Page 3

SOPHIE

“Anyone but him.”

The words pulse like a war drum in my chest.

I storm into boardroom A, heels slicing the silence with every step.

The floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light, but all I can focus on is the storm gathering inside me.

Alessio Marchetti.

Of all the disasters I could be facing this morning, it had to be him.

I haven’t seen him since that night, the one we both pretend never happened. And now? Now I’m expected to manage the fallout from his latest scandal?

How am I supposed to do that?

I stop at the far end of the boardroom, arms crossed so tight they might leave bruises. My pulse races so hard I can feel it in my ears.

Then he strolls in.

Late, of course. Smug, like always. And looking like every woman’s bad decision wrapped in a tailored navy suit and that infuriating smirk that used to make my knees weak. Now it just makes me want to hurl my laptop across the room, preferably right at his smug, perfect face.

He slides into the seat directly across from me like he owns the damn room, like we don’t have a history soaked in heat and regret.

God, why does he have to look better now?

His jaw is sharper. His shoulders broader, the tailored fabric of his suit jacket clinging to a body built for sin with his sculpted chest, tapered waist, and the kind of strength that speaks of both privilege and punishment.

Even the way he rolls his sleeves is a personal attack, slow, deliberate, revealing just enough forearm to send a jolt down my spine.

I hate that I notice. Hate that my body tightens like it remembers too much, too fast.

But no matter how much I try lying to myself, my traitorous body remembers everything about that night. The way his hand slid up my thigh. The low growl in his throat. The way I forgot every reason I ever had to hate him.

I force my gaze away and fix it on the men seated at the table.

Valentino has his arms folded and jaw clenched.

Enzo Marchetti, the Marchetti patriarch, commands attention with his steely composure.

His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back with precision, and his tailored charcoal suit does nothing to soften the cold authority in his eyes.

He looks like the kind of man who built an empire with bare hands and zero tolerance for mistakes.

My father stands opposite of him, studying his notes like this is just another Thursday.

Then there's Denver, my brother, already looking like he wants to disappear under the table.

But not Alessio. No, he’s perfectly at ease. The bastard.

Enzo’s voice cuts through the tension like a guillotine. “The situation is worse than we thought.”

Everyone stills.

“The Bratva know. And while they haven’t retaliated, yet , that’s only because of James.”

My gaze flicks to my father, who doesn’t look up from his notes. Of course. He’s always been a man with secrets. And contacts.

Denver nods. “He’s worked with them before. PR cleanups. Quiet media buys. He’s got dirt. Leverage. And, for now, they’re letting this simmer instead of boiling. They owe him. Or at least, they’re wary of what he knows.”

He looks around until his eyes meet mine.

“But if the rumors about Alessio and Mikhail Orlov's daughter go public, if even a whiff of it reaches rival syndicates, the Bratva will have no choice. They’ll act.”

Valentino nods, tight-lipped. “They won’t risk looking weak.”

“They can’t ,” Enzo says. “Letting something like this slide sets a dangerous precedent. If they don’t respond, it’s a sign. To every other crime family. Every enemy. That they can be pushed without consequence. That their leadership is compromised.”

My mouth goes dry.

Enzo shakes his head. “They won’t just come for Alessio to punish him. They’ll do it to make a statement. One that keeps them feared.”

This is so much worse than I thought.

This isn’t just a scandal.

This is a spark. One that could ignite and burn everything to the ground. Because this is the mafia, and if they declare war,

if the Bratva retaliates, the Marchetti name bleeds. The merger dies. Investors bolt. But if the Marchettis make a bold move, or try to shield Alessio too obviously, the Bratva's response will be even more violent.

My father finally speaks, calm and cool. “Which is why we need to control the narrative now. Pre-empt the exposure before it becomes public. Before it becomes lethal .”

Alessio’s eyes burn as they focus on my face. I don’t look back.

Enzo turns his piercing gaze to me, and my spine goes ramrod straight.

“Sophie will manage the crisis.”

