Alessia
The first time I saw him, he stood at the end of my father's marble hallway like he owned the place. He was tall and unmoving, watching me with storm-grey eyes that made my pulse quicken and my stomach twist in the same instant.
Everyone in our world had heard of Adrian Cavallo. He was the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about… and yet the type of man those same daughters dreamed about at night. He was the head of the Moretti crime family and my father's rival. He was twice my age and now, for some reason, he was in our home.
I told myself I didn't care. That the way his gaze lingered wasn't making heat crawl up my neck. The way he filled his tailored black suit didn't make me want to rip it open just so I could see the tattoos I'd heard whispers about.
I lied to myself.
"You didn't tell me we had company," I said, glancing at my father, who stood a few steps behind him.
"This isn't company," my father replied, his voice clipped. "It's business."
Adriane's mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a threat. "I'd say I'm both, actually."
There was something in his voice. Low. Rich. Dangerous. Like velvet over steel. I hated the way it made my knees feel soft. I shifted my weight, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled me. "Do all business meetings start with you staring at people like you're deciding whether to kill them or—"
"Or?" His voice dipped lower.
"Or something else," I finished, wishing my face wasn't betraying me with the flush creeping over my skin.
His gaze swept over me slowly, deliberately, pausing on my mouth before dragging back up to my eyes. It was the kind of look that felt like a touch. God help me, I wanted him to do more than look.
He didn't answer me. Just stood there, as if he had all the time in the world to study me like I was a puzzle he intended to take apart piece by piece.
My father cleared his throat, snapping the thread between us. "Alessia, go upstairs. This conversation isn't for you."
Which, in our family, was code for: *You're not old enough, strong enough, or smart enough to be in the room when men talk business.*
I hated it. I hated that Adriane Cavallo was watching me hear those words too. So instead of leaving, I leaned against the carved bannister, crossing my arms. "If it's so important, maybe you should have met somewhere private instead of in our foyer like we're hosting afternoon tea."
Adriane's lips twitched, the barest flicker of amusement. "She has a mouth," he said to my father. "I like that."
"She talks too much," my father muttered.
"She speaks when she shouldn't," Adriane corrected, his tone cool but sharp enough to draw blood. "There's a difference."
Something in the way he said it made my skin prickle. Like he didn't mind the fact I'd just defied my father. Like maybe he enjoyed it.
"Upstairs, Alessia," my father repeated, his patience thinning.
I should have listened. I should have walked away and locked my door. But instead, I looked straight at Adriane Cavallo and said, "I'm fine right here."
The air felt different, not only due to my father's glare, which could have burned through stone, but also because Adriane's eyes had darkened, like storm clouds gathering.
He stepped forward, quickly closing the distance between us. I caught a faint whiff of his cologne—clean and expensive, with an edge of something darker, reminiscent of smoke.
He leaned in just enough for only me to hear. "Careful, piccola ribelle. Men in my world don't take kindly to challenges."
A shiver slid down my spine, part fear, part… well something far more dangerous. "Then maybe you should stay out of mine," I whispered back.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again, slow and deliberate, before he pulled away and turned to my father as though I'd ceased to exist. My heart still thudding like I'd just stepped off a ledge.
My father guided him toward the study, muttering something in Italian under his breath. I followed behind at a distance, unusually silent, as my curiosity burned hotter than my better judgment.
The heavy mahogany doors closed behind them, but not before I caught a final glimpse of Adriane settling into my father's leather chair as if he owned the place. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't need to.
I pressed my ear against the wood.
Muffled voices. Low. Dangerous. I could barely make out words—"territory," "shipment," "deal"—but then I heard my father's voice rise.
"You're asking for too much, Cavallo. We're not—"
"You will," Adriane cut in, his tone like ice over fire. "Or I'll take it anyway."
A pause. Then my father's sharp laugh. "And what would you offer in return? Money? Guns? Blood?"
"None of those," Adriane said. There was a smirk in his voice. "I want her."
My blood turned to lightning. I stumbled back from the door, my pulse thundering in my ears.
They were talking about me.
I didn't stay to hear my father's answer. I bolted up the stairs, heart hammering so loud I swore it echoed in the empty hallway. By the time I reached my bedroom, my hands were shaking. What the hell did Adriane Cavallo want with me?
I paced, chewing my lip and replaying every second of the brief exchange we'd had. The way he looked at me felt like I was a problem he wanted to solve… or perhaps ruin.
Part of me was furious—angry at my father, at Adriane, and at the entire twisted world they inhabited. But another part, the part I hated, wasn't scared at all. It was curious. Hungry.
I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it didn't matter. Men like Adriane Cavallo didn't take girls like me. But deep down, I already knew I was wrong.
The rest of the night dragged on like a bad dream. I remained upstairs, pretending to read while every sound from below sent my nerves on edge. At one point, I heard the front door close, followed by heavy footsteps that gradually faded into silence. My father didn't call for me, and that, more than anything, made me anxious.
When I finally went downstairs, the foyer was empty, but there was something different in the air. The faint scent of Adriane's cologne lingered, weaving through the space like an invisible presence.
My father was in the study, a half-filled glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't look at me when I stepped inside.
"Stay away from him," he said flatly.
I folded my arms. "Oh? Is that an order or fatherly advice?"
"It's survival." He took a long drink, his jaw tight. "Men like Adriane Cavallo don't take what's not theirs. If he decides you are, you'll have no choice in the matter."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "So I'm a piece of property now? Great to know where I stand in this family."
He slammed the glass down on the desk hard enough to make me flinch. "You think this is a game, Alessia? That man could destroy you."
Maybe it was the stubbornness in me, maybe it was the thrill I'd felt earlier, but I said, "Maybe I'm not as easy to destroy as you think."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't test him. And don't test me."
I left before I could say something that would get me grounded—or worse. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed something on the console table near the door.
It was a black calling card made of smooth, heavy paper. There was no name, just a phone number and a single embossed symbol: a silver wolf's head. It wasn't my father's.
I should have left it there. But I didn't. I slipped the item into my pocket, my pulse racing as I shut my bedroom door behind me. For a long time, I stared at that number, my thumb hovering over my phone screen. I had no idea what I would say if I called him. I didn't even know why I wanted to.
But deep down, I understood that this wasn't the end of Adriane Cavallo. It was just the beginning.
I set the card on my nightstand, its dark edges catching the glow of the lamp. It shouldn't matter; it was just a piece of paper. But the weight of it felt heavier than gold, as if holding it meant something had already shifted—like it had already marked me.
Sleep didn't come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him: the way he looked at me, the quiet danger in his voice, the unspoken promise in his smirk.
I told myself I wasn't going to call him and that I wouldn't let curiosity pull me into the fire but my body wouldn't listen to my mind. My skin still buzzed where his gaze had lingered, and my lips tingled as if they already knew the taste of his.
I laid there, staring at the ceiling, my heart racing a bit too fast. I knew something I wasn't ready to admit out loud: Adriane Cavallo hadn't just come into my house tonight; he had stepped into my life, and he wasn't going anywhere.