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Chapter eighteen

Alessa

A giggle escapes me as the lock rewards me with a satisfying click. In just thirty minutes, I charmed Dominic’s impossibly strict cook into giving me access to the one place I’m definitely not supposed to be.

She caught me hunting for something sweet in the pantry after eating dinner alone. My fingers were inches from fancy Italian gelato when she swatted my hand with a wooden spoon. Early seventies with graying black hair and laugh lines framing shrewd brown eyes, her disapproval was immediate.

“Even Mr. Gianelli is not allowed in here,” she spat in Italian. “ Esci subito !” Get out right now!

I steady myself against the doorframe, pushing into the forbidden sanctuary. The room exhales its secrets—aged paper, dusty shelves, and the warm vanilla whisper of old books. My fingers fumble along the wall until I find the switch. A flood of golden light unveils my prize: Dominic’s private office.

I step inside, the alcohol in my veins making everything shimmer with possibility. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books—their spines worn, titles faded—create a strange intimacy. But what steals my breath is the collection of swords hanging on the far wall, each blade gleaming under the soft light with deadly perfection.

I force my mind away from whose blood they’ve drawn, whose lives they’ve ended. Instead, treacherous heat pools between my thighs as I imagine Dominic wielding them—all lethal grace and controlled power. Goddamn wine turning me into a horny captive with Stockholm syndrome.

“How the fuck did you get inside?” His gravelly voice slices through the quiet, making me flinch. The intercom—of course he’s watching. Of course he’s everywhere. My jailer, my shadow, my unwanted obsession.

“I’m talking to you,” he snaps when I don’t answer, his voice hardening with warning.

“God, you’re everywhere, aren’t you?” I roll my eyes, trailing fingers across leather spines, savoring each forbidden touch. 1984 by Orwell. Invisible Cities by Calvino. The Republic by Plato. The Intelligent Investor by Graham. A strange intimacy, touching what belongs to him.

“You’re trespassing in my office,” he accuses as I wander deeper, deliberately ignoring how his commanding voice stirs something in me. “How’d you find the key?”

“I befriended Rosaria and she asked Timmy to give me the key,” I confess, laughing softly. “Well, she threatened him while feeding me dessert. Did you know she knew my mom? She said she taught her and Sofia to cook, but Isabella Russo is, and I quote, ‘good at a lot of things but cannot cook to save her life.’”

I’m rambling, but the stories Rosaria shared—about my mother and her best friend Sofia, Dominic’s mother—feel like precious stolen treasures. She knew how my mother’s laughter could fill a room, how her eyes sparkled when plotting escapes from stuffy galas, how she and Sofia would raid the kitchens at midnight like schoolgirls breaking curfew.

“It’s how I knew you were your mother’s daughter,” she had said, passing me a glass of wine she claimed was my mother’s favorite. Her smile held decades of memories. “You’ve got the same determined gleam in your eyes when it comes to sweets.”

My throat tightens. I’m sick of hearing about my mother the killer, my mother the torturer, my mother the fearsome La Falciante. Rosaria’s stories make her human—a woman with friends, dreams, weaknesses. Not just the myth that haunts me.

“Are you drunk?” Dominic’s question slices through my thoughts.

“Tipsy,” I correct, grinning as I find classics I haven’t touched in years. Austen. Bront?. Shakespeare. “Rosaria gave me some strong-ass wine.”

“Get out of there,” he demands, voice hard through the intercom. “Do you have any idea how many valuable things I have in there?”

What does he think I’ll do—steal and run? Where would I even go?

“Is there a reason why you have so many swords?” I ask, genuinely curious but also wanting to provoke him. “Is it like a collection or a kink?” Heat floods my cheeks as forbidden images flash in my mind—his hands gripping the handle, his eyes dark with intent. Christ. What was in that wine? Pure liquid lust?

“Memorabilia,” he answers curtly. Though I can’t see the cameras, I know his eyes are on me. I deliberately sway my hips as I move to another shelf, a small rebellion in the only currency I have left: my body.

“What do you want, Alessa? Please don’t break anything.”

“God, I love it when you beg,” I tease, pulling another book to read its blurb. “I’m looking for a book. It’s boring in here.”

“I told you—if you want something, you have to earn it,” he says, and something in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. Haven’t I earned this small freedom? I endured dinner with him, talked about my mother’s death—something I rarely discuss—and even tolerated his accusations about my father’s involvement. “Besides, I don’t have anything you’d like.”

“You don’t know what I like,” I snap, shutting a book with more force than necessary.

“Don’t you like reading porn on paper?” My jaw drops, cheeks burning. I do enjoy steamy novels—the filthier the better—but it’s a private indulgence. The fact that he knows this intimate detail about me makes my skin tingle with a dangerous mix of embarrassment and arousal. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“It’s called smut,” I correct, striving for nonchalance even as my pulse races. The wine is definitely amplifying every sensation, making it hard to remember why I should hate this man rather than fantasize about him. “Do I look like someone who reads smut?”

