The antiseptic smell burned my nostrils as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glare filtering through my half-closed eyelids. My mouth felt like sandpaper and a dull throbb pulsed from the back of my head. Hospital. I was in a hospital. I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my ribs, stealing my breath.
The thin cotton blanket scratched against my skin as I sank back onto the stiff mattress. Easy there,” a nurse in blue scrubs murmured, her face swimming into focus above me. “You’ve been in an accident. Do you remember anything?” Fragments flickered through my mind. Screeching tires, shattering glass, a scream that might have been my own.
I shook my head slightly, instantly, regretting the movement. “That’s normal,” she said, adjusting something on the IV drip beside me. You have a concussion, three bruised ribs, and needed 12 stitches in your arm. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. Lucky? The word echoed hollowly in my mind. “Can I call someone for you?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“Family, friend?” I swallowed hard, wincing at the rawness in my throat. “There’s no one.” The lie came easily after years of practice. The truth was more complicated. There was someone, but he wasn’t exactly family or friend. What do you call the man who owns half the city’s underground? The man whose name makes hardened criminals tremble. The man who’d saved me once only to become my most exquisite prison.
You must have put someone as your emergency contact, the nurse said, checking the chart. We’ve already called them. Ice flooded my veins. What? Who? She glanced down at the paperwork. A Mr. Alexander Vega. The monitor beside me betrayed my panic with a sudden spike in beeping. I hadn’t listed Alex as my emergency contact. I hadn’t listed anyone.
Someone had altered my information and only one person had that kind of reach. When? I managed to rasp. When did you call him? About 20 minutes ago, she replied, frowning at my reaction. Is everything okay, Miss Reeves? 20 minutes. My mind raced. Alex’s main residence was 15 minutes from downtown with a driver who didn’t concern himself with speed limits. He would be here any moment.
I need to leave, I said, struggling against the pain to sit up again now. The nurse placed a firm hand on my shoulder. That’s not possible. You’ve sustained significant injuries. You need monitoring for at least. The subtle change in the hospital corridor’s atmosphere cut her off mid-sentence. A hush fell over the usual bustle of activity. The nurse turned toward the door, confusion crossing her features.
I didn’t need to look to know what was happening. I felt his presence before I saw him like a drop in barometric pressure before a devastating storm. Footsteps approached, multiple sets, heavy and purposeful. A security detail first, then a pause, and finally the distinctive sound of Italian leather shoes against Lenolium.
When Alexander Vega stepped into the doorway, the fluorescent lights seemed to dim in deference. 6 ft of coiled power in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, he filled the room with his presence. Dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on Renaissance sculptures, all sharp angles and cold perfection. But it was his eyes that always undid me. Pale blue, almost gray, like the heart of a glacier.
Beautiful and just as merciless. Those eyes found me now, narrowing slightly as they cataloged every visible injury. Something dangerous flickered in their depths. “Leave us,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. The nurse opened her mouth as if to protest, caught his gaze, and thought better of it.
“I’ll check on you later,” she murmured to me before slipping past him. Alex remained in the doorway for a moment, utterly still. When he finally moved into the room, it was with the liquid grace of a predator. His bodyguards remained outside, closing the door behind him. Sophia, he said my name like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one. What happened? I looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. Car accident. Nothing serious.
Nothing serious, he repeated, his Italian accent thickening with emotion. Is that why you’re lying in a hospital bed covered in bruises? He approached the bed, each step deliberate, until he stood beside me. The scent of his cologne, sandalwood, and something exclusively his, enveloped me, momentarily drowning out the hospital smells.
Without asking permission, he reached out, his fingertips ghosting over the bruise blooming on my cheekbone. I flinched, not from pain, but from the electric current that always seemed to pass between us at the slightest contact. Who did this to you? The question came out as a whisper, but I knew better than to be fooled by its softness.
The quieter Alex spoke, the more dangerous he became. It was an accident, I insisted. Some idiot ran a red light, his jaw clenched. License plate? I don’t remember. It happened so fast. Alex’s eyes held mine for a long moment. He knew I was lying. He always knew. Interesting, he said. Since the police report indicates a hit and run, very deliberate, according to witnesses, my heart stuttered.
How do you know what’s in the police report? A ghost of a smile touched his lips. This is my city, Toro. Nothing happens here that I don’t know about. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, typing a brief message before returning it to his pocket. Whatever order he’d just issued, I didn’t want to know the details. I didn’t list you as my emergency contact, I said, changing the subject.
