Chapter Seven #2
He leaves to make phone calls, and the guest room becomes my temporary sanctuary. It’s as impersonal as the rest of the penthouse, with neutral colors, expensive linens, a bed big enough for three people. I unpacked my overnight bag with hands that won’t quite stop shaking.
Someone threatened me. Threw a brick through my window. Because of Alessandro.
The smart thing would be to leave. Pack up, get out, maybe even leave Seattle entirely until this blows over.
But when Alessandro looked at me in the shop, when he said he wouldn’t survive something happening to me, every rational thought dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.
Clearly, falling in love with a mobster has destroyed all common sense.
Falling in love. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
The shower in the ensuite bathroom is probably the fanciest thing ever experienced. It has a rainfall head, multiple jets, controls that look like they belong on a spaceship. The hot water feels like heaven, washing away the adrenaline and fear and glass dust.
When emerging twenty minutes later in clean jeans and a soft sweater, voices drift from the main room. Alessandro and someone else, a male with a familiar voice.
“—pushing too hard, too fast,” the other voice says. “You need to think strategically—”
“I am thinking strategically, Marco. Strategically keeping Elena alive.”
“By what, moving her into your penthouse? Making her an even bigger target?”
Feet freeze in the hallway. Eavesdropping is wrong. Everyone knows this. But they’re talking about me, which feels like justification enough.
“She’s safer here than at her apartment with no security.” Alessandro sounds tired. “What would you have me do? Leave her there to wait for the next brick? Or worse?”
“I’d have you end this before it gets her killed!” Marco’s voice rises. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re compromised, and when you’re compromised, people die.”
“Marco—”
“No, you need to hear this. This woman, Elena, she’s made you soft. Sloppy. Three weeks ago you would’ve seen Greco’s move coming. You would’ve had countermeasures in place. But instead you’re playing house and buying flowers and getting shot at Christmas markets because you’re too distracted to—”
“Enough.” The word cracks like a whip. “Elena stays. The discussion is over.”
Silence falls, heavy and tense. Then Marco sighs. “You’re falling in love with her.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It’s absolutely my concern when it affects your judgment. Alessandro, listen to me, you cannot protect her and fight this war at the same time. Eventually, you’ll have to choose.”
“Then I choose her.”
The words hang in the air, and something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest. He chooses me. Over his business, over his men’s advice, over whatever strategic considerations Marco is worried about.
He chooses me.
“I hope you don’t regret that,” Marco says quietly. “I really do.”
Footsteps approach the hallway, which means it’s time to either announce my presence or get caught eavesdropping. The decision is made when I step into the living room like nothing was heard.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Marco turns, and up close he’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, handsome in a sharp-featured way, with eyes that assess and categorize in seconds. “Elena. We haven’t been formally introduced. Marco Rinaldi, Alessandro’s second.”
“Second-in-command,” Alessandro clarifies. “He runs operations when I’m... occupied.”
“Nice to meet you.” The words come out stiff, formal. Hard to be friendly with someone who wants Alessandro to dump me for strategic purposes.
Marco’s eyes flick between us, and something like resignation crosses his face. “I should go. Boss, think about what I said.”
“I have. The answer’s still no.”
“Figured as much.” Marco nods at me. “Ms. Harper. Stay safe.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Alessandro and me alone in the cavernous penthouse with the weight of overheard conversations between us.
“How much did you hear?” Alessandro asks.
“Enough.” No point in lying. “He’s right, you know. About me being a distraction.”
“He’s wrong.” Alessandro crosses to where I’m standing, and suddenly the huge space feels very small. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”
“Alessandro—”
“You wanted the truth. Here it is.” He’s close enough now that his cologne, something dark and expensive, fills my senses.
“Yes, I run criminal operations in Seattle. Yes, I’ve killed people.
Yes, being with me puts you in danger. But you also make me want to be better than what I am.
Make me remember there’s more to life than territory and profit margins and body counts. ”
His hand comes up to cup my face, and despite everything, the danger, the fear, Marco’s warnings, I lean into his touch.
