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Alessio

I guide her through the crowd, my hand firm against the small of her back. The club pulsates around us, but all I feel is the heat of her body beneath my palm and the slight tremble that runs through her whenever I apply pressure.

She said her name is Chiara. A lie, but I respect the need for false identities. After all, I’ve been living under one for most of my life.

Tonight was supposed to be about finalizing details. Vittorio has the latest intelligence on Giancarlo Calvino’s movements—my father, though he doesn’t deserve the title. After twenty years of planning, I’m weeks away from destroying everything he’s built. Years of infiltrating his organization, building my own power base, creating the perfect cover identity—all leading to this moment.

Then she walked into the club.

I noticed her immediately—the careful way she held herself, her eyes scanning the room like someone accustomed to assessing threats. The simple black dress, which cost more than most people’s monthly rent, was worn with the casual confidence of someone who was born into wealth. But it was the tension in her shoulders and the haunted look behind her smile that truly caught my attention.

She’s running from something. Just like I once did.

We reach the bathroom, and I hold the door open. A woman inside startles at the sight of us.

“Out,” I command, keeping my voice level but allowing the edge of danger to seep through.

She scurries past us without protest. Smart woman.

I lock the door behind us, turning to find “Chiara” watching me with those enormous green eyes. In the better lighting, I can appreciate her fully—olive skin, high cheekbones, full lips now slightly swollen from my kisses. She’s exquisite, and entirely too tempting for a man with vengeance on his mind.

“Having second thoughts, principessa?” I ask, noting how she reacts to the endearment. Definitely Italian heritage, possibly from an old family. The darkness in her eyes confirms my suspicion—she’s part of my world. The world of family “businesses” and unspoken power.

“Are you?” she counters, chin lifting in defiance.

I smile, appreciating her spirit. “Not a single one.” I move toward her, watching as she backs up until she hits the wall. I place my arm above her head, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body without actually touching her. “Last chance to walk away, Chiara. Once I start, I won’t stop until you’re screaming my name.”

A flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. I want to follow it with my tongue.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispers, and something ignites inside me—a hunger that has nothing to do with my mission or my past.

For a moment, I just look at her, committing every detail to memory. Then I claim her mouth, abandoning the restraint I showed on the dance floor. Her lips part immediately, a small sound of surrender vibrating against my tongue as I deepen the kiss.

I tangle my fingers in her hair, releasing it from its careful style. Dark waves cascade around her shoulders, and I fist the silky strands, tilting her head back to expose the elegant column of her throat.

“So beautiful,” I murmur against her skin, grazing my teeth over the point where her neck meets her shoulder. Her pulse races beneath my lips. “I’ve been wanting to taste you since you walked into the club.”

“You saw me arrive?” she gasps as I trace the curve of her breast through her dress.

“I see everything, Chiara,” I tell her, brushing my thumb over her nipple, feeling it harden beneath the fabric. Her back arches, pressing her body closer to mine. “Especially women who are trying to disappear.”

I watched her enter alone, noted how she positioned herself at the bar with clear sightlines to all entrances and exits. Professional habit, assessing potential threats. But something about her vulnerability called to me, breaking through the walls I’ve carefully maintained for years.

“I’m not—ah!—disappearing,” she manages as I nip at her earlobe. “Just hiding. For tonight.”

I pull back to look into her eyes. “Then let’s make tonight memorable, shall we?”

She nods, her lips parted, eyes dilated with desire. I slide my hand up her thigh, slowly raising the hem of her dress, feeling her tremble under my touch.

“Tell me what you want,” I command. In my world, I’ve learned to read people’s micro expressions, to anticipate their needs and fears. But with her, I want clarity. Consent. A choice freely given, when so much of my life has been about deception.

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, then a flash of deeper emotion. “I want you,” she whispers. Then, stronger: “I want you to make me forget everything but this moment.”

“As you wish, principessa ,” I murmur, claiming her mouth again as I reach for the zipper of her dress.

I drag it down slowly, savoring each inch of skin revealed. The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but matching black lace underwear and heels. I step back slightly, drinking in the sight of her.

She’s magnificent—all curves and soft skin, but with a straightened spine and lifted chin that speaks of pride, of strength. Not a delicate flower to be protected, but a woman who knows her own power.

“Perfect,” I tell her, meaning it in a way that surprises me. I’ve been with beautiful women before, but there’s something about her—a fire behind the careful facade—that calls to something primal in me.

She reaches for the buttons of my shirt, impatience in her movements. “Your turn.”