This is no news, of course, but still, the words land like a slap in the face.

For a moment, silence swallows the room. Even Alessio stills.

My father doesn’t meet my eyes. Denver shifts in his chair like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. Valentino exhales through his nose, jaw locked like he’s barely holding in his opinion.

One night. One mistake. And now I’m supposed to babysit the man who almost ruined me?

Alessio is the first to speak, of course.

“Well, isn’t that a twist of fate?” Voice lazy, eyes sharp. “You sure you can handle me, princess?”

I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms. My voice comes out low, tight. “You should be more concerned about whether you can handle me.”

The heat crawling up my neck isn’t embarrassment, it’s rage. My pride and professionalism are being strangled by a name I swore I’d never say out loud again.

I turn to my father. “I don’t think this is a good idea. There are too many conflicts of interest. We should assign someone else.”

He finally lifts his gaze, calm and unreadable. “You’re the best person for this.”

No room for argument. Just a verdict passed down like law.

And I know he’s right. That’s what makes it worse.

I nod once, the motion stiff and mechanical. “Fine.”

But I swear, if Alessio so much as winks at me again, I'll do something I'm going to regret.

Alessio leans back in his chair like this is all one big inconvenience rather than a matter of life and death. “So, what? You want me to go into hiding? Camp out in some safe house until this blows over?”

Enzo doesn’t flinch. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”

My eyes narrow.

That tone from Enzo? That’s the setup for something brutal.

Valentino folds his hands in front of him, his voice cool. “You’ve been cut off remember. You can't afford any more luxuries.”

The room tilts.

Alessio laughs, like it’s some elaborate joke. “Wait. You’re serious?”

Valentino doesn’t crack a smile. “We’re not risking the merger to protect your lifestyle.”

“But—”

Enzo shoots him a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

My father shuffles a couple of papers. “We’ve already arranged temporary housing. Company-owned. Secure. Discreet.”

He says the next part like it’s a casual suggestion.

“You’ll be staying with Sophie.”

I swear my soul tries to exit my body.

“What in the actual fuck? Absolutely not.”

My father doesn’t blink. "It’s the best solution. It keeps Alessio protected, maintains proximity for damage control, and most importantly, it ensures that the media don’t catch wind of anything suspicious."

“The best solution? You’re handing me a live grenade and telling me to cradle it like a baby. Why can't he stay with Denver?"

Denver clears his throat. “My place isn’t an option. Not with Clara pregnant."

Valentino’s already shaking his head. “Not a chance.”

I look back at my father, my voice deadly calm but barely leashed. “You expect me to share a living space with him ?

You really think this is the best we can do? That I should just play babysitter while he lounges around and turns my apartment into a brothel?"

I turn to Alessio, "What do you actually do all day aside from taking up useful space?"

Alessio clutches his chest. "Ouch."

My father exhales, measured. "You're not a babysitter. You're a crisis manager. And this crisis is yours to contain. Besides

you’re both adults. I trust you'll keep everything professional.”

Professional? I’ve seen that man naked.

Alessio smirks, apparently enjoying every second of my spiraling horror. “This is starting to sound fun.”

I cross my arms and exhale hard enough to fog glass. “Fine. But if I wake up to stripper glitter on the kitchen counter or find out you’ve tried to install a pole in the living room, you are out the door faster than you can blink, and you can find someone else to save your sorry ass.”

Alessio’s brow arches, amused. “No promises.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “Bring one woman to that apartment... Stapler. Your dick. Wall.”

His grin widens. “Kinky. You always this welcoming to houseguests?”

“You are not a guest, you are a chore, a nuisance.”

He leans back like he’s settling into a throne, flashing that smirk that makes me want to throw a stapler at his face. “Can’t wait, roommate .”

The others shift, moving on to next steps like this is all perfectly normal.

But I stay frozen in place, locked in a silent standoff across the table.

For one flickering second, the smirk fades. His expression cracks just enough to show a glimpse of something else, something tired. Hollow. Real.

And damn it, I wish I hadn’t seen it.