury in Valentino’s silence.

“You’ve got one shot to fix this. Prestige boardroom. Now.”

The call ends with a sharp click, like a damn execution.

I stare at the phone for a second longer, then toss it onto the bed, right between my two regrets from last night, who stir as if they can sense the mood has shifted.

The brunette—Jenna? Janet? Jessica?—blinks up at me first, hair a halo of tangles and mascara smudged like war paint. “That didn’t sound like a morning-after playlist.”

“Work call.” I grab my watch off the dresser and strap it on like armor.

Cassie, Courtney, or whatever the blonde’s name is, stretches with a feline smile. “You’ve got that ‘uh-oh, Daddy’s mad’ look.”

I laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “Daddy is mad. And unfortunately, he owns half the sandbox.”

Jenna-Jessica props herself on an elbow, watching me dress with amusement. “Anything we can do to relieve your stress?”

I shoot her a wink. “Maybe later.”

But I already know that if I have any say in it, I’ll never see them again.

They giggle like this is all some kind of sexy sitcom, and for a second, I let them think it is. But inside, the knot in my gut is tightening.

I put on a black button-up and shove my feet into leather loafers.

I might play fast and loose, but I don’t show up looking like it.

Valentino’s last words echo in my head. I have one shot to fix this. Which, knowing him, is already one more than I deserve.

And he is right. I don’t deserve any of the chances my family keeps giving me.

I grab my phone, keys, and the last shreds of my dignity.

“Walk yourselves out, will you, ladies?”

I head for the door not waiting for a reply.

The elevator doors slide open, and I stroll into the Prestige building like I own the damn place. Confidence, even when it’s fake, is half the game.

The receptionist doesn’t even try to stop me. Smart girl. She probably got the memo: Marchetti incoming. Handle with care.

I push through the glass doors into the boardroom and every head turns.

Valentino’s already seated, as are Denver and a couple of suits from PR and finance.

But standing near the window, arms crossed, eyes full of disappointment and fury, is my father.

He must have flown in after hearing the news.

Valentino doesn’t say a word. Just pins me with a look that says, “Say something stupid and I swear to God.”

I offer a charming grin and take one of the two last empty chairs.

“Nice of you to join us,” my father says coolly, his accent sharp enough to slice glass. “You make time for family business in between your… hobbies?”

I lean back in my chair. “I came as fast as I could. Which, as some people might say, is sort of my thing.”

Nobody laughs.

Tough crowd.

Valentino clears his throat, and it’s the sound of patience on its last leg. “We need to know exactly what happened.”

I lift my hands. “Okay, so yes. I slept with a woman. Gorgeous. Amazing dancer. Probably could’ve made me confess state secrets if she tried. I met her at a private club, we hit it off, had a night. I didn’t ask for her father’s résumé.”

Denver, quiet until now, leans forward. “You didn’t recognize the Bratva’s princess?”

“Do I look like someone who studies mafia family trees? It was a one-night thing. So, I hooked up with the boss's daughter. You’re acting like I started a war.”

My father slams his fists on the table. The kind of dramatic slam you save for betrayals and big reveals.

“You might have. You had sex with the daughter of Mikhail Orlov. Do you understand what that means? To make matters worse, shareholders will panic, and bank accounts will freeze when regulatory agencies come sniffing around.”

I raise a brow. “So, that’s a no on the stock options?”

I know I’m being an ass, but I can’t stop myself.

“You never think.” My father tosses a thick file onto the table. “This is what happens when you live like rules don’t apply to you.”

I glance at the folder. Photos, timelines, names. Damage control in a manila cover.

“The merger is fragile,” Valentino says. “Investors get wind of a Bratva tie, they’ll pull out faster than you did with Orlov’s daughter.”

My father steps forward, his voice steady but cold. “Effective immediately, you’re cut off. No accounts. No penthouse. No family funds. Six months. You prove you’re not a liability or you come back to Tuscany. For good.”

My mouth opens, then shuts.

I want to crack a joke, to deflect. But something in my father’s eyes stops me.

This isn’t posturing. This is exile.

I push back my chair slowly, standing with the same swagger I always wear. My armor.

“Guess it’s time to learn how the other half lives.”

But my heart pounds like it’s already packing its bags for Italy.

I keep my shoulders squared as I stride out of the boardroom, but every step feels heavier than the last.

I’ve never been cut off before. Never been without a parachute. No credit cards. No penthouse. No safety net.

The words echo in my head like a bad song on repeat.

“Six months?” I mutter as the elevator doors close. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

I pull out my phone to text my assistant. Except, right. She was paid through the family account.

“Shit.”

Down in the lobby, the receptionist from earlier looks up at me with wide, curious eyes.

I give her a smirk on instinct, but it’s more autopilot than charm now.

She blushes, and I walk past without a word.

Outside, the city blares on. Horns, sirens, the usual New York chaos.

More than ever, I don’t feel like the untouchable king of it all. I feel... exposed.

My phone buzzes. No caller ID. Just a single message.

It’s only a matter of time.