15
Liv
The sun’s blazing straight into my face, making it impossible to ignore reality.
Great, that’s just what I need, a spotlight reminding me that I’m still trapped in this messed-up situation.
Love that for me.
With an exaggerated groan, I throw the covers off and drag myself out of bed.
My legs feel like lead, my brain feels like mush, and my patience is on empty.
I stumble into the bathroom, flick on the cold water, and splash my face like I’m trying to scrub off the last 24 hours.
Damn, cold water is like a shock to the senses.
At least it gets rid of the fog in my brain.
I blink at the mirror.
Jesus.
My hair looks like a rabid raccoon got into a fight with it and won.
The stupid clip I had in my hair must’ve snapped while sleeping.
“Perfect,” I mutter, raking my fingers through the tangled mess, trying to tame it with some water.
It’s useless, so I twist it into a side braid that somehow still makes me look like a half-drowned poodle.
It’s a mess, but it’ll have to do for now.
Hopefully, my curls hold the braid in place without a hair tie.
I glance at the door.
Do I sit here like a well-behaved prisoner, or…
My gut says stay put, but the part of me that hates being told what to do, wants to see if I can actually leave.
I tiptoe to the door, my hand hovers over the knob for a second before twisting it.
It swings open without a hitch.
What the hell?
Is this some kind of test, or maybe an “I dare you to be stupid” moment?
I half-expect Alonzo’s stupid face to be lurking outside, ready to catch me mid-escape and drag me back like a disobedient puppy.
But when I poke my head out, I don’t see Alonzo.
Instead, I’m met with a pair of warm, kind eyes.
Not exactly the threat I was imagining.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the woman says, her voice gentle and warm but firm like a mom.
“I’m Paola, Don Gualtiero’s maid.”
“Oh, uh, hi.” My voice comes out awkward as hell.
“I’m Olivia, but you can call me Liv.” She reaches out, and I shake her hand.
But for some reason, she doesn’t let go right away.
She guides me out of the doorway, down the long hallway, toward the massive staircase .
“You must be starving,” she says, her voice all motherly warmth.
“You didn’t eat much last night. I know it wasn’t much of a meal—more like a child’s lunch, but it was late. I made pancakes and bacon this morning.”
Before I can respond, my stomach lets out the loudest growl known to mankind.
Paola smiles knowingly, like she’s been feeding uncooperative prisoners her whole life.
I don’t bother telling her the mountain man destroyed my food last night before I got a chance to eat.
The smell of food pulls me forward like I’m in a trance, and my body drags me downstairs before my brain can catch up.
The marble floors gleam so bright they blind me, but I don’t care.
I’m on a mission—I’m practically salivating at the thought of shoving pancakes in my mouth.
But then I stop dead in my tracks.
Because standing, or rather sitting, at the kitchen island, is him …
the beast himself.
I’m not even facing him directly, just his shirtless back, but it’s enough to freeze me on the spot.
His tan skin is covered in tattoos, intricate designs that wind down the ridges of his muscles on his back and arms.
I don’t realize I’m staring until he turns, and those ice-blue eyes slam into mine.
Shit .
I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
But, of course, I’m an idiot.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I glance back, which is a big mistake.
He’s standing up now.
And he’s wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hang ridiculously low on his hips, sitting on that perfect V-cut like some kind of sculpted god.
My brain short-circuits when I see his nipple piercings.
Yep, I’m staring in full-on dog-in-heat mode at his giant, fucking hot dog.
My brain is screaming abort mission, but I’m unable to look away.
Someone clears their throat, pulling me back to reality.
Paola, right, she’s still here and probably wondering where exactly I took a wrong turn in life.
I yank my eyes away from Alessio like I wasn’t just undressing him with my retinas and practically drooling.
“I’ll make you a plate,” Paola offers, her tone is all calm and unbothered, as if she isn’t witnessing me eye fuck her boss.
“Thank you,” I mumble, forcing my voice to sound casual, while I’m being branded by a pair of cold, blue eyes.
Paola sets a mountain of pancakes and bacon next to Alessio’s seat, but all I can feel is his eyes drilling into me like he knows exactly what the hell I’m thinking .
When I think I can’t take it anymore, he moves past me.
His bare chest skims against my back, and I swear my body goes rigid with tension.
It’s not a full-body press, not even close, but it might as well be a damn collision.
Every muscle in my body locks up.
A shiver cuts through me so fast my breath hitches, a sharp inhale that I pray he doesn’t hear.