I let her undress me, watching her face as she pushes off my jacket, loosens my tie, and works down the buttons of my shirt. Her fingertips brush my chest, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

As my shirt falls open, her eyes widen slightly, focusing on the scars and tattoos that mark my body. The bullet wound near my collarbone serves as a reminder of my first year working for the Calvino family. The knife slash across my ribs was a gift from one of Bianchi’s men during a territory dispute. The puckered mark on my shoulder is the oldest scar, from the night my nanny fled with me; glass from a shattered car window embedded in my skin as bullets flew past. Some scars are covered with tattoos, but the ones that drive me on my course I have left to the naked eye.

She traces the bullet scar with gentle fingers. “Who are you, really?”

I capture her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. The question is dangerous—more dangerous than she knows. “Tonight, I’m just a man who wants to make you forget your name, let alone your fiancé’s.”

Her eyes flicker with questions, but then I lower my mouth to her breast, teeth grazing her nipple through delicate lace, and her head falls back with a gasp.

She grips my shoulders as I tease her through the fabric, tugging at her nipple until she’s grinding against my thigh, desperate for friction. When I finally reach around to unfasten her bra, she practically sobs with relief.

“Gorgeous,” I murmur, tracing the red lines left by the lace. “So responsive.”

I cup her other breast, pinching the peak, watching the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing grows ragged. Slowly, I trail my hand lower, tracing patterns on her stomach until it’s clenching beneath my touch. With my other hand, I dip a finger beneath the lacy edge of her panties. She arches into me, seeking more, but I pull away.

“Please,” she gasps, sounding tortured, needy.

She said she wanted to forget, and right now, that’s what I need, too.

“Ask me properly,” I say, feeling the pleasure pool low in my body as she writhes beneath my fingers.

Her eyelids flutter, too caught up in sensation to be embarrassed. “Please. Please, touch me. Make me feel something.”

I growl in the back of my throat, ignoring the voice in my mind telling me I’m already in too deep. “Touch you how, principessa ? Like this?”

I rub her through her panties, groaning as I discover her already soaked for me.

“Oh, yes,” she gasps, eyes rolling back in her head.

My control snaps.

I move us toward the counter beside the sink, picking her up and settling her on the cold marble. She spreads her legs, and in one swift motion, I rip off her panties, the expensive lace barely a barrier as the fabric shreds.

For a moment, I watch her—back arched, naked, a high flush staining her cheeks. She has the look of a fallen goddess. Mine.

Then I drop to my knees before her, pressing her thighs apart with rough hands, and she can only gasp my name—my fake name, the name she’ll remember when I’m gone from her life. But I don’t care. In this moment, my mission, the real Alessio, they cease to exist. The world narrows to this: her taste, her scent, her sounds as I stroke her with my tongue.

I tease her clit, circling the bundle of nerves, stopping whenever her thighs start to shake. Each time, she glares at me through hooded eyes. Only when I sink two fingers into her tight heat, continuing the rhythm with my tongue, does her annoyance melt into pleasure.

“Yes,” she pants. “Oh, yes, like that. Please, don’t stop!”

Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me to her as if she thinks I might pull away again. As if I could leave her like this. Her moans are music, each gasp a prayer. And as I feel her tighten, her thighs trembling, hear the sweet sound of her orgasm rip through her, I know nothing else will ever sound quite so beautiful.

I rise, allowing her to taste herself on my tongue as I kiss her, slow and deep. Her arms wrap around me, clinging as I continue to tease her, winding her up again.

When her hips begin to thrust against my hand, begging for more, I pull back slightly.

“I need you,” I tell her. A simple statement of truth, spoken like a curse.

She nods, and I see the same understanding in her eyes. This isn’t something either of us was expecting, but neither of us can fight it.

Without speaking, I pull out protection from my wallet and shed the rest of my clothes. Then I slowly sink into her, each moment suspended in time. Her body opens for me, welcoming, and we groan in unison as we fully join.

“Are you okay?” I murmur, sweat beading at my temple as I hold myself back. She feels like velvet and fire, like heaven and hell all wrapped into one impossible woman. If I had to pick my final moment, I’d choose this.

“So good.” She leans forward, resting her forehead on my shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

I brace my arms on either side of the counter and begin moving. Slowly at first, then harder, deeper, her pleas echoing off the tiles around us. One hand fists in my hair, pulling with just the right amount of pain. The other grips my shoulder, fingertips pressing into old scars and new heat.

Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, her breasts dragging against my chest with every thrust. Her body meets mine with an intensity that makes my vision go dark at the edges. She’s wild beneath me—a storm, a flame, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that contains desperation and darkness, bordering on violence.

She’s destruction personified.

And when her inner walls begin to clench around me, her second release ripping through her, I wonder what she’s done to me. What madness this passion has awakened. I have always been known as controlled, restrained, a ghost until the moment of attack.

But with her, I am falling apart, and I can only hope I’ll be able to put myself back together.

She sobs my name, fingernails biting into my skin, and that’s all I can take. I follow her over the edge, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Time shatters around us. Sounds fall away, leaving only our ragged breathing.