How did they know to call you? I have arrangements in place, he replied vaguely. To ensure I’m always informed when it comes to your well-being. The casual admission of how thoroughly he monitored my life should have terrified me. Instead, I felt the familiar conflicting emotions he always stirred.
outrage at the invasion of privacy, waring with a secret shameful comfort that someone in this world cared enough to keep track of me. I don’t need your protection, I said, the words hollow even to my own ears. Alex’s expression softened fractionally. Evidence suggests otherwise. He moved to the window, looking out at the city sprawled below, his city as he saw it.
In profile, the sharp line of his jaw appeared carved from marble. For a man only 32 years old, he carried the weight of his empire with remarkable ease. “You haven’t been to the restaurant in 2 weeks,” he said, still gazing out the window. I stiffened. “The high-end Italian restaurant where I worked as a pastry chef was one of Alex’s legitimate businesses.
It was where we’d met 3 years ago, where everything had changed. I switched to morning shifts, I explained. The head chef needed help with breakfast service. He turned back to me, something unreadable crossing his features. You’ve been avoiding me. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. The truth hung between us, heavy and undeniable. After a moment, Alex sighed. A rare display of vulnerability.
The doctors say you’ll need care for at least a week. Someone to monitor the concussion, help with daily activities. I’ll manage, I said quickly. My apartment is small. I can reach everything I need. You won’t be going back to that apartment. The quiet certainty in his voice sent a chill down my spine. What do you mean? It’s not safe.
He approached the bed again, his expression resolute. You’re coming home with me, Alex. No, I can’t. It wasn’t a request, Sophia. Five simple words delivered without heat, but brooking no argument. This was the Alexander Vega the rest of the world knew. The man who commanded and expected absolute obedience.
You can’t just make decisions for me, I protested, ignoring the throbbing in my head. I’m not one of your employees or or possessions. Something darkened in his eyes. No. Then why did someone try to kill you today? The question landed like a physical blow. What are you talking about? The hit and run wasn’t random, he said, his voice dangerously calm.
The car waited for you to leave your building. It followed you for three blocks before accelerating. Fear gripped me cold and visceral. How could you possibly know that? He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. His surveillance of me extended far beyond what I had imagined. “Who would want to hurt me?” I asked, genuinely bewildered. “I’m nobody.
” Alex moved closer until his thighs pressed against the edge of the hospital bed. “You are far from nobody, Sophia Reeves. You are mine, and someone is trying to send me a message.” The possessiveness in his tone should have repelled me. Instead, it sent a forbidden thrill through my body that I immediately tried to suppress.
I haven’t been yours for a year, I reminded him, my voice barely audible, his lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. You’ve been mine since the moment you dropped that tray of canoli at my feet and looked up at me with those defiant green eyes. The memory surfaced unbidden, my utter mortification as the desserts I’d spent hours perfecting lay scattered across the restaurant’s marble floor. The imposing man in the tailored suit crouching down to help me.
the inexplicable connection that sparked between us when our hands touched. “That was a different time,” I said. “Before I knew who you really were, I never hid myself from you to sorrow,” he countered. “You saw exactly what you wanted to see. The harsh truth of his words stung.” “I had willfully ignored the signs, the reverent way people treated him, the hushed conversations that stopped when I entered rooms, the casual mentions of business that were never elaborated upon.
By the time I understood fully who Alexander Vega was, I was already too entangled, too compromised, too in love. A soft knock at the door interrupted us. One of Alex’s men opened it without waiting for a response. “Everything’s arranged, boss,” he said, his expression impassive. “Car’s waiting at the private exit. Doctor signed the release forms.” Alex nodded once, dismissing him.
“What release forms?” I asked, alarm rising in my throat. I can’t leave yet. You can and you will. Alex reached for a bag I hadn’t noticed before and placed it on the foot of the bed. Your clothes were ruined in the accident. These should fit. I recognized the designer logo on the bag with dismay.
You can’t just check me out against medical advice. His expression remained impassive. The doctor advised that you need rest, monitoring, and care. You’ll receive superior versions of all three at my house. Alex, please. I tried again, hearing the desperation in my voice. I can’t go back there. Not after everything. Something flickered in his eyes.
