Page 7

SOPHIE

“This is not what I signed up for.” Tension coils in my chest, tight and unforgiving.

I stare out the living room window, arms crossed so tightly they hurt, jaw clenched until it aches.

The city looks the same. Cars blurring by, people rushing along the sidewalk, all oblivious to the fact that a Bratva enforcer showed up at my apartment less than twenty-four hours ago.

When my phone buzzes with an incoming call, I don’t even have to look.

My father. He knows. And this is him being his version of reassuring.

Him calling me should comfort me. It doesn’t. Because I know what he’ll say. That he’ll handle it.

And I know he can, because of how influent he is.

But I also know why he has this much influence.

And that makes me sick.

I sigh and swipe to answer, pacing the length of the window. “Unless you’re calling to say it was all a bad dream, don’t bother.”

“Nice to hear your voice too, sunshine. I’ve already arranged for additional security cameras at your building. Nothing like that will happen again.”

Right. I want to roll my eyes, even if he can’t see it. “Comforting.”

“I know you don't agree with everything I do. But Mikhail Orlov knows better than to cross a man who’s protected their interests for a decade.”

Like that erases everything. Like the fact that he’s built a career alongside the same criminals who had the audacity to send a warning to my front door is supposed to make me feel protected, not like a pawn in someone else's dangerous game.

I keep silent, but he doesn’t.

"They know better than to touch someone I love.”

That word, love, lands wrong. Like it’s meant to mean something. Like he still gets to use it when it comes to me. Like it ever meant anything to him.

There’s something in his tone, though. A flicker of guilt, maybe.

Or maybe I’m just imagining things because I want so badly for him to feel something about this.

About me.

I press two fingers to my temple. “So, you’re the reason I’m supposed to feel safe now? And what? That should make me want to forgive everything else?”

There’s a pause, long enough to make me wonder if he’s going to say something real.

"Just stay focused, Sophie. We both want the same thing here.”

I hang up without replying.

But just because I hate him, doesn’t mean I can’t be grateful for everything he's doing.

I glance around the apartment. The tension palpates from the walls.

It used to feel like a refuge. Now it’s a minefield. One wrong step, one wrong look, and everything could blow up.

And then there’s him .

Sharing this space with Alessio Marchetti is a special kind of punishment.

Because no matter how many times I remind myself he’s a walking headline, a chaos bomb in designer shoes, I can’t seem to stop noticing the moments where he’s not the man I thought he was.

The cracks in that reckless facade of his.

That’s the real danger.

It’s late afternoon, and I’m lounging at the kitchen island, no bra, no plans, just caffeine and damage control on the agenda.

I decided to cancel all appointments and meetings today after the incident in the lobby.

The sunlight pours through the windows, warm against my bare legs.

I cradle my second cup of coffee, skimming the email E had sent me days ago, on my tablet. I swivel on the bar stool when footsteps sound behind me.

Alessio strolls in like he's lived in this apartment longer than I have, shirtless, sleep-tousled hair, that permanent smirk carved across his face. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his obliques and that maddening V that disappears into fabric barely doing its job.

For a moment, my breath stalls, my heart skittering in my chest, as if trying to escape the heat building inside me.

Damn you, hormones, get your shit together.

His eyes rake over me slowly. Too slowly.

“You always dress like this for strategy meetings?” he drawls, reaching for a mug like this is the most natural thing in the world.

My breath catches. Shit.

I remember my own rule. No wandering around half-naked.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I hug the coffee closer to my chest, as if it can somehow protect me from my own hormones.

But my voice lacks bite. It sounds breathy. Weak.

And the worst part? He knows it.

That smirk deepens. “Not flattering myself. Just taking notes. Seems we’re both bad at following rules.”

My cheeks burn.

I hate how self-conscious he makes me feel. I hate even more how my body doesn’t seem to give a damn what my brain is screaming.

Because if I’m not careful, this, him, us, whatever this pull is between us, might become a bigger threat than any Bratva enforcer.

I manage to wrench my gaze away from him and focus on the tablet again, this time swiping through files for the upcoming charity gala.

“About that event…” He settles into the barstool across from me like we’re just coworkers going over logistics and not... whatever this is.

“You think it’s a trap?”

I raise a brow. “You tell me. It’s your favorite flavor of chaos.”

He actually laughs, low, gravelly, warm.

“Nikolai’s not like the rest of them.”

My skepticism must be all over my face because he leans in slightly, elbows braced on the counter, expression unexpectedly earnest.

