My Playboy Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #3)

Chapter One

M aya

The show had been flawless—until the moment Dominic Valenti stepped outside.

Maya Sunderly stood across the street from the Palazzo delle Stelline, her telephoto lens trained on the exit where models and industry elite filtered out into the crisp Milan evening.

The Armani show had wrapped twenty minutes ago, and she was capturing the usual post-show chaos: air kisses, champagne toasts, and designers basking in the glow of another successful presentation.

Through her viewfinder, she watched Dom emerge from the venue's ornate entrance, still wearing the charcoal suit that had closed the show.

Even from this distance, his presence commanded attention—photographers called his name, fans pressed against the barriers, and everyone wanted a piece of the legendary model and playboy.

That's when Paolo Ricci materialized from the crowd.

Maya's finger hesitated on the shutter button as she watched the notorious paparazzi photographer push through the security perimeter, his camera raised and flash blazing directly into Dom's face.

Not unusual behavior for Paolo, but something about his posture suggested this was more than just aggressive photo-taking.

"Dominic," Paolo called out. "How's your sister doing? Is she clean or has she moved on to harder stuff?"

Maya's breath caught. She'd seen the photos. Sophia Valenti, twenty-four and struggling with addiction, captured at her most vulnerable moment leaving a private treatment center. The images had been splashed across every gossip site for weeks, turning her recovery into public entertainment.

Dom's entire body went rigid. Through her lens, Maya watched his expression shift from professional courtesy to something far more dangerous.

"What did you say?" Dom's voice was deadly quiet, but it carried.

Paolo grinned, sensing blood in the water. "Come on, Dom. The people want to know. Is little Sophia looking for her next—"

She watched him grab the photographer's camera mid-shot, ripping it from the man's hands with casual, terrifying strength. "You want pictures?" Dom's voice cut through the music like a blade. "Here's your fucking picture."

The camera hit the ground with a crack that echoed through the suddenly silent venue. Maya's shutter clicked instinctively as Dom crushed the expensive equipment beneath his Italian leather shoe, grinding circuits and glass into designer dust.

"That's a fifty-thousand-euro camera!" Paolo scrambled backward.

"Send me the bill." Dom's smile was deadly calm. Maya's pulse hammered as she captured the moment.

"You piece of shit," Paolo snarled, pulling out his phone. "I'll sue you for everything—"

One moment Paolo was on his feet, the next he had Paolo pressed against a parked car, his forearm across the smaller man's throat.

"You know what you did," Dom said quietly, his voice carrying despite the low tone. "We both know why you're really here."

Maya's shutter clicked instinctively as Dom's face transformed into something primal. Security guards were shouting, trying to reach them through the crowd. "We both know why you're really here."

Paolo clawed at Dom's arm. "I don't know what—"

"You sent her the open bottle of whiskey." Dom's words were controlled despite the violence radiating from his body. "You stalked her for three weeks, hoping she’s break down and have a sip."

Maya zoomed in, catching the fear that flashed across Paolo's face

"You can’t prove anything," Paolo wheezed.

"Oh, but I can." Dom's voice never rose, but something in his tone made Maya's skin prickle. "You paid orderlies for information about her treatment. I paid them to tell me who wanted to know."

Maya lowered her camera slightly, her professional instincts warring with disgust. No wonder Dom had snapped.

"Here's what's going to happen," Dom continued, still holding Paolo immobilized despite the security guards now surrounding them.

"You're going to delete every photo of my sister.

You're going to stop stalking my family.

Because if I see your face near anyone I care about again, I'll finish what I started here. "

He released Paolo with a shove that sent the photographer stumbling into the crowd of onlookers.

Security guards moved toward Dom, but he held up his hands, showing he wasn't going to cause more trouble.

His green eyes swept the crowd—shocked faces, phones raised to record, industry elite buzzing with whispers and speculation.

"Anyone else have questions about my family?" Dom asked pleasantly.

A few intrepid souls raised their hands.

“Too bad. Fuck off,” he snarled.

The crowd parted as Dom walked through them, heading for a waiting car. No one tried to stop him.

He should have terrified her. Instead, heat pooled low in her belly as she watched Dom disappear into the car. The crowd was still buzzing with shock and excitement while security scrambled to restore order.

"Holy shit," Her reporter friend Jenny muttered beside her. "Did you get all that? The agency will—"

"No." Maya's voice came out rougher than she intended. She ejected the memory card from her camera and slipped it into her pocket. "There's nothing to sell."

"Are you insane? That was the story of the decade. Dominic Valenti just—"

"Defended his sister from a stalker. I'm not selling that."

Jenny stared at her like she'd lost her mind.

Maybe she had. Maya had spent five years building her reputation by capturing the moments others missed, the stories that sold magazines and launched careers.

But something about watching Dom avenge his sister with made her jittery and bothered.

He was dangerous in a way that made her pulse quicken.

"Pack it up," Maya said, already heading for their rental car. "We have a flight to catch."