Hurt perhaps, though it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it. You’ll be in the guest wing. I won’t impose my presence on you beyond what’s necessary for your recovery. The concession surprised me. Alexander Vega wasn’t a man who compromised. and after I recover,” I asked cautiously, “we’ll discuss that when the time comes.
” He moved toward the door. “You have 5 minutes to change. I’ll be right outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded as final as a prison gate slamming shut.” Alone again, I stared at the ceiling, tears burning behind my eyes. I had spent a year building walls between us, creating distance, crafting the illusion of independence.
Now, in the space of an hour, those walls had crumbled. I was going back to the mansion on the hill, back to the man I’d fled from. Not out of fear for my safety, but fear for my soul. Because loving Alexander Vega meant losing pieces of myself I might never recover.
Outside the door, I heard his voice, soft but commanding, as he made arrangements by phone. I had no doubt that by the time we reached his home, everything would be prepared for my arrival. Alex controlled his world with meticulous precision, and whether I liked it or not, I was once again part of that world.
I reached for the bag of clothes, wincing at the pain that shot through my ribs. Whatever game fate was playing with me, the board had been reset. But this time, I promised myself as I slowly, painfully began to dress, I wouldn’t lose myself in Alexander Vega’s orbit again. Even as I made the promise, a treacherous voice in the back of my mind whispered that it might already be too late.
The transition from hospital to Alex’s Bentley passed in a blur of pain medication and careful movements. His security team created a protective barrier around us, shielding me from curious eyes as we exited through a private entrance. Alex’s hand rested at the small of my back, ostensibly supportive, but unmistakably possessive. The car interior enveloped me in butter soft leather and blessed silence.
As we pulled away from the hospital, I leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city slide by through heavy-litted eyes. Buildings grew sparser, replaced by manicured landscapes as we headed toward the exclusive cliffside neighborhood where Alex’s mansion stood apart from the others.
Higher, more isolated with a commanding view of both the city and the ocean beyond. “You should rest,” Alex said, his voice low. He sat beside me, but maintained a careful distance, as if honoring some invisible boundary. I didn’t respond, focusing instead on the rhythmic sweep of windshield wipers against a light drizzle that had begun to fall.
The rain transformed the world outside into a smeared watercol of grays and muted blues, matching my mood perfectly despite my determination to stay alert. Exhaustion pulled at me. My eyes drifted closed and I slipped into a restless half-sleep filled with fragmented dreams of screeching tires and shattering glass. I woke with a start as the car slowed, rolling through the imposing rot iron gates that marked the entrance to Alex’s estate.
Security cameras tracked our progress up the long winding driveway flanked by perfectly pruned cypress trees. The mansion loomed ahead, a modern fortress of stone and glass that somehow managed to be both breathtaking and intimidating. “We’re here,” Alex said unnecessarily, studying my expression with those penetrating eyes.
The car stopped at the front entrance where a middle-aged woman waited under the shelter of a large black umbrella. Mrs. Russo, Alex’s housekeeper, had been with his family since before he was born. Her lined face showed genuine concern as Alex helped me from the car. “Do me Sophia?” she murmured, her Italian accent thicker than Alex’s more polished one. “What have they done to you?” “Before I could answer,” Alex spoke. “She needs rest, Mrs.
Russo, everything prepared as I instructed. Of course, Mr. Vega. She nodded briskly. The blue suite in the guest wing. Dr. Marlo will be here in an hour. The blue suite? My throat tightened. During the year I’d lived here with Alex. The blue suite had been mine whenever I needed space. My sanctuary within his domain.
The fact that he remembered this small detail unsettled me more than I cared to admit. I don’t need a doctor, I protested weakly as we entered the soaring foyer with its marble floors and sweeping staircase. Dr. Marlo is on my payroll, Alex replied, his tone making it clear the matter wasn’t open for discussion. He’s discreet and thorough.
The implication was clear. A doctor who answered to Alex wouldn’t report suspicious injuries or ask uncomfortable questions. I wanted to object on principle, but lacked the energy for a battle I couldn’t win. Walking through the mansion felt like stepping back in time. Everything was exactly as I remembered.
The priceless artwork, the subtle scent of lemon polish and fresh flowers, the hushed atmosphere of wealth and power. My fingers trailed along the familiar banister as we ascended the stairs, muscle memory guiding me despite my year-long absence. At the door to the blue suite, Alex paused. Mrs. Russo will help you settle in. Is there anything specific you need? The formality in his voice created a different kind of ache than my physical injuries.
