REBECCA
I wake up slowly, drifting in a warm, hazy fog.
For a long moment, I don't know where I am.
The mattress is too soft, the sheets too smooth against my bare skin, the comforter too heavy and luxurious.
My body feels… used. Deliciously sore in places I haven't been sore in years, a deep, satisfied ache between my thighs, tenderness in my hips where strong hands had gripped me, the faint sting of beard burn across my breasts and neck.
I stretch like a cat, arms reaching overhead, back arching as a low, contented sound slips from my throat. I feel floaty. Light. Almost… happy? God, when was the last time I woke up feeling anything close to this?
I can still smell him. Still taste him. Alessio is all over me, dark cologne, clean skin, and something unmistakably male.
The memory of last night hits me in flashes: the shower, his mouth between my legs, the way he'd pinned me to the wall and fucked me until I screamed his name.
A sleepy smile curves my lips before I can stop it.
Then reality starts creeping back in. This isn't my lumpy mattress in my tiny apartment. This is his bed. Alessio's penthouse. The man who cornered me against a window, made me come so hard I nearly blacked out, then held me against him like he had every right to.
I sit up slowly; the silk sheet slips down to my waist. The bedroom is bathed in soft morning light pouring through the massive windows. Everything feels like a fairy tale, or a palace. Too beautiful. Too much.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It's almost dead. I fire off a quick text to Charly before it dies completely.
Me:
Who the hell is The Collector or El Recaudador?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Charly:
The fuck? Stay away from that bastard.
My eyebrows shoot up. Wow. He didn't even start with chewing me out about my manners for not saying good morning first. That's… new.
I text back.
Me:
Hmmm. So who is he?
My phone rings immediately. I answer on the second ring.
"Charly," I say, a little amused. "That bad?"
"Worse," he replies, voice grim. "You have no idea. Poking a hornets' nest naked would leave you less hurt."
I let out a surprised giggle. "When did you get so descriptive?"
"Beccs," he warns, deadly serious now. "I'm not fucking around.
El Recaudador is a ghost. Nobody knows his real name.
Nobody's ever seen his face. But everywhere he goes, people disappear.
Girls. Boys. Entire families. He doesn't just traffic; he collects.
High-end. Beautiful ones. The kind that never get found.
The kind that end up in places worse than death.
People have chosen death over dealing with him. "
The floaty, almost-happy feeling drains out of me like water down a sink. My stomach twists into knots. The luxurious sheets suddenly feel too heavy, too foreign.
I swallow hard. "And you think… Rachel—"
"I don't know," Charly cuts in, using a gentler voice now. "But if he's circling anywhere near the Reapers, you need to get the hell out of there. Now."
I close my eyes, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. The soreness in my body no longer feels like a pleasant reminder. It feels like a warning.
Alessio is dangerous. And I just let him bury himself so deep inside me I can still feel the echo of it. I look toward the closed bedroom door, while my heart hammers. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts.
To Charly I say, "Thank you for the warning. I'll think about it."
His loud sigh before we hang up tells me that he doesn't believe a word I just said.
To whoever is at the door, I call, "Come in," pulling the sheet higher over my chest.
A polite older man in a crisp uniform wheels in a silver rolling tray loaded with more food than I've seen in one place in my entire life.
Fresh fruit, pastries, eggs Benedict, avocado toast, waffles, smoked salmon, fresh-squeezed juices, coffee that smells like heaven…
It's absurd. My stomach growls despite everything.
"Mr. Vitali asked that you have a proper breakfast," the man says with a kind smile before quietly leaving.
I'm still staring at the feast like it might bite me when my phone buzzes. I look at the contact name and nearly choke.
Adonis :
I'm sorry I had to run, babe. Be back soon. Make yourself at home.
My fingers fly over the keyboard.
Me:
How the hell did you get my number?
Three dots appear, then disappear. A more urgent thought occurs to me, and I type fast before he can reply.
Me:
Never mind that. How the hell did you break into my phone?
I have thumbprint and face recognition. Nobody should be able to guess my passcode.
Adonis :
You sleep very soundly.
Of course. The arrogant bastard. He hijacked my phone and used my semi-conscious, oversexed state to break into my phone.
