Chapter 4
POV: Amanda
The car rolled to a stop outside the compound, the weight of the night still buzzing in my veins. The Espositos, the Delacquas, the stares, the whispers—every second had been a test of control.
Adrian hadn’t spoken since we left, his silence thick, unreadable. The memory of his hand on my thigh still burned like a phantom touch, and I hated that I wanted it back.
When the driver opened my door, I stepped out, smoothing the dress that suddenly felt too thin, too exposing. Adrian was already standing there, watching me, his gaze dragging over me with the kind of authority that made my breath stumble.
“Good night,” I said softly, fighting to sound unaffected. Then, because I couldn’t stop myself, the word slipped out like a dare. “King.”
Something shifted in his expression. The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous.
“Good night, Volpe.”
Fox.
The word seared through me, claiming more than he had a right to. And the worst part? I didn’t know if I wanted to fight it.
I turned too quickly, escaping before my body betrayed me further.
In my room, I peeled out of the dress, trading silk for cotton, trying to strip him from my skin. But when I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, it wasn’t business I thought about. It wasn’t my mission.
It was the way his hand lingered too long on my thigh.
The way his eyes darkened when they locked on mine.
The way his voice wrapped around that nickname like it belonged to him—like I belonged to him.
I told myself to hate him. To remember who he was, what this family was.
But sleep didn’t come easy. Not with the echo of volpe still in my ears.
When it finally did, it wasn’t peaceful. It was restless.
Morning light spilled across the room when I opened my eyes. For a second, I almost forgot where I was—until the memory of last night hit me like a punch. Volpe. His voice. His hand. His eyes.
I dragged myself out of bed, trying to shake him off me, and took a long shower. The water didn’t help. When I finally stepped out, I pulled on the most comfortable clothes I could find—leggings, a loose shirt, sneakers. It felt strange, like I was peeling off armor I didn’t even realize I wore.
I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed coffee. Or something. The mansion was a labyrinth, endless stairs and corridors that all looked the same. At one point I turned the wrong way and ended up in a hallway that spilled into sunlight. Curious, I followed it.
That’s when I saw him.
Riccardo sat at an easel in the garden, the back of his shirt speckled with faint traces of paint. His movements were careful, focused, his hand sweeping the brush across the canvas with the kind of devotion most people never had for anything.
I walked closer, my steps light so I wouldn’t startle him. “Good morning.”
He lifted his head, his eyes bright, a little shy but open in a way that felt disarming. “Good morning,” he echoed.
I tilted my head at his canvas. He was painting the flowers—the exact ones blooming just beside him, only softer, more alive somehow, like he was seeing something the rest of us missed. “That’s beautiful,” I said honestly.
Riccardo’s cheeks flushed. “They are. But you’re… more beautiful.”
The words hit me harder than they should have. They weren’t flirtation, not from him. They were pure honesty. And it made my chest ache.
“Thank you, Riccardo,” I said softly, smiling.
He studied me, tilting his brush toward me like he was measuring something invisible. “I want to paint you next.”
The earnestness in his voice left no room for refusal. My throat tightened. “I’d love that.”
I didn’t even realize I was still smiling when I felt the weight of a gaze on me.
I turned.
Adrian stood in the doorway to the garden, a coffee mug in his hand. His mouth curved—not in his usual cold smirk, but in something warmer, almost private. Like he’d seen something he didn’t expect.
“Come on, Volpe,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying that rough edge that always scraped against my skin. “Breakfast.”
Something in the way he said it wasn’t just an invitation. It was a claim.
I glanced back at Riccardo, who was already lost again in his flowers, before I followed Adrian inside.
The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and coffee. Bella was already there, plating something, her movements brisk but full of care. She smiled at me like I wasn’t an intruder, like I belonged. Adrian slid into a chair at the head of the table like he’d been born to it.
“Sit,” he said. Not a command, not really. But I obeyed anyway.
Bella set a plate in front of me, her warmth disarming in a way that gnawed at my chest. She asked me about the food, if I liked it. Adrian didn’t talk much, but his eyes never strayed far from me, tracking the smallest shift, every word I spoke.
And as I ate, I found myself realizing something dangerous.
This wasn’t just a mafia house. It was a home.
They weren’t just criminals. They were family.
And the more I saw that, the more my mission blurred.
Adrian left to his office just after finish his coffee.
Bella barely gave me time to finish the last sip of coffee before she leaned closer. “Adrian wants you in his office.”