There had been a time when he would have carried me across this threshold without asking when the space beyond this door had been a shared retreat rather than an assigned accommodation. No, I said softly. Thank you. His eyes held mine for a long moment before he nodded once and stepped back. I have calls to make. I’ll check on you after Dr. Marlo’s visit.
I watched him walk away, his shoulders set in a rigid line beneath his perfect suit. Only when he disappeared around the corner, did I allow Mrs. Russo to usher me into the room. The suite was exactly as I remembered, yet subtly different. The pale blue walls and ocean inspired decor remained, but new books lined the shelves.
Recent releases I’d mentioned wanting to read. Fresh flowers, white peies, my favorite, adorned the nightstand. The bathroom was stocked with the expensive French toiletries I preferred. These weren’t hasty preparations made in the hour since my accident. The room had been maintained, waiting, as if Alex had always expected my return. Mrs.
Russo helped me change into silk pajamas that felt blessedly soft against my bruised skin. You gave us quite a scare, Mia, she said as she turned down the bed. Mr. Vega has been beside himself since the call came. I lowered myself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress. I’m sure he was just inconvenienced. The older woman gave me a knowing look.
That man has not been the same since you left. He works too much, sleeps too little. She adjusted the pillows with practiced efficiency. The light went out of his eyes. Mrs. Russo, I began, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I know, I know, she waved a dismissive hand. Not my business, but I’ve known that boy since he was in diapers. What I see, I see.
She helped me into bed, then bustled around the room, adjusting curtains and checking that everything was in place. The doctor will be here soon. Try to rest until then. When she left, I sank back against the pillows, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Being back in this house, surrounded by reminders of the life I’d shared with Alex, made it harder to maintain the emotional walls I’d so carefully constructed. The room’s quiet luxury enveloped me like a familiar embrace.
Through the large windows, I could see the ocean stretching to the horizon, steel gray beneath the overcast sky. I had missed this view, had dreamed of it in my cramped apartment with its uninspiring outlook of the neighboring building’s brick wall. A soft knock at the door roused me from my thoughts. Expecting Mrs.
Russo or the doctor, I called, “Come in.” Instead, it was Alex who entered, carrying a silver tray. He had removed his suit jacket and tie, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin. The more casual appearance made him seem younger, more approachable, and therefore more dangerous to my resolve. “Mrs.
Russo is preparing soup, he explained, setting the tray on the bedside table. I thought you might want tea while you wait. The domesticity of the gesture caught me off guard. Alexander Vega, feared by criminals across the city, was bringing me tea like any concerned partner might. “Thank you,” I murmured, watching as he poured from a delicate porcelain pot into a matching cup.
The familiar ritual transported me back to countless mornings and evenings, shared in comfortable silence. He handed me the cup, careful to avoid brushing my fingers with his own. Dr. Marlo is running late. There’s an accident on the coastal road. I nodded, cradling the warm cup in my hands. It’s fine. I’m feeling
better already. Alex’s expression remained neutral.
But his eyes, those impossibly perceptive eyes, saw through the lie. Your pain medication is wearing off. There’s more on the tray as prescribed. I glanced at the small pill cup and glass of water he’d brought. “I don’t like how they make me feel foggy.” “You need to rest to heal properly,” he countered. “I need to keep my wits about me,” I replied pointedly.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Still don’t trust me, Sophia?” The question hung in the air between us. Deceptively simple, yet loaded with history. “I trust you not to hurt me physically,” I finally answered. “It’s the other kinds of hurt I’m concerned about.
” He absorbed this with a slight nod, neither defending himself nor denying the implied accusation. Take the medication. I promise not to take advantage of your vulnerable state. The faint irony in his tone suggested he found my caution amusing, even unnecessary. It stoked a familiar frustration. This isn’t a joke, Alex. You can’t just insert yourself back into my life because of one accident. His expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
Is that what you think this is? An opportunity I’m exploiting? Isn’t it? I challenged. You’ve had me watched for a year. You altered my medical information. Now I’m back in your house, dependent on you again. Alex set down his teacup with deliberate care. Someone tried to kill you today, Sophia. This isn’t about us. It’s about keeping you alive.
Why would anyone want to kill me? I asked, voicing the question that had been haunting me since he first suggested the accident was deliberate. I’m just a pastry chef. A pastry chef who was involved with me, he corrected. My enemies know I have few vulnerabilities. You are one of them. The admission surprised me.
