Page 5

SOPHIE

I slams my laptop shut with a sharp clap that echoes off the kitchen walls. “How the hell am I supposed to fix this?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp and bitter.

My fingers tap out a frantic rhythm against the marble island, my head thumping like my brain is trying to organize the mess I’ve just inherited.

I don’t get a second to breathe.

Because of course, right on cue, he strolls in. Shirtless, smug, muscles cut from marble, that dangerous V taper vanishing beneath a towel slung sinfully low on his hips.

He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make twice.

His chest is broad and sculpted, a perfect canvas of golden skin stretched over hard muscle.

Every ripple of his abs tightens with each lazy step, the kind of definition you only see in magazines of oil-drenched Calvin Klein ads.

His biceps flex slightly as he runs a hand through his hair, and my eyes, traitorous, trail lower.

The towel rides low on his hips, clinging like a whisper, barely hiding the promise underneath. And God help me, there’s a visible bulge straining against the fabric, leaving very little to imagination.

Either way, it’s criminal.

Alessio. Fucking. Marchetti.

He’s the human equivalent of gasoline on fire. And I’m the idiot holding the match.

“Don’t mind me, dolcezza , just taking a shower.”

I blink. “What did you just call me?”

He pauses mid-step, towel still slung low.

“ Dolcezza .” He keeps his voice slow and deliberate, with a wicked grin. “Italian. Means sweetness. Fitting for all the ‘sweet’ vibes you’re throwing around, don’t you think?”

I stare at him, unblinking. “Are you calling me grumpy? Because I’m not grumpy. I’m furious. There's a difference.”

He chuckles, cocky and unbothered. “Sure there is. And I’m just here to moisturize and bring positive vibes.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You wound me, dolcezza .” He presses a hand to his chest. His bare, sculpted, obscenely defined chest. As if I’ve actually injured him.

I roll my eyes and turn back to my laptop. “Right. Like you need anyone else to feed your giant ego.”

He turns to head back to his room. “I’ll show you what else is giant... in bed.”

I freeze, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

He doesn’t wait for my comeback. Just a flash of his grin, and he's gone.

The bastard.

I yank open my laptop again and dive back into the madness.

Crisis PR isn’t about spin. It’s about survival. And right now, I’m not just managing Alessio’s reputation, I’m trying to keep a billion-dollar merger from crumbling into ashes.

Tabs pile across my screen. Media contacts, Mafia-related crisis case files, curated campaigns dressed up as charity work that barely concealed the violence beneath.

I’m building a narrative from scratch. Alessio Marchetti: misunderstood heir turned responsible citizen. A redemption arc wrapped in Armani.

Charity events, strategic photo ops, faux-humbled statements drafted with surgical precision.

I even sketch out a potential alliance angle with the Bratva, subtle gestures of unity without ever admitting guilt. Perception is everything.

My phone buzzes with multiple texts. I can already see a couple of notifications.

Dad :

“ETA on investor-facing press release?”

Valentino :

“Need updates. Damage window shrinking.”

I ignore them. I need five goddamn minutes to think.

I scroll through my drafted bullet points again, pulse climbing.

Alessio’s face flashes in my mind. Cocky, careless, shirtless, with that infuriatingly muscled chest, sculpted biceps, those veiny forearms and rippled abs that should be illegal. And for a split second, my strategy wavers.

Focus, Sophie.

Because if I don’t control this narrative, someone else will. And it won’t end with bad press. It’ll end in blood.

He walks out of the bathroom, still damp from the shower, water sliding down his sculpted chest and carving paths along the ridges of his abs. A pair of low-hanging gray sweats clings to his hips, showcasing the dangerous dip of his V-line like it was stitched by the devil himself.

Every muscle on display seems carved to tempt, and I’m acutely aware I’ve just lost the thread of my thoughts.

No shirt. No shame. His hair is wet, dark strands curling slightly over his forehead, giving him that tousled, post-shower model look. Careless, cocky, and far too tempting for confined spaces.

I snap my laptop shut again, maybe for the third time today, and march into the living room.

“That’s it,” I announce, hands on hips. “We’re re-establishing house rules.”