“I mean it. He’s sharp. Loyal. Keeps his word.”

“You trust a Bratva boss?” My brow arches higher.

“I do. He’s... different.”

There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Back when I was a little too deep into poker nights and parties I shouldn’t have been at, there was this situation.

Some idiot dealer laced the game. Cops got tipped off.

Nikolai took the fall. Lied straight to the cops, said it was his setup. Got me out of there clean.”

I blink.

It’s the most honest thing I’ve heard from Alessio since this whole mess started.

"And there was this one time he took a grenade for me."

"A grenade? What are you talking about?"

"An unattractive member of the opposite sex. Let's just say I came out unscathed, but I can't say the same for him." He chuckles.

"Oh god." I roll my eyes.

“He reminds me of your brother, Denver,” Alessio continues, a softer edge creeping into his voice.

“Back in high school, Denver always had my back, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“You sound like you’d trust Nikolai with your life.”

“I would. More than I trust most people with my money.”

That last line lands differently. Heavy. Unspoken meaning layered beneath it.

For a split second, I see something real in him, beneath the smirk, under the swagger. And I hate how it tugs at something in me. Something that wants to believe he’s not all bad.

We fall into a rhythm that feels too familiar. Combative, sharp, laced with tension.

“You’ve been dragging people into chaos since high school.” I don’t look up from the tablet, pretending to review the gala guest list.

Alessio lets out a low chuckle. “You weren’t complaining about my chaos back then.”

My head snaps up.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “That was a mistake.”

“Was it?” His voice is a little lower now, eyes locked on mine. He takes a slow step closer, a lion sizing up its prey. “Because I remember it differently.”

The air between us tightens, stretches.

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and I swear my heart stumbles.

That night ignites in my memory like gasoline meeting a match. Sudden, uncontrollable, searing through every coherent thought.

The heat of his body pressed against mine. The grip of his hands, firm, possessive, unforgettable. The hunger in his eyes that burned through every layer of restraint I had.

And the way I wanted him, desperately, stupidly.

My skin still remembers the phantom touch of his mouth on my neck, the scrape of his stubble across my collarbone, the wetness between my legs.

A night branded into memory, where I stopped thinking and let myself feel, even though I knew better.

I force myself to step back, grabbing a folder from the edge of the counter as shield. “Focus. This gala needs to go perfectly.”

He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t back off either. Just stands there with that maddening half-smile.

But I can feel it. His presence clinging to me even after I turn away. Gravity, pulling, always pulling.

The tension in the apartment stretches, a rubber band ready to snap.

I’m standing by the dining table now, sorting through the paper folders I'm using as a distraction from him.

Trying to act like I’m totally fine, like my hands aren’t shaking slightly from the way he looked at me just now.

Like I’m not still hearing the echo of his voice asking, “Was it?”

Alessio goes to the couch, sits, lounging, one ankle resting casually over his knee, and flips through a few documents I left out for him about the upcoming gala.

He’s doing that thing again. Watching me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. But I feel it, the weight of a spotlight on bare skin.

“You’re kind of hot when you’re not yelling, dolcezza ,” His voice is low, lazy.

I glance over my shoulder. “Don’t push me, Marchetti.”

He rises slowly, a predator closing in. Each step deliberate. Confident. Dangerous.

He stops just inches from me. “I’m not pushing. I’m stating facts. You, all buttoned-up and not spitting fire? That’s my favorite flavor.”

My pulse skitters, sharp and erratic, impossible to control. I will my breath to stay even, to not betray me.

But it does.

His gaze drifts downward.

I know what he’s thinking.

His body isn’t exactly subtle about it either. The outline of his cock strains against the fabric of those damn sweatpants,

I tear my eyes away before I do something I’ll regret.

“That’s your problem. Not mine.” I brush past him, folder clutched tightly to my chest.

But my face is on fire, and my body? My body wants things I’ve spent years trying to forget.

***

Later that night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of city traffic filtering in through the window.

The apartment is dark, quiet, but my mind won’t shut up.

Not after the way he looked at me.

Like he sees straight through every rule I’ve clung to. Like he knew all I needed was one push and I’d let it all go.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the image of him in his sweatpants, cocky smirk, stupidly chiseled abs out of my head.

But it lingers. It clings.

I’m supposed to keep my distance. Maintain control.

But with Alessio Marchetti, every breath feels like I’m tiptoeing across a wire strung over fire.

And the worst part?

I’m starting to think I want to jump.