Page 4

ALESSIO

The duffel bag stares at me, silent and smug, like it knows I’ve hit rock bottom.

I stare back, arms crossed, jaw tight.

It’s the first time in years I’ve had to pack my own damn clothes. No assistants, no concierge, no crisp shirts folded by someone paid to know the difference between Versace and Gucci. Just me, two hands, and a pile of wrinkled regret.

Six months, Alessio. Stay out of trouble or come home.

My father’s words echo in my head like a threat disguised as mercy.

And now, I’m being shipped off to some corporate-owned safe house like a scolded outcast on house arrest. And babysat— babysat —by the one woman I haven’t been able to forget.

The same woman I once had pressed against a hotel wall with her hands tangled in my hair as I whispered all the filthy things I wanted to do to her.

Sophie Henderson.

Of course, it’s her.

Because rock bottom wasn’t humiliating enough on its own.

I rummage through a pile of clothes on the bed. After finding a pair of forgotten lace panties, I drop a T-shirt, probably clean, into the duffel. Grabbing my phone, I prop it up on a stack of takeout containers on my dresser.

Luciana answers on the third ring, eyes immediately going wide as she takes in the disaster zone that is my room.

“Jesus, Les. Is this what exile looks like?” She brushes her dark curls over her shoulder with a dramatic shake of her head.

“Exile has room service.” I flop onto the edge of the bed. “Dad's got me grounded. You know, fewer amenities and a lot more judgment.”

She smirks. “Did you at least pack some clean underwear this time?”

“I figured I’d go commando. Keep life spicy.”

Luciana rolls her eyes, but there’s affection behind it. “So… is it true? You really hooked up with the Bratva boss’s daughter and got yourself cut off from the family fortune?”

I stretch back on my elbows, staring at the ceiling. “Yes and yes. Val filled you in, didn't he? No penthouse. No black card. I’m an ordinary peasant now.”

“And living with Sophie Henderson?” Her tone is half-wary, half-intrigued. “ The Sophie Henderson?”

I groan. “Yes, that Sophie.”

Luciana’s brows lift. “The same one you ghosted?”

“Luciana,” I warn. "Besides, the ghosting was mutual."

She shrugs. “What? I’m just saying, karma wears heels."

I rub a hand over my face. “It’s temporary. Six months. I keep my head down, play nice, and maybe, maybe, Dad lets me back into the kingdom.”

“Or maybe this is the universe telling you it’s time to grow the hell up.”

That one lands harder than I want to admit.

Luciana softens. “You’ve been lucky, Les. Too lucky. Maybe this time, you’re supposed to earn something real.”

That’s something I have wanted for so long.

But how do you do that? How do you prove to everyone else that you are more than just your father’s son?

More than your brother’s little screw-up brother?

My successes were never enough to outshine Val, never enough to make me be seen, to make me important.

Not even to myself.

So, it is easier to pretend I don’t care, to live life as a screw-up, life it big and say fuck you, world. Pocket daddy dearest’s money and just throw it away in parties and randos that leave me empty and hollow as each new day dawns.

But at least this way, they see me. Just not a good me. Not the real me. But I’m noticed.

I hate that it can’t be for the right reasons, that the right reasons aren’t enough, but still…

"Alright. Bye. It was nice talking to you too. Good luck in finding yourself in that town in the middle of nowhere," I tell her in a hurried voice.

I love my little sister but sometimes, I feel like she's too wise for her age.

She doesn't remember anything about our mother as she was too young when mom passed. So, she'd decided to move to some hick town thinking it would bring her closer to our mother. It's been more than a year since we saw each other in person.

God, I miss her.

Luciana signs off with a wink and a middle finger, and I’m left staring at my half-packed bag.

***

I arrive at the apartment with my duffel slung over my shoulder like I’m some college dropout showing up late for orientation. I'm greeted by the bellboy opening the door.

He slides a stick of gum into his breast pocket as a tip.

The grand foyer reeks of disinfectant and corporate sterility. Zero charm, zero fun, all business.

Perfect match for her.

I knock, sharp and deliberate.

The door swings open, and there she is.

Sophie Henderson.

Her dark hair’s pulled into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place. She’s wearing a black blazer over skintight leggings that leave nothing to the imagination, and trust me, my imagination is very active.

The curve of her hips strains against the fabric with a promise that doesn’t belong in any professional setting. The top two buttons of her blouse are undone, revealing a subtle hint of cleavage that nearly derails my brain.

She looks like the hottest disciplinary committee chair I’ve ever seen, and I’d happily accept detention.

“You’re late.” Her eyes sweep over me with the disdain of a woman who already regrets breathing the same air.

I smirk, shifting my weight onto one hip. “What can I say? Had to mourn the death of my platinum card.”

Her arms cross. That blazer pulls deliciously tight across her chest, revealing just enough of the swell of her cleavage to distract a lesser man. Hell, even a better one.

“Do not make this harder than it already is.”

“Too late, sweetheart. You opened the door, and every part of me stood at attention.”

And I’m not even lying.

Her glare could peel paint off the walls.

I step inside summoning all my will power to make it look like I own the place, even though technically, I’m squatting under duress.

The apartment is sleek with its cool-toned furniture, sterile lighting, and that vaguely feminine scent I’d bottle if I could. It’s all so very Sophie: curated, pristine, controlled…everything I’m not.

I’m chaos in a tailored jacket, and she’s the hurricane pretending to be a well-organized calendar.

And now I get to wreck it. Beautiful.

I toss my bag onto the floor, right in the middle of her perfect hallway.

“Which room’s mine, boss?” I drag the word out just to watch her flinch.