During our time together, Alex had never openly acknowledged how deeply I affected him. His control had been too absolute, his walls too high. We haven’t been together for a year, I reminded him. Surely your enemies know that. Something flashed in his eyes. Anger perhaps or pain. Our relationship status is irrelevant. What matters is what they believe would hurt me. The implication sent a shiver through me.
So, I’m a target because they think I still matter to you. You do still matter, he said quietly. You’ve always mattered. The simple statement delivered without his usual calculation struck me speechless. In the year we’d been apart, I’d convinced myself that I had been nothing more than a diversion to him.
A pleasant companion, a convenient lover, but ultimately dispensable. Before I could formulate a response, his phone vibrated. He checked it with a frown. The doctor is at the gate. I’ll send him up when he arrives. He moved toward the door, then paused. Take the medication, Sophia, please. The rare use of please from a man accustomed to commanding rather than requesting caught me off guard. I nodded reluctantly.
Thank you, he said, and was gone before I could reply. I swallowed the pills with a sigh, knowing he was right about the pain, even if I resented the vulnerability the medication created. Sinking back against the pillows, I let my gaze drift to the windows again. Rain streaked the glass now, distorting the view beyond. Dr. Marlo arrived 15 minutes later.
A distinguished man in his 60s with kind eyes that belied his association with someone like Alex. His examination was thorough but gentle. His manner professional without being cold. Your hospital colleagues did a good job, he concluded, repacking his bag. The concussion is mild. Ribs are bruised, not broken. The stitches are clean and should heal with minimal scarring.
When can I leave? I asked, then clarified at his raised eyebrow. Not the house. Bed. When can I be up and around? Tomorrow, if you feel up to it, short periods at first, he handed me a small bottle of pills. For pain, as needed. No more than 4 and 24 hours. Any dizziness, vomiting, or increased pain, call me immediately. After he left, exhaustion claimed me.
The medication pulled me under into a deep sleep where dreams and memories blurred together. Alex’s hands, gentle despite their strength, his voice whispering Italian endearments against my skin. The gradual realization of who and what he was. The night I finally found the courage to walk away.
I woke to darkness and the sensation of being watched. Moonlight spilled through a gap in the curtains, illuminating a figure seated in the armchair beside the bed. My heart leaped before recognition set in. “You should be sleeping,” Alex said softly. “So should you,” I replied, my voice thick with interrupted sleep. “What time is it?” “Just after midnight.” I struggled to sit up, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles.
“Have you been there long?” He didn’t answer directly. “You were having nightmares. The admission embarrassed me.” “The medication? You said my name, he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. You sounded afraid. I looked away, uncomfortable with the vulnerability. I don’t remember, Alex stood, moving to the windows to adjust the curtains.
In profile against the moonlight, he looked almost ethereal, a study in silver and shadow. “I’ve made inquiries about the accident,” he said, changing the subject. The car was stolen, abandoned 10 blocks from the scene. No witnesses saw the driver. Professional, I murmured. Yes. His jaw tightened, which narrows the list of suspects.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, suddenly cold. Do you know who ordered it? Alex turned back to face me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. I have suspicions. I’ll know more tomorrow. And then, and then I’ll handle it. three simple words that contained multitudes of menace.
This was the side of Alex I had tried hardest to reconcile with the man who held me tenderly, who remembered how I took my tea, who could discuss art and literature with genuine passion, the man who handled problems with ruthless efficiency, whose enemies had a habit of disappearing. Don’t, I said quietly.
Whatever you’re planning, don’t do it for me. He moved closer until he stood at the foot of the bed. Would you prefer I let them try again? Perhaps succeed next time. I’d prefer not having more blood on my conscience, I countered. Enough people have been hurt because of our connection. Something shifted in his stance. A subtle tensing I recognized as anger carefully controlled. You speak as if I forced this life on you.
You knew who I was, Sophia. You chose to stay until I couldn’t anymore. I whispered. He absorbed this like a physical blow, his shoulders squaring against it. Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow. As he moved toward the door, a sudden fear gripped me. Not of him, but for him. Alex, he paused, hand on the door knob.
Be careful, I said, the words escaping before I could consider their implications. Whatever you’re doing, just be careful. For a long moment, he remained perfectly still. Then, without turning, sleep well to Zoro. The door closed softly behind him, leaving me alone with the moonlight and the unsettling realization that despite everything, the pain, the fear, the year of separation, some part of me still cared deeply what happened to Alexander Vega.