By tomorrow, someone else's photos would be splashed across the internet. The story would spread, Dom's attitude would be gossiped about, and Maya would probably never see him again.

***

D OM

The Bugatti's engine purred like a satisfied predator as Dom downshifted into Couture's circular drive.

Couture was a resort for fashion icons. Part retreat center, luxury hotel, and part something else entirely, this property was a home away from home and he was glad to be here.

Gravel crunched beneath Italian leather tires—a sound he'd once found soothing. Now it was like grinding teeth.

It had been three days since Milan. Three days since he'd publicly confronted that rat bastard Ricci outside the Armani show.

The photographer was already facing legal consequences—Sophia's treatment facility was suing him for harassment and invasion of privacy, and several major publications had quietly blacklisted him after Dom's very public revelation of his stalking tactics and the proof he turned over to the authorities.

Unfortunately, it had brought the wack-a-doos out of hiding. One, in particular, his ex-Elena was telling everyone who would listen that Dom had anger management issues and had lightly implied that Dom had hit her.

He had. But it had been in bed, and she had been very eager for a spanking, like the bad little girl she was. Unfortunately, his bed hadn’t been the only one she’d been punished in. Elena had liked the drama, and Dom was sick of it. The sex hadn’t been that good.

His phone had been buzzing nonstop since Milan.

While three smaller brands had reached out wanting to discuss partnerships with someone who "stood up for family values," the big players—the ones who paid seven figures for campaigns—had gone silent.

Versace had "postponed" their upcoming shoot with him.

Giorgio Armani's people weren't returning calls.

Even his long-standing partnership with Omega was "under review. "

The fashion magazines that actually moved product were treating him like radioactive material.

Physical altercations, even justified ones, made luxury brands nervous.

Add in anything that reeked of a Depp/Heard feud, and that was a career ender.

People wanted aspirational fantasy, not messy reality.

Dom had to pay for the prick’s camera, but he thought that was money well spent.

Jake Tyler, Dom’s agent, was trying to stay optimistic, but he heard the strain in his voice during their daily check-ins.

"The industry has a short memory," Jake kept saying.

"This will blow over." But Dom had been in the business long enough to know the difference between temporary scandal and career-killing controversy.

Brands were already considering younger models for their campaigns. At thirty-two, he'd been walking a tightrope anyway—too old for the teen-focused brands, still fighting to prove he belonged in the luxury market traditionally dominated by men in their twenties.

“Take a few weeks to relax, get out of the spotlight.”

No pressure at all.

This time when Dom's phone buzzed it was a text from Sophia: "Thanks for handling Paolo.

I'm okay, really. Love you, big brother.

" The message should have made him feel better, but instead it reminded him of the last time someone had needed his protection.

Elena. But Elena liked being the victim and liked playing one guy against the other.

He had believed her when she said her ex, Bobby, had smacked her around.

Now, it was his turn to be the violent ex.

Dom climbed out of the car, leaving his keys for the valet who appeared like magic. The resort staff moved with silent efficiency that came from dealing with celebrities and their crises on a regular basis.

"Welcome back," the concierge said. “Your penthouse suite is ready, and housekeeping has stocked your preferences as requested."

Dom nodded. Three days of media calls and damage control had left him drained, his famous charm buried under layers of frustration and rage that still simmered just beneath the surface.

The elevator ride to the top floor was endless.

When the doors finally opened directly into his suite, the tension finally drained out of him.

The bedroom featured a California king that easily accommodated his six-foot-three frame and whatever diversions he might need to forget his problems. Not that he was in the mood for diversions. He needed space to think, to relax.

Dom dropped his single bag by the door and walked to the windows.

The view should have been calming. Instead, his gaze caught on the balcony of the suite next door.

A woman stood there, her back to him as she adjusted what looked like camera equipment on a tripod.

Long dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the afternoon light.

She wore simple black pants and a white blouse that emphasized her curves.

Professional but feminine. Elegant without being showy.

As he watched, she bent to peer through the camera's viewfinder, and Dom's body responded with recognition and desire. He knew that hair, those curves, the way she moved with professional competence and grace.

The photographer from Milan.

Not just any photographer—the one who'd been positioned perfectly to capture his confrontation with Paolo.

The one whose camera had been trained on him as he'd defended his sister's honor.

He'd noticed the photographer even in the chaos, drawn by her beauty and the way she'd lowered her camera instead of continuing to shoot while he dealt with that bastard.

Most photographers would have kept clicking, hungry for the money shot. She'd stopped.

The woman straightened and turned slightly, giving him a clear view of her profile. He wanted to nibble on her high cheekbones and kiss her full lips.

That's when she spotted him. Her lips parted in surprise. She recognized him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Dom's mouth curved into the first genuine smile he'd managed since Milan. T

The woman stepped back from the balcony railing, her cheeks flushing pink. But she didn't flee. Instead, she lifted her camera and pointed it directly at him.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the moment shattered.

Fucking paparazzi.

He flipped her the bird.

She lowered the camera and disappeared back into her room.

He wondered if he’d see that picture on TMZ tonight.