I stay frozen, hyper-aware of every step he takes as he crosses the kitchen and slides his plate into the sink, the clink of it barely registering in my frazzled brain.
He doesn’t break eye contact—he returns to his seat, still shirtless, still watching me.
“Sit.” It’s not a suggestion.
It’s a command.
And I hate myself for it, but I listen.
My body moves before my brain can protest, and I slide into the seat beside him, stiff as a damn board.
God help me.
“Coffee, dear?” Paola’s voice is gentle, oblivious to the silent war inside my head.
“Yes, please,” I blurt, way too fast.
I want to say something to him, but the words are stuck in my throat.
So, I decide I’ll eat and not say a word.
Alessio shifts, his body angling toward me.
Not much, but just enough to steal the air from my lungs.
Just as I stuff a massive bite of pancake into my mouth.
“I heard you were causing trouble last night,” he says, not even pretending to ask if it’s true.
His voice is calm but firm, like I’m five and just said a bad word in church.
I can’t chew fast enough to defend myself, to explain that it’s not my fault and that Alonzo, the human gorilla, needs to be locked up in a cage somewhere.
“Until I figure out what to do with you, you will behave. Do I make myself clear?”
Alessio’s eyes lock onto mine, and I’m just staring back at him, chewing as fast as I can.
I try to force myself to swallow the dry ass pancake, but it feels like my throat’s closing.
The pancake’s trying to choke me.
I’m just sitting here, panicking, trying not to look too much like I’m struggling, and praying to whatever god exists that he doesn’t notice how much I’m starting to freak out.
If he wasn’t watching me so closely, I’d spit the damn thing out.
But of course, my greedy self has to shove the biggest forkful in my mouth, and now I’m stuck chewing like my life depends on it, because it kind of does.
I finally manage to swallow, chasing it down with a gulp of coffee, desperate not to full-on choke to death in front of the mafia psycho currently holding me hostage .
I take a deep breath through my nose, willing my racing heart to calm the hell down.
Then, in the most casual voice I can manage, I say, “You could just let me leave… or do you plan on stabbing me with whatever you injected in me until I pass out again?”
I arch a brow, lifting my mug to my lips again like I’m not trying to hide the fact that my hands are shaking.
He doesn’t even blink.
“Or you could tell me what you found on the Commission, and I will if I need to.” His tone turns serious and sharp, like he’s daring me to lie.
“Until you tell me what I need to know, I can’t trust letting you go. How the hell am I supposed to know you won’t try to have me arrested? Or worse, killed? So, for now, you’ll do as I say. Got it?”
I blink at him, brain spinning, grasping for a response that won’t land me in an unmarked grave.
My mouth opens, then shuts.
What the hell am I supposed to say?
I’m not stupid enough to argue with a guy who probably has a hundred ways to kill me without breaking a sweat.
Or, you know, another syringe tucked away in his pocket, with my name on it.
“Got it, Warden,” I mutter, shoving another bite of pancake in my mouth before I do something reckless .
But seriously, how do you tell a killer that you think he murdered your parents?
I miss them, but I’m not exactly eager to join them.
Not yet, anyway.
I need answers.
What happened to my mom?
Why was I taken?
Why was I brought back to Clover?
And what the hell did they do with my dad?
Even if I spill everything to Alessio, it’s not like he will just confess and offer me a neatly wrapped truth bomb.
But…
he did say he wasn’t in charge back then.
So maybe it wasn’t him.
But it was someone in the Commission.
That much is clear.
Maybe, if I play along, staying here will get me closer to the answers I’ve been hunting for the past fifteen years.
Well, seven years, really, since I turned eighteen and was officially an adult.
Everything I know, everything I’ve pieced together, is because of Detective Clover.
If he hadn’t taken me in that night, I shudder to think what would’ve happened to me.
I probably would’ve ended up like my parents, another cold case.
Another dead girl nobody cared enough to find.
Clover never told me who brought me to him that night.
Maybe he didn’t know or was protecting me from that truth.
Either way, he saved my life, and now, I need to find a way to check in with him.
Clover basically raised me since I was ten.
Sure, I left when I turned eighteen, but we still talk all the time.
I visit and call him.
If I suddenly disappear, he’ll notice.
And if he thinks I’m dead…
or worse—being held prisoner by the very kind of men he spent years hunting down…
There will be hell to pay.
But how do I explain that to Alessio without making things worse?