Alessio flops lazily onto the couch, arms spread along the back like he owns the place.

“Should I take notes?” His voice is thick with amusement.

“Rule one: no girls.”

“Jealous already?” He grins, one brow raised.

I ignore him. “Rules two and three: no sneaking out, no fighting, no suspicious phone calls at weird hours. This apartment is on lockdown.”

He stretches his legs out, all lean muscle and cocky ease. “You’re adorable when you’re in control and those are three rules by the way.”

“Rule four: don’t touch my things.”

His grin sharpens. “Even your—”

“ Especially my underwear.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, gaze hot and lazy. “Just checking.”

"Rule five: wear a damn shirt if you're going to saunter around the apartment."

"Yeah, rule five is not happening."

I fold my arms tightly. “Rule six: no sex.”

He whistles low, mock-impressed. “With anyone, or... just me?”

I glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I’m extremely flattered.” He pushes to his feet and walks closer, until the air between us goes molten.

“But, Sophie,” he murmurs, voice like smoke, “some rules are meant to be broken.”

I refuse to step back. I’ve handled worse.

Right?

The heat between my legs has other ideas.

***

Later that evening, we’re seated across from each other at the dining table, a minefield of schedules, PR frameworks, and investor deliverables spread between us. My laptop is open again, its screen glowing like an interrogation lamp, but that’s not what has me squirming in my seat.

It’s him .

Alessio leans back in his chair, loose-limbed and too damn relaxed for someone whose entire life is dangling by a thread.

He watches me with that lazy, amused gaze like he knows I’m fighting not to look at his bare chest again.

Or his mouth. Or the vein that traces down his forearm as he drags a finger across the table, slowly, like he’s tracing an invisible path to where my composure ends.

I clear my throat. “You’re expected at the children’s foundation gala Friday night. You’ll shake hands, take photos, say something that won’t get you arrested.”

“Charming the masses. Got it.” He smirks. “Should I wear a halo or just the tux?”

“Whichever hides the horns.” I scroll through the draft itinerary.

He chuckles. “Careful, dolcezza. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“It wasn’t.” My words came out too fast.

His gaze sharpens, not mocking this time. Curious. Like he’s peeling me apart, layer by layer, looking for the soft center I buried a long time ago.

My chest tightens.

I don’t need this. I don’t need him .

“You ever stop performing?” I refuse to even look up. “Is this who you really are, or just a defense mechanism with abs?”

His breath hitches before he answers. Not much, just enough to confirm I struck something beneath that smug exterior.

He doesn’t answer right away.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and alive.

Then he says, softly, “Why do you care who I really am?”

I freeze.

My pulse spikes.

That is the question, isn’t it? But the truth is, I do. And that’s the problem.

A sharp, deliberate knock slices through the quiet.

We both freeze.

I'm not expecting any visitors this late.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, instinct tightening my spine.

Alessio’s head lifts, all that lazy swagger instantly vanishing as he rises from the table.

More knocks, two, maybe three, measured and heavy. Not impatient. Not friendly.

“Stay back,” Alessio says, voice suddenly low, serious.

I nod, swallowing hard as he crosses the room with quiet urgency.

He checks the peephole, stiffens. Doesn’t say a word.

But I can read it on his face. This isn’t a pizza delivery.

He unlocks the door but doesn’t open it all the way, just enough to block most of the view with his body.

A gust of cold air slips inside, sharp as the tension rippling through the room.

A man in a long, black coat stands in the hall. Slick hair. Sharp jaw. Russian, by the look of him.

Bratva.

Without a word, he slides a thin envelope into Alessio’s hand.

“This is your final warning,” he says, his thick Russian accent curling around each word, voice smooth and chilling.

Then he turns and walks away.

The door shuts with a soft click that feels deafening.

“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out too high, too thin.

Alessio stares at the envelope for a second too long.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” His voice is tight, the usual arrogance edged with something heavier.

His fingers flex once around the envelope before he shoves it into his back pocket, as if burying the fear along with the warning.

But his jaw is tight. His eyes darker than usual.

And I know, I'm in over my head.