Heat floods my face. The memory of last night—his mouth, his hands, the way he'd fucked me against the shower wall until I was sobbing his name—once again rushes back in vivid color.
Me:
Go fuck yourself.
Adonis :
I'd rather fuck you. Your pussy is delectable.
I drop the phone on the bed like it burned me, but my thighs press together instinctively.
A fresh wave of soreness pulses between my legs, and I hate how much I like it.
How much my body still wants him even while my brain is screaming danger.
I'm in the penthouse of a mafia capo. A man who just admitted he wants me out of his system.
A man who might be connected to the same underworld that swallowed my sister.
And yet… part of me feels strangely safe here. Pampered. Wanted.
I hate that part most of all.
I stare at the ridiculous breakfast spread, the luxurious room, the phone with his outrageous contact name, and let out a shaky laugh that borders on hysterical. What the hell am I doing?
First things first—change his name to: Rich Spoiled Asshole.
That gives me some satisfaction, so then I decide to taste everything on the tray.
Next on the list is a shower. In one of the drawers, I find several brand-new toothbrushes as well as an assortment of different toothpastes.
Rolling my eyes, I pick one randomly. Dressed in a towel, toothbrush doing its job, I hear another knock on the door. Now what?
Irritated, I spit into the sink and yank the door open. A stylish older woman looks me over from head to toe with a critical eye.
"Well, at least this time we have something to work with," she announces, breezing past me into the bedroom. Four other women follow her, wheeling in multiple garment racks and what looks like a mobile dresser.
The lead woman turns to me with a dramatic flourish.
"I am Madame Vivienne LaRoux. Mr. Vitali has hired me to ensure a Miss Beccs," she arches an eyebrow that has been plucked within an inch of her life at me.
Rendered speechless for the first time in my life, I clutch the towel tighter to my chest and nod.
She continues unperturbed, "is properly equipped with everything she needs to present herself as his girlfriend."
I stand there. Did he now?
More women pour in with additional carts. One smiles brightly. "I'm Flavia, here for your hair."
Another waves manicured fingers. "I'm Kym. Pedicure and manicure for you today."
I just stare, unsure whether I'm amused, angry, or completely overwhelmed.
But when they start pulling covers off the racks, revealing rack after rack of stunning designer clothes—silks, leathers, dresses that look like they cost more than my car—I decide to go with the flow.
If Alessio wants to waste his money on me… by all means.
I quickly text him.
Me:
Your entourage just appeared.
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
Good. Enjoy.
I roll my eyes and type back.
Me:
My phone is almost dead.
Rich Spoiled Asshole:
Be good.
I snort. Be good. As if. I'm running my fingers over a breathtaking emerald-green dress when another knock sounds. A man in a sharp suit steps in, the bulge of a holster clearly visible under his jacket.
"Regards from Mr. Vitali," he announces, handing me a charger. "My name is Olivere. I've been assigned as your security. Let me know if you need anything, ma'am."
I chuckle despite myself. "Yeah… that figures too."
I plug in my phone, mind already spinning. I wonder what the Reapers will think when I show up at the clubhouse with Olivere in tow… this whole situation is insane.
But as Flavia starts working on my hair and the clothes keep getting more beautiful, a tiny, traitorous part of me whispers: Just for a little while… it might be nice to pretend I belong in this world.
The next few hours pass in a whirlwind of luxury I've only ever seen in movies.
I'm pampered within an inch of my life. Flavia works magic on my hair, turning my usual messy ponytail into something soft and shiny with loose waves that fall just right.
When I mention I usually dye it myself in my bathroom sink, she looks genuinely horrified for a second before laughing.
"Ma chérie, never again. We'll fix that properly next time."
I just nod, still a little dazed. Kym gives me coffin nails in a deep, rich burgundy-red that looks almost black in certain lights.
They're stunning. Classic. I've never had long nails in my life, and right now I'm half in love with them even as I realize I'll have to relearn how to do basic things, like properly flipping Alessio off the next time he annoys me.
The awe never really fades. Every new piece of clothing they bring out makes my chest tighten.
Silks, satins, perfectly tailored pieces that skim my body like they were made for me.
I catch myself daydreaming in the mirror more than once, wondering what it would feel like to live like this every day.
No scraping by. No choosing between groceries and another lead on Rachel.