My stomach flipped, though I told myself it was irritation, not anticipation.
The hallway leading to his office felt endless, and when I finally pushed the door open, he was already behind the desk—broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark eyes locked on me like he’d been waiting.
“Sit.” His tone left no space for negotiation.
I sat, keeping my chin high. “What do you want?”
His lips curved slightly. “Straight to the point. Good.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
“I don’t want a babysitter following me around every second. But I also know my sister would make my life a living hell if I let you out of sight. So—” he paused, voice dropping, “—you’ll come with me.”
“Where?”
“The docks. Important meeting. After lunch.” He tilted his head, eyes raking down me in a way that felt deliberate, slow. “Dress formal. Not tactical. I don’t want you looking like you just walked out of the army.”
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “Fine. I’ll dress properly.”
“Good.”
Heat shot through me so fast I had to glance away, pretending it didn’t affect me.
He didn’t miss it. I felt the weight of his grin.
“There’s a gym in the house,” he continued, like nothing had shifted. “Training space. Tatami for sparring. Shooting range. If you want to use it.”
That caught me off guard. “Shooting range?”
“Of course,” he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Curiosity got the better of me. After I left his office, I found the place easily enough—down a long corridor, steel doors opening into a cavernous training hall. The scent of leather, sweat, and gun oil filled the air.
The shooting range felt like a gift.
I slid into the room, and the smell of gunpowder hit me like a memory. My body loosened for the first time since arriving here, muscle memory taking over as I loaded, aimed, fired. The sound cracked through the silence, echoing off the walls.
I tried every gun laid out—Glocks, Berettas, even a Colt that felt heavier in my hands. Each recoil, each click of a magazine sliding into place, reminded me of who I was. Where I came from.
For a while, I forgot this was the enemy’s house. I forgot Adrian’s stare, his hands on me the night before, the way his voice had called me Volpe.
Here, I was home.
By the time I left the range, a light sheen of sweat covered my skin, and my pulse thrummed with something alive, dangerous.
The training hall was next. A tatami spread out in the center, the walls lined with weapons racks, punching bags dangling heavy and still.
I tugged on the gloves I’d found, set my stance, and began hammering punches into the bag.
Each strike was precise, sharp, the sound of leather against leather reverberating through the cavernous space.
I didn’t hear him come in.
I just felt it—the air shift, my body tightening before my mind even caught up. I turned, breath catching.
Adrian leaned against the doorway, watching me. His t-shirt clung to him, stretched across his chest and shoulders, forearms corded with muscle. He didn’t hide the way his gaze dragged over me—tight sports top, leggings, skin damp from exertion.
“Didn’t know you boxed,” he said, voice low, lazy.
“I don’t just box.” I turned back to the bag, delivering one last sharp punch before stripping the gloves off.
When I looked at him again, he was already stepping onto the tatami. “Show me, Volpe.”
“I don’t spar with civilians.”
He smirked. “Good thing I’m not one.”
Heat burned under my skin as I joined him on the mat. The moment my stance shifted, his entire body sharpened—controlled, lethal.
He struck first. I blocked, countered, used every technique I’d drilled into my bones. Army, police, years of discipline—they all flowed out of me.
But he was good. Too good. Every move I made, he read. Every strike, he countered. My kicks, my holds, my sweeps—blocked, reversed, like he’d been trained by the same ghosts who trained me.
Our bodies collided again and again, the mat echoing with thuds and sharp breaths. His hands locked around my wrist, his chest brushed against mine, and for every second we held each other in that struggle, heat flared where it shouldn’t.
“Not bad,” he murmured, his lips too close to my cheek.
“You’re not either,” I shot back, even as my lungs burned.
He smirked, lunging again, and this time I ended up flat on the mat, his weight pinning me, his hand closing around both my wrists above my head. His body pressed down, solid, immovable.
The world narrowed to him—the dark gleam in his eyes, the way his breath hitched, the faint tremor of restraint in his muscles as if he wanted more than this.
For one unbearable second, we hovered on the edge of something I shouldn’t even be thinking. His lips brushed close, so close I could almost taste him—
And then the door creaked open.
“Adrian?” Bella’s voice carried lightly into the room.
He froze. Our eyes locked.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he pushed off me, rising in one smooth motion, leaving me breathless on the mat. He didn’t even glance back as he walked toward the door.
But his voice carried over his shoulder, low and deliberate.
“Get ready, Volpe. We leave after lunch.”