And that made me more vulnerable than any physical injury ever could. Morning arrived with gentle persistence. Sunlight filtering through the curtains Alex had adjusted during the night. For a disorienting moment, I felt as though the past year had been nothing but a dream. That I had never left this room, this house, this life.
The illusion shattered as I shifted, and pain flared across my ribs. Reality came rushing back. the accident, the hospital, Alex’s insistence that someone had tried to kill me, the impossible situation I now found myself in. A soft knock at the door preceded Mrs. Russo’s entrance. She carried a breakfast tray and a motherly smile that warmed despite my circumstances. Bonjouro, Sophia, how are we feeling this morning? She set the tray on the bedside table.
Fresh fruit, yogurt, toast, and coffee prepared exactly as I liked it. better. Thank you, I lied, pushing myself to a sitting position with more effort than I wanted to admit. Mrs. Russo’s knowing eyes missed nothing. The first day after is always the worst. By tomorrow, you’ll feel more human again.
She bustled around the room, opening curtains to reveal a brilliant blue sky that contrasted sharply with yesterday’s gloom. The ocean beyond the windows sparkled like scattered diamonds, a view I had once found endlessly soothing. Mr. Vega asked that you call him when you wake, she said, placing my cell phone on the tray. He’s been up since dawn making arrangements. I tensed.
Arrangements for what? Mrs. Russo shrugged, the gesture elegantly Italian. Not my business to know, but he has had many calls, many visitors already. She paused at the door. Your clothes are in the closet. Not the old ones, new ones. He had them brought this morning. After she left, I stared at the phone, torn between curiosity and dread about these arrangements.
The fact that Alex had already purchased new clothes for me in the correct sizes, undoubtedly, was both thoughtful and unsettling. It suggested he was planning for more than a short-term stay. I ate slowly, savoring the perfect coffee and fresh fruit that made my usual breakfast of hastily eaten toast seemed pathetic by comparison. This was the insidious danger of Alex’s world.
The comfort, the luxury, the way every need was anticipated and met before you even recognized it yourself. It made it too easy to forget the price. When I could delay no longer, I picked up the phone and dialed his number, still committed to memory despite my best efforts to forget it. He answered on the first ring.
Sophia, how are you feeling? His voice, deep and accented, sent an involuntary shiver through me. Sore, but better. Mrs. Russo said you wanted me to call. Yes, I’ll be in meetings most of the day, but I’ve arranged for additional security at the house. Don’t be alarmed by the new faces. My stomach tightened. Is that necessary? A brief pause. Yes.
The single syllable delivered with such certainty chilled me. Did you find something out about the accident? Well discuss it when I get home, he said, his tone making it clear the subject was closed for now. Marco will be your direct security detail. If you need anything or if you wish to move around the house, he’ll accompany you.
A babysitter, I said flatly. A bodyguard, Alex corrected, a hint of steel entering his voice. This isn’t negotiable, Sophia. I knew that tone too well to argue. Fine. What time will you be back? Early evening, barring complications. Dr. Marlo will check on you at noon. A muffled voice spoke in the background.
I need to go. Rest to Zoro. We’ll talk tonight. The line disconnected before I could respond. I set the phone down with a sigh, already feeling the walls of my luxurious cage closing in. After finishing breakfast, I decided to test my limits. The walk to the bathroom was slow and painful. but manageable.
The face that greeted me in the mirror was a shock. Pale skin, dark circles beneath my eyes, an angry bruise blooming across my left cheekbone. No wonder Alex had looked at me with such concern. The shower was a painful production that left me exhausted but feeling more human. Wrapped in a plush robe, I ventured to the closet, curious despite myself about these new clothes. What I found stopped me in my tracks.
The walk-in closet was filled not with a few essentials as I’d expected, but with a complete wardrobe. Dresses, casual wear, shoes, even lingerie, all in my exact size and preferred styles, brands I could never afford on my chef’s salary, hung in neat rows, price tags conspicuously removed.
The extravagance was so typically Alex, overwhelming, unnecessary, and oddly touching in its thoroughess. He had always expressed care through abundance. Unable to comprehend that sometimes less could be more. I selected the simplest outfit I could find. Soft leggings and an oversized sweater that wouldn’t press against my bruised ribs and dressed carefully.
