Page 6

ALESSIO

I shut the door with a solid thud, the sound echoing louder than it should.

My palm lingers on the handle, like holding it will somehow stop the storm I just let in.

The envelope weighs in my pocket. Ticking. Like it's waiting to explode.

Sophie stands a few feet back. Her arms are folded tight, her jaw set in that way that says she’s two seconds from snapping. Her eyes, sharp and demanding, slice through me.

“Who the hell was that? He looked Russian. Bratva, right?”

I don’t answer right away. I can’t. There's no witty or sarcastic comment to help deescalate this situation. To erase what she saw.

My brain’s still processing the man’s words, the way he looked at me. At her. Like we were already dead men walking.

My shoulders tense, breath caught halfway in my throat. A chill scrapes down my spine, cold and crawling, like I’ve just stared down a loaded gun and realized it’s aimed at her instead of me.

She steps closer, noticing my silence. Her voice softens, laced with something dangerously close to worry. “Alessio?”

My name sounds different coming from her lips. Like she’s scared but hoping I’ll give her a reason not to be.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, heading toward the hallway.

“It didn’t look fine. He knew where I live. Where I sleep.”

And where I’ve been sleeping just down the hall. Where I’ve been watching you walk around in those tight skirts like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.

“I’ve got it handled.” I keep my voice firm, but I'm lying.

Sophie might not have noticed, but there’s a crack in my voice.

Because, the truth? I don’t have a damn thing handled.

I stalk down the hall to my room and shove the door shut behind me, not bothering with the lock. It’s not protection I need. It’s control.

And I’m losing my grip on that fast.

The envelope is still in my pocket but feels fused to my skin.

I pull it out, sit on the edge of the bed, and tear it open, heart pounding hard enough to blur the edges of my vision.

Inside is another note. No handwriting this time. Just typed letters, spaced out with precision like they were designed to chill the blood.

No one is safe. We will always find you.

My jaw tightens.

This is the third warning, and it’s not subtle. The tone has changed, no more clever threats or ominous hints. This is direct. Deliberate. Dangerous.

I stare at the words, pulse throbbing in my ears.

When things escalate with Mikhail Orlov like this… it ends in blood.

I saw what happened to the guys caught between Bratva factions when loyalties fractured. They didn’t just vanish. They were made examples of.

I squeeze the paper in my hand and shove it deep into the drawer of the nightstand. Out of sight. But not out of mind.

Sophie has no idea what she’s really stepped into. The way she looked at me out there, confused, scared…I can’t get it out of my head.

And showing up here. At her door. Getting her involved with my mess. Making it personal.

Fuck that.

I can’t let this touch her.

I leave my room.

Her eyes flash as I veer toward the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” She steps into my path.

I don’t slow down. Can’t.

My pulse is already pounding like a war drum.

“Don’t do anything reckless, Alessio. Please.” Her hand catches my wrist as her voice softens. “You think punching some Bratva thug is going to fix this? Because it won’t. It'll only make things worse.”

I pause. Just enough to look at her. At the fear flickering behind all that fire in her eyes.

“I’m not doing it to fix anything,” I growl. “I’m doing it because he came to your door.”

Her grip falters.

I don’t pull away. I let the silence hang. Heavy. Electric.

“Do you even hear yourself?” she whispers. “This isn’t about pride. This is about staying alive.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You should be.”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “I’m not afraid of the Bratva. But the idea of them thinking they can touch you?”

She inhales sharply. Her lips part, but no words come out.

I pull free. “You don’t get to be my collateral damage.”

Then I open the door.

“Don’t wait up.”

I don’t even think, I just move.

When the elevator dings on the first floor and the doors open, the Bratva thug is still in the lobby, all casual confidence and smug indifference like he didn’t just threaten my entire fucking life.

I cross the marble floor in a blur, grabbing him by the collar before he can blink.

“You think you can come to her door?” I slam him against the nearest wall.

His smirk doesn’t budge. Bastard enjoys this.

“That was the point. Message. Delivered.”

I punch him. Hard.

His head snaps back, hitting the wall behind him.

But he doesn’t crumble. Just straightens his suit like he’s brushing off lint.

“Temper, temper.” He spits blood onto the floor.

Security barrels in, two guys yelling, hands already on radios.

I step back, raise my hands.

The enforcer smooths a wrinkle from his lapel and shoots me a final glance. “You should listen better, Marchetti. Some people don’t get to hear the final warning.”

Then he turns and walks out like we’re done here.

We’re not.

Not by a fucking long shot.

I storm back into the apartment, slamming the door behind me so hard the frame shudders.

Sophie’s pacing the kitchen, arms crossed so tightly across her chest she might crack a rib.

The second she sees me, fist bruised, knuckles tinged in blood, fire flashes in her eyes.

“You hit him? Are you insane? That was the Bratva, Alessio!”

I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the counter. “He showed up at your door. What was I supposed to do, invite him in for espresso?”

“They called up from the lobby. You punched a Bratva enforcer in front of building security!”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see anyone else doing anything about it.”

She throws her hands in the air. “Well, congratulations. You’ve just made my job impossible. Again. Now I'll have to do more damage control.”

She gets on her phone, fingers swiping, then typing frantically. "We're lucky. Security says there were no outside pictures or videos taken at the time of the incident."

My jaw clenches. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

She huffs, spins on her heel, then whips back around with a glare sharp enough to slice through steel.

“Do you even think before you act? This isn’t just your mess anymore. I’m in it. We’re in it. You dragging the Bratva into this apartment puts us both in danger.”

She stomps toward me, face to face and close enough for me to feel the warmth of her breath.

My fists clench at my sides, tension vibrating through every muscle like I’m one second away from exploding. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t seen what they do when they feel disrespected?”

She blinks.

“I’ve seen what happens when they want to make a point, Sophie. Blood. Warnings. Families wiped off the map.”

The realization hits me full force.

Fuck. I really am an idiot.

She goes quiet. Not from fear. But because she gets it now.

Still, she doesn’t back down. “Then why the hell are you provoking them?”

I look at her. Really look at her. “Because he came to you . That’s not business. That’s personal.”

The room vibrates with silence.

Our argument slams into a wall, neither of us can push through, and what’s left behind is heat. Thick. Breathless. Alive.

Sophie’s chest rises and falls, her eyes locked on mine, both of us breathing like we just went ten rounds.

We’re standing too close, close enough I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough I can smell her perfume, sharp and addictive.

“Are you always this bossy, dolcezza ?” My voice is low, the kind of low that drags against skin like silk and sin.

“Only when idiots put me in impossible positions.”

A beat passes.

Another.

I should walk away. I should do a hundred smart things.

Instead, I let my eyes drop, trace the shape of her lips, the flush rising along her throat, the tremble in her fingers that doesn’t match the fire in her glare.

She sees it. Feels it.

But neither of us moves.

The pull is magnetic. Dangerous.

I inch forward, just enough to see if she’ll flinch.

She doesn’t. If anything, she leans in.

My mouth is a breath from hers.

And then… she steps back.

And I do, too.

The moment fractures.

The tension doesn’t disappear. It coils, tight and waiting.

I turn, jaw tight, every nerve in my body screaming to go back and close that distance. But I don’t.

Not yet.

She watches me leave, eyes unreadable.

But I know she feels it, too.

The echo of something we almost did.

Something we’re both still thinking about.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answers I’m too stubborn to admit I need.

My knuckles still sting, my adrenaline’s finally crashing, and the silence is loud in a way that messes with my head.

I thought I could coast through this. Smile. Charm. Pretend the threat wasn’t real. That I wasn’t dragging someone else into my mess.

But then I saw her pacing that kitchen, fire in her eyes, and fear just beneath the surface.

And it hit me harder than that bastard’s smirk ever could.

This isn’t just about me anymore.

And fuck, that’s terrifying.

Because Sophie?

She’s everything I’m not. Controlled. Strategic. Cold when she needs to be. She keeps her emotions caged behind those killer stilettos and sharp comebacks.

But I’ve seen through it. Seen the way her hands shake just slightly when she thinks no one’s watching. The way she exhales like the weight of the world’s pressing on her ribs.

I’ve known a lot of women. Slept with even more. But none of them ever made me care what happens to them when I walk out the door.

None of them ever made me feel this unsteady.

And maybe that’s what scares me most.

Because if anything happens to her, especially if it is because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

My phone buzzes, screen lighting up, daring me to look.

A call, not a text.

Whatever it is, I know it will just add another reason to keep me awake.

I take a deep breath and look at it.

Nikolai Sokolov.

I don’t really want to, but I answer.

“I heard what happened. That guy? He wasn’t sent by us.”

I sit up straighter. “What?”

“He wasn’t authorized. Some of the lower men are getting restless, playing power games. But I’ve handled it.”

Nikolai’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge I don’t miss.

We go back to before he climbed ranks in the Bratva. Back when he was just another cocky bastard with a killer poker face and a sharper tongue.

We used to run in the same circles. Parties, girls, high-stakes poker in backrooms of clubs that smelled like money and blood.

He was always the quiet one. The one who watched, waited, and struck when you least expected it. Now he’s got power and connections that make his words carry weight.

Nikolai is one of the few men in New York I can trust with my life. I just don't ask any favors from him because I know the favors he wants in return usually mean someone is ending up dead.

Relief slips in, but it’s too hollow, and fades away as Nikolai adds, “If you really want to shut this down, you’re going to have to show your face. Publicly. Make an appearance at my charity event. Let everyone see there’s no bad blood.”

My stomach knots.

A public appearance.

I need Sophie at my side. That's if she's on board with this.

It won’t just be a statement, it’ll be an invitation. For scrutiny. For consequences.

I stare down at the bruised skin of my knuckles and the envelope still sitting on the nightstand.

“I’ll bring a plus one.”