She spins on her heel, jaw locked. “Let’s get something straight.”

I lean against the wall, watching her like she’s the most fun I’ve had in days. “Oh, please do.”

“No girls. No parties. No drinking. No disappearing acts. No one in or out without my say-so. You don’t touch my things.

You don’t mess with my schedule. No loud music.

No sleeping all day. No shirtless lounging in common areas.

No excessive cologne. And if you even think about bringing a stray woman into this apartment—”

“What if she’s very clean?”

“Then I’ll staple your balls to the welcome mat.”

I grin. “God, I missed you and your obsession with my balls.”

She takes a breath, clearly restraining herself from throwing something sharp at my face. “I'm serious. This isn’t summer camp, Alessio. You’re not here to have fun.”

I saunter past her toward the kitchen. “Shame. I brought marshmallows.”

She follows me in, her steps sharp and angry. “And don’t touch my stuff.”

“Even your panties?” My eyes flick toward the hem of her blazer.

Her glare sharpens. “Try it. I dare you.”

We’re toe-to-toe now, the air between us charged and heavy.

Her pulse jumps at her throat.

Mine hammers beneath my smirk.

I could kiss her.

Shouldn’t.

Fuck, I want to. Crave it.

But not yet. Not like this.

So, I back up a step, shrugging. “You’re a real peach, Henderson.”

“And you’re a walking lawsuit.”

God, I’ve missed this.

The fire. The fight. The slow burn waiting to explode.

The silence in my room is louder than it should be.

I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the bed.

The mattress is firm. The sheets smell like detergent. The place feels sterile, temporary, like one of those upscale hotels where they pretend to be luxurious, just to distract you from how lonely you are.

I stare at the ceiling, one arm flung across my chest.

I’ve lived in penthouses with champagne on tap and an endless parade of willing distractions. But this? This is exile. A holding cell with high thread count.

And yet, something about being here makes me feel… what? Like I can breathe for the first time in years?

My fingers find the inside pocket of my jacket, and I pull out a small, folded piece of paper.

Just seeing it makes my stomach tighten.

It’s only a matter of time.

No return address. No signature. Just those six words, typed in bold, centered on the page like a threat waiting to become reality.

It was slipped under my penthouse door a few nights ago with no witnesses.

I told myself it was a prank. Some unhinged fan. But now? With the Bratva mess, the rumors, the timing…

I tuck it back into the pocket, burying it beneath the fabric like hiding it will make it go away.

It won’t.

I should tell someone. Valentino, maybe. Or Dad.

But they’d spin it into some security briefing, launch a surveillance team, turn me into a fucking liability on legs.

I already am one.

So, this would only escalate things. And they’d send me back home to Italy.

Then, there’s Sophie.

I close my eyes and exhale through my nose.

She’s the worst possible person to be around right now. Sharp-tongued, rule-obsessed, and immune to every charm I’ve ever used on a woman.

And yet… somehow, she’s the only one I wish would see the real me. Not the mess I show the world but the broken bits waiting to be put together.

She’s a complication I didn’t plan for. A distraction I'd love to explore.

But she doesn’t deserve all my baggage.

And if I’m honest with myself, if I’m not careful, she might wreck me more than whoever left that note.

I pad out into the kitchen barefoot, craving something cold to shut down the thoughts spiraling in my head.

The apartment’s dim now, the sky outside tinted that soft blue just before twilight. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

As I approach the living room, her voice reaches me.

“…and if we don’t get ahead of this, the entire narrative shifts. Understood?”

I slow at the edge of the hallway, just out of view.

Sophie sits on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, blazer tossed aside, a legal pad covered in frantic notes perched on her lap.

Her screen glows with faces, her team, probably, but it’s her I can’t stop watching.

She’s all sharp lines and steady control, but I see the way her fingers twitch when someone interrupts her. The quick shake of her head. The way she presses her lips together a little too tight when someone suggests a strategy she doesn’t like.

She’s unraveling, but only just.

The cracks are almost invisible, unless you know what to look for.

And I do.

The call ends. She exhales, slow and shaky, then notices me leaning against the doorway.

“What?” She runs a hand down her face.

I raise my hands in surrender. “Didn’t say anything.”

Her eyes narrow. “You were lurking.”

I step into the kitchen area. “I was grabbing something to drink. The lurking was a bonus.”

I reach for a glass from the cabinet.

The silence stretches, but not uncomfortably.

I turn to her. “You’re good at what you do.”

Her head snaps up.

I meet her eyes, allow her to see the truth in my words. “I mean it.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.

"Then don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

God, she’s beautiful, all vulnerable. I could get lost in her.

But she deserves better. So, I smirk.

“Too late. I’m very hard.”

She groans and turns away, muttering something about regretting all her life choices.

But I see the way her shoulders drop just slightly. The tiniest, reluctant smile ghosting at the corner of her lips.

An fuck me if I don’t want to see it in full bloom.

Maybe she needs this banter just as much as I do.

Maybe we’re both one bad decision away from something we can’t undo.

I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching her rise from the couch and saunter to her room.

Her ass bounces beneath the thin fabric of her leggings and a rush of blood has me swelling between my legs.

Fuck.

“This is going to be fun.” I keep my voice just low enough to hum across her skin even from here.

“This is war.”

My grin curves slow, deliberate. “I hope you like it dirty.”

She scoffs, storming off, but not before I catch the flicker in her eyes. Not fear. Not anger.

Interest.

And damn if that doesn’t light a fire in all the wrong places.

I watch her disappear into her room, that sway of her hips doing sinful things to my focus.

Because if this is war... I’m not sure I want to win.

But I’ll be the first one in line to bring on the fire.