“I’m terrified,” the admission comes out barely above a whisper. “Of this, of you, of what loving you might cost.”
“You should be.”
“But I can’t seem to stop. Can’t seem to walk away.” My hand covers his, holding it against my cheek. “What does that make me?”
“Mine,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is different from the others, it’s desperate, claiming, as if he’s trying to pour every emotion he can’t articulate into this connection. Hands tangle in his hair, my body pressed against his, and nothing else exists except this moment, this man, this impossible thing between us.
Alessandro walks me backward until my spine hits the cold glass of the window. His hands slide under my sweater, fingers splaying across bare skin, and heat floods through my body.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Tell me this is moving too fast.”
“Don’t stop.” The words come out breathy, desperate. “Please don’t stop.”
He groans, a sound that goes straight through me, and his mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. One hand slides higher under my sweater, and when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra, a sound escapes that definitely qualifies as a moan.
“Cristo,” he mutters. “Elena—”
“Bedroom.” Can barely form words. “We should—bedroom—”
But even as the suggestion is made, Alessandro pulls back. His breathing is ragged, his hair messed from my fingers, his eyes almost black with desire. And he’s shaking his head.
“We can’t.”
The words are like cold water. “What?”
“We can’t do this. Not yet. Not like this.” He steps back, putting distance between us, and the loss of his warmth is actually painful.
“Alessandro, I’m a grown woman. I know what I want—”
“I know. Believe me, I know.” His hand rakes through his hair.
“But you just found out about my world. You’re staying here because you’re in danger.
Starting this now, when everything is chaos and fear and adrenaline, that’s not how I want this to happen.
” Alessandro shakes his head and takes another step back.
“How you want it to happen? What about what I want?”
“What you want is influenced by proximity, danger and your body’s response to stress.” His voice is gentle but firm. “When we do this, and we will, I want you to have no doubts. No questions. I want you to choose me when you’re not running from someone else’s threats.”
The logic is sound. Infuriating, but sound.
“I hate that you’re being reasonable right now,” the complaint comes out sulky.
“I hate it too.” His smile is pained. “Trust me, turning you down is the hardest thing I’ve done in years.”
“Good. Suffer.” But there’s no real heat in my words.
He laughs, the sound surprised and genuine. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“So, I’ve been told.” A step forward, then another, until we’re close again. Not touching, but close enough to feel his body heat. “But Alessandro? When this is over, when Greco is handled and I’ve had time to process everything and I choose you anyway, all bets are off.”
His eyes darken. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Good.”
We stand there, suspended in tension and want and the sweet torture of almost. Outside, the city looks vast. Inside, awareness crackles between us like electricity.
“I should let you rest,” Alessandro finally says. “It’s been a long day.”
“Will you tell me? Everything? Like you promised?”
“Tomorrow. Over breakfast. I’ll lay it all out, the family, the business, what we’re up against.” His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “But now, rest. You’re safe here. I promise.”
“Will you be here? Or do you have... business?”
“I’ll be here. Down the hall in my room. If you need anything—”
“I know where to find you.”
Something passes between us, understanding, maybe? Or acknowledgment of what almost happened, what still might happen, what we’re both desperately trying to resist.
“Go rest, Elena.”
I nod and he leaves, the penthouse suddenly feels even more enormous. The guest room beckons, but sleep seems impossible. Too much adrenaline, too much fear, too much want still humming through my veins.
The bed is comfortable though, the sheets expensive and soft.
Hours later, city lights filter through the windows, casting shadows across the ceiling.
Somewhere down the hall, Alessandro is probably not sleeping either. Probably thinking about the same almost-kiss, the same almost-more, the same impossible situation that’s drawing us together despite every logical reason to stay apart.
Tomorrow brings explanations. Truth. The full picture of what loving Alessandro De Luca actually means.
But tonight, in this borrowed room in this sterile penthouse, the only thing crystal clear is this,
running would be smarter.
Safer.
But when his hands were on my skin, when his mouth was on mine, when he looked at me like I was the only real thing in his violent world—
Safety stopped mattering.