Chapter 9 Lia
LIA
Ican’t sleep.
I’ve been lying awake for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of that night. It’s the only thought that fills my head every night and the first thought that greets me when I wake up.
I should not be thinking about him. It is all shades of wrong.
The entire house has been buzzing for the past week now, and it’s because of his upcoming engagement party. I’m having sleepless nights and not-so-innocent thoughts over a man who is promised to another woman.
A man who hasn’t spared a glance my way since he kissed me a few nights ago.
I hug the covers tighter around myself, the bruise on my pride throbbing deeper than anything physical. There’s a hole in my chest I keep trying to patch up.
Somehow, Francesco’s absence is louder than his presence ever was. It’s worse because I see him around the house every day. I heard he took charge of all the engagement ceremony preparations.
It’s as if the kiss we shared made him suddenly remember he was getting married soon. Post-kiss clarity, maybe.
A groan slips past my lips. I toss and turn in bed, trying to get him out of my mind. He doesn’t deserve to be in my thoughts. He’s made his decision. He’s proved me right—that after kissing me, he would proceed to act like he didn’t know who I was, like I was nothing but his prisoner.
God, I feel so stupid.
He couldn’t have made it any clearer to me what this is—a game. I’m his plaything, an object to satisfy his desires whenever he’s bored. Yet, I’m still hurting. I’m still thinking about him, wanting him to look at me, secretly hoping he would show up at my door again.
And then, there’s Marco. Insanely charming, undeniably attractive, and also kind. He finds me wherever I am, talks to me without caring who might be watching us, and even makes me laugh.
He’s hard not to like.
Whenever I talk to him, I momentarily forget how terrible this place is, which is… insane, because his family is the cause of my misery.
Yeah, I might just be going crazy.
Marco casually strolls into the kitchen the next morning after breakfast. It’s a Sunday, so almost everyone is home. I’ve learned from my time here that Sunday is the only day of the weekend that is observed religiously. Even the usual chatter of the engagement party has died down.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper, rinsing the already-washed dishes as he slides beside me. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
The only other maid in the kitchen, a younger woman whose name I don’t know, pretends not to look at or listen to us, but I know her entire attention is focused on me and what it looks like I’m doing with one of the bosses.
As expected, Marco just laughs. “You won’t get into trouble.”
Oh, I will. If information about our constant communication reaches the wrong ears, I’ll be in soup. Olga has already issued me a warning. At this point, I’m just playing with fire.
But unlike before, when I was just entertaining Marco because I didn’t have a choice, I like being around him now.
His presence doesn’t feel overwhelming. We talk every day, yet I still find myself looking forward to our chats.
His presence is not overbearing in any way.
I know he watches me—he always seems to know where I am—and it doesn’t scare me.
I should probably be scared by the attention.
He lingers whenever he spots me in a hallway, shows up at the garden when I take walks, and makes excuses just to see me. I try not to enjoy his company too much.
Because deep down, I know that he’s dangerous too. Maybe not in the same way as Francesco or Dante, but there’s something wild under Marco’s smile. Something simmering just beneath the surface, like a bomb waiting to explode.
“Come with me,” he says.
It’s not a suggestion, yet I gape at him. “You can’t pull me out of my duty post.”
He leans against the doorway, his hands casually slipping into his pockets. “No one will question me. You won’t get into trouble. Now, come.”
“Marco—”
“Lia,” he says, soft but firm. “Don’t make me beg.”
I hesitate, and I hate that part of me wants to know where this leads. Maybe it’s loneliness. Or desperation. Or the way he looks at me like I’m the last good thing in a poisoned world.
I rinse off the last plate, dry my hands, and follow him.
He takes my hand and leads me outside. I try to ignore the fact that he’s holding my hand casually, like we’re some sort of couple, as we head over to our usual spot.
There’s something refreshing about being with Marco, something that makes me guilty that he’s not the one I think about at night. He never tries to hide me. He doesn’t act like he’s ashamed of being seen around me. He doesn’t insult me in public and kiss me minutes later in my room.
Instead, he sits with me in the courtyard where anyone around could see.
Francesco has a fiancée.
I shake it away, feeling betrayed. I should not be making excuses for that man, especially if the excuse is that he’s engaged to someone else.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Being around Marco is much better. Much more peaceful.