The effort left me breathing hard but determined to escape the confines of the bedroom. As promised, Marco waited in the hallway outside my door. a mountain of a man with closecropped hair and the watchful eyes of someone who had seen too much violence to be surprised by it anymore. Ms. Reeves, he acknowledged with a slight nod.
Where would you like to go? His formality reminded me of when I’d first moved in with Alex, how his security team had regarded me with polite suspicion. Uncertain what role I played in their boss’s life. It had taken months to earn their respect, to be seen as more than just another of Alex’s fleeting interests, the kitchen. I decided I need to thank Mrs. Russo for breakfast.
Marco nodded and fell into step beside me, maintaining a respectful distance while keeping me in his peripheral vision. As we moved through the house, I noticed the additional security Alex had mentioned, unfamiliar men stationed at key points, communicating via discrete earpieces. The mansion had always been secure, but this level of protection suggested a threat more immediate than I wanted to contemplate. The kitchen, a sprawling, state-of-the-art space where I had once spent countless hours experimenting with
recipes, was empty except for Mrs. Russo, who was kneading dough with practiced movements. “Ah, you’re up,” she exclaimed, wiping flour from her hands. “Sit. Sit! You look pale.” I eased onto a stool at the island counter, inhaling the comforting scent of fresh bread. I wanted to thank you for breakfast and to escape that room for a while.
She smiled knowingly. The blue suite is beautiful, but any room becomes a prison if you can’t leave it. She glanced at Marco, who had taken up position near the door. Would you like tea? Or perhaps you’d rather bake something. Baking always settled you before. The suggestion was tempting. Baking had always been my refuge.
the precise measurements, the predictable chemical reactions, the way flour and butter and sugar could transform into something greater than the sum of their parts. It had been my escape long before I met Alex and had become my salvation after I left him. Maybe something simple, I agreed. Shortbread? Mrs. Russo’s face brightened. Mr. Vega still talks about your shortbread. He says no one makes it like you do.
I tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed in my chest at this revelation. “Does he?” I would have thought he’d hired a new pastry chef with more impressive credentials by now. “Oh, he did,” she said, resuming her kneading. “Three different ones in the past year. None lasted more than 2 months. He found fault with everything they made. The implication hung in the air between us.
Alex had been comparing them to me, finding them wanting, not because of their skills, but because they weren’t me. It was exactly the kind of possessive behavior that had contributed to my decision to leave. Before I could respond, Marco’s phone vibrated. He checked it, his expression shifting subtly. Mr. Vega is on his way back. Unexpected change of plans. Mrs. Russo and I exchanged glances.
Alex rarely changed his schedule on short notice. His business dealings required meticulous planning and deviations usually signaled trouble. “Is everything all right?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Marco’s face gave nothing away. He didn’t say, “Ma’am.
” The formal address, so different from the familiar way Alex’s security team had eventually come to treat me, was another reminder of how completely I had extracted myself from this world, or thought I had. “Well, then,” Mrs. Russo said brightly, clearly trying to dispel the sudden tension. Perhaps baking should wait. You look tired, Sophia. Why don’t you rest in the sun room until Mr.
Vega arrives? It was always your favorite place in the afternoon. The suggestion was well-intentioned, but the mention of the sun room sent a pang through my heart that had nothing to do with my physical injuries. The sun room, with its wall of windows overlooking the cliff, its comfortable reading nooks, its perfect light, had been our space.
where we’d spent lazy Sunday mornings reading in companionable silence, where Alex had first told me he loved me. Where I had finally confronted him about the true nature of his business after finding a gun hidden in his desk. I think I’ll go back to my room, I said quietly. The pain medication makes me drowsy.
Mrs. Russo nodded, but the sympathy in her eyes told me she understood the real reason for my retreat. The walk back to the blue suite felt longer. my body protesting the exertion. By the time Marco left me at my door with a respectful nod, I was genuinely ready to rest.
I sank onto the bed, not bothering to remove the sweater or leggings, and closed my eyes. Sleep came swiftly, dreamless and deep, the kind that feels like falling into darkness. I woke to the sensation of being watched. Opening my eyes, I found Alex seated in the same chair he’d occupied the night before. Still in his business suit, but with tie loosened and collar unbuttoned.
His face showed signs of strain I hadn’t noticed earlier. Slight shadows beneath his eyes, tension around his mouth. “How long have you been there?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep. “Not long.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you. I pushed myself up against the pillows, wincing as my ribs protested.