Oh, hey, Warden, by the way, my guardian’s an ex-FBI agent, and I need to check in, so he doesn’t think you’re holding me hostage.
Yeah, that’s going to go over real well.
I take another slow sip of coffee, pretending I’m not internally spiraling.
I need to be smart about this.
I need to stay alive long enough to get the truth and get the hell out of here.
I’m lost in my thoughts when Alessio twists me in my seat, caging me between his arms.
I didn’t even notice him stand up.
His hands grip the countertop, and his face is so close to mine I can damn near feel the heat rolling off him.
The scent of maple syrup lingers on his breath from his breakfast.
My brain’s screaming to pull away, but my body is acting like it has a mind of its own.
“I fucking mean it, Olivia. Cross me, and I’ll kill you myself,” he growls, deadly serious, but the way he says my name makes something deep inside me twist.
His hand moves to my throat, and even though it’s not tight, not yet, but I can feel the pressure.
I try to swallow, but his fingers press tight enough to make it impossible.
I should be fighting back, telling him off with something mean, but when his thumb brushes over the skin of my neck, my whole body reacts to his touch.
My pussy starts to purr, like she’s begging for something I know I shouldn’t want right now.
He’s supposed to scare me, not make my skin burn under his touch.
Not make my thighs press together, desperate for some relief from this sudden, maddening ache that I do not want.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I said okay, Warden,” I snap, trying to turn out of his grip, but he doesn’t let go.
I hope he doesn’t notice my pulse racing under his hand.
Who am I kidding?
He can feel it.
And I can’t hide the flush that starts creeping up my neck.
His fingers tighten for just a second before he yanks me to my feet, his strength is utterly overwhelming.
Seriously, is he even human?
I try to focus on breathing, but standing face-to-face with him, feeling the heat radiating off his body, is like standing too close to a furnace.
“Good girl.” His grip loosens, yet his thumb continues to draw those slow, teasing circles on my throat.
My knees feel like they might give out at any moment.
Stop it.
Stop reacting to him like this.
“Now eat, and Paola will help you get clothes and anything else you need.” His voice is calm, but there’s that dark warning underneath it.
I nod, keeping my mouth shut because if I open it, I might say something stupid, or worse, something honest.
The heat pooling between my legs is going to be the death of me.
I’m not even wearing underwear, and these thin-ass pants aren’t helping.
Alessio shifts, his eyes dragging over me.
He starts at my lips, then his eyes move to my chest, lingering like he’s committing every inch to memory.
Ugh.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Anything you need from me?” he asks, all smooth and smug, like he already knows the answer.
I force out a dry laugh, rolling my eyes like I’m not seconds away from combusting.
“No thanks. Besides, you left me hanging last time. No need for another disappointment.”
I try to make it sound biting, like I don’t give a crap.
But my voice cracks a little.
Alessio notices, and his blue eyes darken.
And that damn smirk is devilish, like he can see straight through me, like he knows exactly what my body’s doing, even if I don’t want it to.
Before I can react, before I can even try to untangle the mess inside me, he leans in, his breath hot against my ear.
“You’re lucky I didn’t use the sharp end of the knife to fuck that pretty pussy with.” His teeth scrape my earlobe, sending a sharp jolt through me.
“Especially after kicking me in the balls.”
My breath catches as heat curls low in my stomach, twisting into something dark and unrecognizable.
“But maybe,” he continues, his lips hovering closer, every syllable dripping with arrogance, “if you get on your knees and kiss it better, I’ll consider letting you finish.”
I almost choke on my own breath while my brain struggles to process his words .
Did he really just say that ?
I hold onto the edge of the kitchen island, grounding myself before I do something stupid, like drop to my knees and find out what’s under those gray sweats.
“Feel lucky I let you live after that little stunt,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing between my legs, giving my pussy a teasing tap that has no right to affect me the way it does.
The smirk tugging at his lips tells me everything.
He felt the damp fabric, the way my thighs clenched on instinct.
I want to die, but sarcasm is my defense.
“Yeah, I feel really lucky, Warden.”
Alessio lets out a low chuckle, smug as ever.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and the way he says it makes my stomach twist.
Before I can process what’s happening, his knuckles brush over my nipple, fast and not gentle or playful.
Just enough pressure to make my breath hitch again, to send a sharp pulse through my body that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling.
I draw in a breath, like it’ll help me, but he’s already stepping back, acting like he didn’t just scramble my brain.