“What if Olga sees us?” I say as we settle onto the bench. “You won’t get into trouble, but I will.”
An annoyed expression crosses his face. “We are not doing anything wrong. We are just talking…”
“When I should be working.”
“She just doesn’t want me talking to you.”
“She threatened me.”
Marco pauses for a minute, and I see him struggle to keep his expression light.
“She can threaten all she wants. She’s just jealous that I don’t kiss her ass the way she does with my father.”
I shake my head, but the edge in his words makes me smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Why?” His gaze flickers with genuine curiosity, as his lips curl up in a half-smirk.
“She has no life, Lia. She spends all her time running after my father, while the rest of us are actually living. She’s sexually frustrated, and I don’t blame her.
She clearly has nothing else going on for herself. ”
Maybe it’s the way he says it so seriously without the usual glint in his eyes, I burst into laughter.
It’s moments like this that make him harder to resist. His words are sharp, but there’s a playfulness in them, a confidence that somehow makes him even more dangerous. I’m drawn to it, despite the warning bells in my head telling me it won’t end well.
With me and him, or me and Francesco.
“What is being in the mafia like?” I ask him casually, even though there’s nothing casual about my question.
I’ve realized over time that I could take advantage of our… friendship to get intel from him on how I could possibly run away from here. I’m being careful, though, asking unsuspecting questions here and there, because I know that despite Marco’s jovial nature, he still has his demons.
He shrugs. “It’s all I’ve known, so it feels… normal. Being in the mafia is my normal.”
He’s deflecting. I know it. But he won’t tell me anything useful without a little push.
“Must be hard, not knowing anything else,” I prod, trying to angle for a response.
Marco tilts his head, considering me. “It’s not so bad,” he says finally, but I can tell he’s not really answering. He’s not as open as he pretends to be. Not with this.
I let it go, because I know then that I won’t get anything useful from him easily. If I want to escape, I’ll have to be smarter. I’ll have to do it alone.
That realization settles heavy on my chest, right as he leans closer.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping, “you ask a lot of dangerous questions for someone who plays the innocent card so well.”
I give him a flat look, pretending I’m not sweating under the weight of his stare. “I don’t play innocent.”
“No?” He leans forward. “You bat those lashes, tilt your head, and act like you’re just curious. But you’re fishing, Stellina. You’re always fishing.”
“I’m not—”
“Relax,” he says, smiling, but there’s no softness in it. “I kind of like it. It’s cute. Dangerous. A little sexy.”
“So which is it? Cute or dangerous?”
He shrugs lazily, eyes locked on mine. “Depends on what you’re trying to find out. But trust me…” His voice lowers, more intimate now. “You don’t want to know half the shit I do in my life.”
I cross my arms. “If you don’t want to answer, just say that.”
“Oh, I don’t want to,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I also think if I tell you, you’ll start sleeping with a knife under your pillow.”
I pause, unsure if he’s joking.
“I already do,” I fib.
He laughs. Not a full one, just enough to acknowledge the barb.
“I’m not soft,” I add quietly.
His eyes sweep over me, and the smirk he gives is pure sin. “Oh, I know you’ve got claws,” he murmurs. “But you still pretend to be soft. That’s what fucks with me.”
He lets the silence stretch, then adds, voice low and almost tender, “Because it’s not the fight in you that scares me. It’s the way you hide it. The way you make people believe you’re harmless when you’re anything but.”
My breath catches as I recognize the look in his eyes.
“I should—” I stand abruptly, clearing my throat. “I should probably check if Marta needs me.”
He stands with me. I come up to his chest. As we head inside, I notice the atmosphere between us has changed. That usual playful energy is gone. There’s something more serious, more heated.
It’s confirmed when, the moment we step into the hallway leading to the kitchen, he pulls me into an empty room.
“Marco,” I gasp as he shuts the door before turning to face me. “What is this?”
His eyes darken. “This is me trying really fucking hard not to lose it every time I see you.”
He steps closer, and the space between us snaps tight. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, Lia.”
“Marco—”
“You’re driving me insane, you know that?” he says. “Every time you look at me, I feel like I’m unraveling.”
“Don’t say that,” I manage to say, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest.