Chapter 6 #2
"Maybe I wanted to see if the perfectionist in you would crack," she whispers, her voice breathy now, all pretense gone. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "If there were any flaws in that controlled facade."
"And what did you discover?"
"That you’re still standing there. And that you’re fully dressed while I’m sitting here in your shirt." The words slip out of her, softer than before, almost like she hadn’t meant to voice them. Her gaze flicks to my mouth and back, a fleeting loss of composure rather than deliberate provocation.
The sight stirs something dark and hungry in my chest. She doesn’t understand the fire she’s playing with—what losing control would mean.
Instead, I lean back slowly, watching as something flickers across her face—disappointment, or maybe relief—before she shutters it away. I move to the phone beside my bed, dialing the house extension. "Send two maids to my room immediately."
When I set the receiver down, I glance at Alessia. "They’ll handle the mess. Unless you’d prefer I discipline you."
The double meaning isn't lost on her. Her breathing quickens, and she bites her lower lip—a gesture so unconsciously sensual it takes all my control not to cross the room and claim that mouth with mine.
A knock at the door interrupts us. The maids enter, take one look at the destruction, and begin working with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of cleaning up after Romano men.
As they work, I notice Alessia press her fingers to her temple, a small grimace of pain crossing her features. Even in pain, she's beautiful—vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.
"Has the doctor seen to your head injury?" I ask, trying to keep my authority intact even as I catch the faint grimace she tries to hide.
"No," she replies, and something in her tone makes me look at her more sharply. "I haven’t seen any doctors."
Ice floods my veins, washing away the heat of moments before. I specifically ordered medical attention for her head injury. Specifically told my men that her health was a priority.
"Excuse me," I say to Alessia, my voice deadly calm.
I step into the hallway and find Marco stationed outside the door
"Get Dr. Reeves. Now. Tell him he has sixty seconds to get to my room."
The guard takes one look at my expression and runs.
Dr. Reeves appears in exactly fifty-eight seconds, medical bag in hand, his face pale with the knowledge that he's fucked up badly.
"Don Romano," he starts, his voice shaking slightly. "I was told—"
"I don’t care what you were told," I cut him off, my voice carrying the promise of violence. "You will examine the woman for head trauma right now."
"Matteo." Alessia's voice cuts through the red haze threatening to consume me.
Something in her tone—concern, not fear—makes me pause.
"It's fine. I'm fine." But it's not fine.
Orders in my house are absolute. The only reason I let this pass is that he's been the Romano family physician for years, and it is likely that my men did not give him the order.
I hold Dr. Reeves with my killer gaze for another heartbeat, acutely aware of Alessia watching me. When I release him from my sight, he visibly relaxes.
"Now examine her," I command. "Thoroughly."
He approaches Alessia with the kind of careful movements that suggest he's aware of how angry I am. "Mrs...?"
"Just Alessia," she says, her voice tight with tension. "And I already said I'm fine."
"Let's make certain, shall we? Can you follow my finger with your eyes?" Dr. Reeves replies, his voice shaking slightly.
As he begins his examination, I find myself watching every micro-expression on Alessia's face, cataloging signs of pain or discomfort. When she winces as he probes the bump on her temple, fury builds in my chest—not at her, but at the Moretti animals who put it there.
"Mild concussion," the doctor concludes, his voice steadier now that he's in familiar territory. "Nothing serious, but I'd recommend rest and monitoring for the next twenty-four hours. I can prescribe something for the headache—tramadol should help with any discomfort."
"No." Alessia's refusal is immediate and sharp. "No pills."
Dr. Reeves looks to me for guidance, but Alessia continues before I can speak.
"I don't take anything that affects my thinking," she says, her voice carrying a note of steel.
The words tell me more about her past than any interrogation could. Someone who refuses pain medication values consciousness over comfort—usually because unconsciousness has meant danger.
"You heard the lady," I say quietly. "But leave something. In case she changes her mind."
He nods, packing his equipment with efficiency. He sets a small white bottle on the desk within easy reach. "Call if the headache worsens or if there's any nausea, vomiting or dizziness. Those would be signs to worry about."
After he leaves, I turn back to Alessia. The maids have restored order to most of the room, leaving only the two of us and the tension that seems to thicken every time we're alone.
She's still sitting in my chair, still wearing nothing but my shirt, her bare legs a distraction I'm finding increasingly difficult to ignore.
"Thank you," she says quietly, and the sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. "For not forcing the medication."
"I told you I don't hurt women," I reply. "That includes forcing drugs on them."
"Even when they destroy your bedroom?"
"Even then." I move to the closet, selecting a fresh shirt and hanging it carefully. "Though I do have to ask—was this tantrum worth it?"
Her spine straightens, chin lifting in that gesture of hers. "Tantrum? You kidnapped me, stole my clothes, and locked me in your room like some kind of pet. If anything, I showed remarkable restraint."
I turn to face her fully, letting my gaze travel from her face to where the shirt barely covers her thighs. "Is that what you call this?" I gesture to the restored order around us. "Restraint?"
"I call it making a point."
"Which was?"
She stands from the chair with fluid grace, and I catch the slight tremor in her hands before she steadies them.
Smart—she's afraid but refusing to show it.
Her voice carries steel now, each word carefully chosen.
"That I can affect your world just as much as you've affected mine,” she looks around pointedly, “even if it’s only the world in this damned cell.”
The sight of her legs may affect me but it's the look in her eyes that truly turns me on.
"Noted," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. I take a step closer. "Though you should know that disrupting my space won't change anything."
"Which is?"
Another step. She doesn't retreat, but her breathing quickens. "You belong to me now. That means you stay where I decide you stay."
"In your bedroom."
"In my bedroom."
She processes this with quick intelligence, her mind already working through implications and escape routes that don't exist.
"You expect us to share a bed," she says, and it's not a question.
I move closer, forcing her to look up to maintain eye contact. "We're sharing a room. The sleeping arrangements can be... negotiated."
"How?"
I let silence stretch between us, watching her throat work as she swallows hard. "That depends entirely on how cooperative you choose to be, principessa."
The endearment rolls off my tongue like a promise, and I watch her lips part slightly in response.
"I won't be your prisoner," she says, but her voice has lost its earlier conviction.
"You already are." I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn't, I trace one finger along her jaw, feeling her shiver. "The question is what kind."
Her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat before snapping open again, awareness burning bright.
"And if I choose to be difficult?"
My hand drops away, and she actually leans forward slightly, chasing the contact before catching herself. "Then you'll discover exactly how persuasive I can be."
The threat hangs between us, loaded with possibilities that make her breathing quicken.
She steps back then, putting distance between us, and I let her—for now. "Tell me about Lorenzo."
Every muscle in her body locks at her dead husband's name. Her face goes carefully blank in a way that tells me there are secrets buried there.
"That's none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business now." I settle into the chair she vacated, noting how it still holds her warmth. "The Morettis declared war over your husband's death. That makes him very much my concern."
"I won't talk about him."
"Why?" I lean back, studying her. "Loyalty to his memory?"
Her laugh is sharp, brittle—nothing like amusement. "Something like that."
I catch the way her hand moves unconsciously to her ribs, a protective gesture that speaks volumes. "Or maybe there's something about your marriage you'd rather keep private."
"Let's discuss something else," she says, deflecting with practiced skill. "Tell me about the family that murdered your father. Since we're sharing confidences."
Clever. She's redirecting, but she's also fishing for information that could be useful later. I allow it—her tactical thinking is almost impressive.
"My father was murdered by the Morettis seventeen years ago," I say. "Betrayed by a man he trusted, ambushed during what was supposed to be a peace meeting."
Her posture shifts slightly—she already knows this story. "Your uncle. I heard the stories."
"What stories?"
"That you killed him yourself. With your bare hands. It’s why they call you The Devil."
"True." I don't try to soften the admission. Let her see exactly what I'm capable of.
She studies my face, searching for something—remorse, perhaps, or regret. Her search is pointless.
"How old were you?"
"Seventeen. Old enough to understand what betrayal meant. Old enough to make sure it never happened again."
Something flickers in her expression—understanding, maybe even sympathy. "And now you think someone in your organization is betraying you again."
"I don't think. I know." The certainty in my voice makes her go very still. "The question is who."
We stare at each other across the dimming room. She's measuring me, just as I'm measuring her.
"I'm tired," she says finally.
I rise from the chair, noting how her eyes track the movement. "The bed is comfortable. You'll sleep well."
"Where will you sleep?"
"In my bed."
Her eyes darken, something wild and conflicted flashing across her features. "I'm not sleeping with you."
I move toward the bathroom, letting my voice carry casual authority. "The bed is large enough for both of us. But if you prefer, you're welcome to take the floor."
"I'll take the couch."
"There is no couch."
"The chair, then."
"The chair will be uncomfortable, and you have a concussion."
I pause at the bathroom door, watching her mind work through options that don't exist.
"Fine," she says finally. "But I'm building a wall."
“A wall?”
"Pillows. Down the middle of the bed." I'm beginning to find her defiance dangerously attractive. "You stay on your side, I stay on mine."
The image of Alessia constructing a barrier between us with my Egyptian cotton pillows is so absurd it almost makes me smile. Almost.
"If that makes you feel safer," I say, heading toward the bathroom.
"It's not about feeling safe," she calls after me. "It's about maintaining boundaries."
"Of course, it is, principessa," I murmur, closing the bathroom door behind me. "Of course, it is."
But as I strip out of my bloodstained clothes and step into the shower, I can't shake the image of her in my shirt, her bare legs crossed with casual elegance, building walls that we both know won't survive the night.
Some boundaries, I'm beginning to realize, are meant to be crossed.