Slowly, too slowly, the world begins to reassert itself. The air is cool against my bare back, the silence filled only by the distant bass beat of the club. I focus on her—on the rose petal texture of her skin beneath my fingers, the lingering touch of her mouth on mine, the green eyes holding my gaze.

For a moment, the world sharpens back into focus. I am Alessio. I have a purpose. A goal. Tonight was only meant to be a distraction, an interlude between acts.

So why do I not want to move? Why does my heartbeat seem too loud in my ears? Why does the thought of walking away make my chest ache?

We stand entwined, her legs still wrapped around my waist, my forehead pressed against hers as our breathing steadies. I should feel satisfied, my body certainly is, but something unexpected lingers—a reluctance to let this moment end.

Carefully, I pull out of her and ease her down, keeping a supportive arm around her waist when she sways slightly. Her hair is wild around her face, her lips swollen from my kisses, and her cheeks flushed. She’s never looked more beautiful.

“Are you all right?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture of tenderness that surprises me.

“Yes,” she answers, and the genuine smile that accompanies the word strikes something inside me. “Better than all right.”

I can’t help but smile in return, pressing a kiss to her forehead before helping her gather her clothing. We dress in companionable silence. I zip her dress, allowing my fingers to linger on the smooth skin of her back. She helps with my tie, her hands deft and sure.

“Your lipstick,” I observe, brushing my thumb across her lower lip. “Completely gone.”

“Your fault,” she replies, attempting to tame her tousled hair.

“I take full responsibility.” The lightness in our exchange feels foreign to me. When was the last time I spoke to someone without calculation, without an angle? Maria, perhaps—my former nanny, the woman who raised me—but even our conversations are shadowed by the past and my plans for revenge.

As I watch “Chiara” check her reflection, I see reality settling back over her like a cloak. Whatever freedom she sought tonight has an expiration date. Soon, she’ll return to her real life—to the fiancé she clearly doesn’t love, to the obligations that weigh on her shoulders.

“When do you need to leave?” I ask, reading the shift in her expression.

“Soon,” she admits. “People will notice I’m missing.”

I nod, accepting the inevitable. “I’ll call you a car.”

“No need. I can get a taxi.”

“Humor me.” I pull out my phone, sending a quick text to Crispino, one of my most trusted drivers. “A car will meet you out front in five minutes. Private driver, very discreet. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

She hesitates, then agrees with a simple “Thank you.” I watch as she retrieves her clutch, taking out an engagement ring—large, ostentatious, screaming old money and older tastes. Not something she would have chosen for herself, I’m certain.

As she slips it onto her finger, curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s his name? The man you’re marrying.”

She smiles, steps closer, and presses a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for this, Alessio.”

She turns away without answering my question, her silence more telling than any words could be. The ring catches the light as she adjusts her dress one final time, the diamond glittering like a prison sentence.

I watch her collect herself—shoulders straightening, chin lifting, the vulnerable woman from moments ago disappearing behind a carefully constructed mask of composure. The transformation is fascinating, reminding me of my own daily metamorphosis between identities.

She moves toward the door, every step reclaiming the grace and poise of whoever she truly is beneath the false name she gave me. Her hand pauses on the handle, and for a moment, I think she might turn back—might offer one last word, one last glance.

But she doesn’t.

The door opens, and she steps through it without looking back, leaving nothing but her lingering scent and the echo of passion in the suddenly too-empty room.

I stare at the closed door, allowing myself exactly five seconds of weakness—five seconds to wonder about the woman behind the name “Chiara,” five seconds to acknowledge the unsettling feeling that tonight meant more than it should have.

Then I lock it all away, straightening my tie and smoothing back my hair. I have a meeting with Vittorio in twenty minutes. Intelligence to review. A vendetta to complete.

I pull out my phone, typing a quick message to ensure Crispino gets her safely to her destination. One final courtesy before I put her out of my mind completely.

But as I slip back into the crowded club, moving through the mass of bodies with practiced ease, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant has shifted tonight—something that has nothing to do with my carefully laid plans for Giancarlo Calvino.

The weight of my gun presses against my side, a cold reminder of reality. Whatever connection I felt with “Chiara” was an illusion—a beautiful one, but an illusion nonetheless. In my world, attachments are weaknesses. Weaknesses get you killed.

I signal the bartender for a scotch, neat. As the amber liquid burns down my throat, I make myself a promise: whoever she is, whatever her real name might be, she remains in this club. In this moment. A ghost of pleasure, nothing more.

My phone buzzes. Vittorio, confirming our meeting location.

It’s time to become Alessio again. The one with vengeance in his blood and ice in his veins.

The one who can’t afford to be haunted by green eyes and secrets.