“You should try it. Might help loosen you up a bit.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “If you break something in there—”

“I’m not. Relax, okay?”

“There are good ones on the back shelves,” he finally concedes with an audible sigh.

I head to the back, where my eyes catch a gleam of gold—The Lord of the Rings, limited first editions. Their leather spines beckon in the dim light, and I pull them from the shelf with reverent hands. This will keep me occupied, help me forget the man whose space I’m invading.

As I turn to leave, my gaze locks on the swords again. One blade in particular catches the light, its edge promising both danger and seduction. I freeze, drawn by its silent power.

“Can I try one of these swords?” I ask, tilting my head toward the nearest camera.

“No,” he answers too quickly, voice taut with warning. “I’m on my way home, Alessa. If you touch those, I’ll slice your fingers off.”

“Whatever.” But his threat sends a shiver down my spine that isn’t entirely fear.

I stare at the camera again, its obnoxious green light blinking as it tracks my every movement beneath the sheets. Eleven o’clock, and Dominic came home thirty minutes ago. His footsteps echoed down the hall, pausing briefly outside my door before continuing on.

Something inside me deflated when he didn’t knock, didn’t confront me about invading his office. I hadn’t even read the books I’d taken, and once his voice wasn’t filling my ears through the intercom, I missed the banter, the tension, the electricity between us.

Maybe it’s the isolation making me crave human contact, but I want to see him before I sleep. Ask about his meeting—if it concerned me and my father. Find out if Rosaria is in trouble for helping me.

Who am I kidding? A mocking voice in my head calls me out. You want to see him because your body is on fire, and he’s the only one who’s ever put it out.

My libido has been raging all day, probably because my period is due soon. God, there’s another fun conversation—asking my kidnapper for tampons.

I bite my lower lip, my hands slipping discreetly beneath the duvet. I move carefully, conscious of the watching camera, as my fingers slide under the waistband of my silk pajama shorts.

My legs jerk when I find my sensitive clit. How long has it been since I had sex? Weeks? Months? Work usually keeps me too busy for hookups, but captivity has given me nothing but time to feel the ache between my thighs.

My breath catches as I circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, my body instantly softening with pleasure. I spread my legs wider for better access, feeling wetness gather as I increase the pressure.

I try to conjure memories of past hookups, but like a curse, all I see are Dominic’s dark eyes watching me with that predatory intensity. It’s sick and sad that the best sex of my life was with the man who’s now my captor. After leaving that chateau four years ago, every man since has been disappointing—trying too hard or not trying at all. None came close to Dominic’s perfection.

My fingers slip through gathering slickness as I imagine his tongue teasing me, flicking over spots that make me shake. The fantasy sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs, and I rub faster, breath hitching as tension coils in my belly. Each stroke ignites a wave of pleasure that threatens to consume me whole.

I slide a finger inside my soaking pussy, then another, moving faster as my eyes close. My jaw slackens as I fight to keep silent, knowing the camera captures every shift of my body beneath the sheets.

The thought crosses my mind—Dominic might be watching the feed right now. I should be horrified, disgusted, but instead the idea sets my body ablaze. The wrongness of it, the forbidden thrill of possibly being watched by my captor, only heightens my arousal.

My pussy makes obscene wet sounds as I curl my fingers, thrusting my hips to meet each stroke. I spread my legs wider, biting my lip as I race toward release—

Knock. Knock.

I freeze, eyes flying open as I strain to listen. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat thundering in my ears.

Knock. Knock.

I yank my hand from my shorts, pressing my thighs together, frustration and panic swirling through me. If I pretend to be asleep, maybe whoever’s there will leave.

“I swear to God, Alessa. If you don’t open this door, I will kick it down.”

Fuck.

Dominic’s voice penetrates the room, dark and commanding, sending electricity down my spine. The sound alone makes my skin prickle, my already sensitive body responding traitorously. I swallow hard, pushing aside the duvet and forcing myself to stand on shaky legs.

My hand hovers over the doorknob, pulse racing as I consider my options. What will I say? What does he want? What has he seen?

“I can hear you breathing,” he purrs, his voice dripping with dark promise, need saturating every syllable. “I’m not going to ask again. Open the goddamn door.”

I draw a deep, shaky breath, summoning whatever courage I have left. With trembling fingers, I twist the knob and pull it open.

Dominic fills the doorway like a beautiful nightmare. His presence sucks all the oxygen from the room, leaving me lightheaded. He towers over me, frame both intimidating and magnetic. The hungry look in his eyes sends tremors through my body, making my knees weak.

He’s wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide his arousal. My eyes drop to the impressive bulge before rising to meet his gaze—dark, demanding, and aware of exactly what I’ve been doing.

“Show me your fingers,” he demands.

My breath catches. He knows. He’s been watching. And God help me…it makes me want him more.