Marco said there was a change of plans. Alex’s expression darkened. Yes. We identified the driver of the car that hit you, but my heart rate accelerated. And he’s dead. The words were delivered flatly without emotion. Shot execution style in an abandoned warehouse on the waterfront. I stared at him, processing the implication. you? No.
Alex rubbed a hand over his jaw, the faint rasp of stubble audible in the quiet room. If it had been me, it would have taken longer, and he would have told me who hired him before the end. The casual brutality of the statement should have horrified me. Instead, I felt a disturbing flicker of relief that it hadn’t been Alex’s doing, followed immediately by shame at my reaction. Then who? I asked.
That’s the concerning part. He stood, moving to the window with the restless energy I remembered so well. Whoever hired him is cleaning up loose ends, which means this wasn’t a warning or a message. It was a genuine attempt on your life. The chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
I don’t understand. Who would want me dead? I’m not involved in your business. I haven’t been for a year. Alex turned back to me, his expression grave. That’s what I’ve been trying to determine. The most logical conclusion is that someone is targeting you to get to me. But we’re not together anymore, I protested. Anyone who’s done their research would know that.
We are now, he pointed out. You’re here under my protection. That’s all they need to see. The implications struck me with sudden clarity. You think they’ll try again? It wasn’t a question, but Alex nodded anyway. Yes. which is why you can’t leave this house until we identify and eliminate the threat.
Eliminate, I repeated, the euphemism hanging heavily between us. You mean kill? His eyes, those pale, beautiful, merciless eyes, met mine without flinching. Yes. The simple confirmation of what I already knew, that Alex would kill to protect what he considered his reopened the fundamental conflict that had torn us apart.
his capacity for violence, his willingness to be judge, jury, and executioner when he deemed it necessary. “There must be another way,” I said, knowing even as the words left my mouth how naive they sounded. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Always the optimist to sorrow. It’s one of the things I’ve missed most about you.” The casual admission caught me off guard.
During our time together, Alex had rarely expressed sentiment or vulnerability. His control extended to his emotions, which were kept as carefully regulated as every other aspect of his life. “Don’t,” I said softly. “Don’t pretend this is about missing me. This is about your pride, your territory. Someone touched what you consider yours, and now you need to reassert control.” Anger flashed in his eyes.
There and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Is that what you think? That this is about my ego, isn’t it? I challenged. You let me walk away a year ago. You didn’t fight for me then. You didn’t want me to fight for you, he countered. You made that abundantly clear. The truth of his words stung.
I had left without warning, slipping away while he was on a business trip to Milan. My note had been brief, final, explaining that I couldn’t reconcile myself to who he was, what he did. I had asked him not to look for me, not to contact me, to let me go cleanly, and somewhat to my surprise, he had respected my wishes, at least on the surface. He hadn’t approached me, hadn’t called or texted.
I’d kept my job at his restaurant only because I knew he rarely visited the location, and when he did, it was never during my shifts. “So, what changed?” I asked. Why am I suddenly worth protecting now when you let me go before? Alex moved closer until he stood at the foot of the bed. I respected your decision because I thought you would be safer away from me. I kept my distance for the same reason.
His voice lowered, but I never stopped watching over you, Sophia. Never. The admission should have angered me. The invasion of privacy, the presumption. Instead, it stirred complicated emotions. I wasn’t prepared to examine. That doesn’t answer my question, I insisted. Why the sudden hands-on approach? His jaw tightened.
Because whoever is behind this wasn’t satisfied with targeting me directly. They chose to go after the one person. He stopped abruptly. The one person what? I prompted. Alex looked away, his profile sharp against the late afternoon light. the one person I can’t bear to lose,” he finished quietly.
“Even if I’ve already lost you in every way that matters, the raw honesty in his voice rendered me momentarily speechless. This was a side of Alex I had glimpsed only rarely during our time together. Vulnerability beneath the armor of power and control. Alex,” I began, not entirely sure what I wanted to say. His phone vibrated, breaking the moment. He checked it with a frown, then looked back at me. I need to take this.
We’ll continue our conversation at dinner. Dinner. 7:00. If you feel up to coming downstairs, Mrs. Russo will serve in the small dining room. He moved toward the door. Once again, the controlled businessman. Marco will escort you. After he left, I sank back against the pillows, emotions churning. The one person I can’t bear to lose.
The words played on repeat in my mind, undermining the careful detachment I had cultivated over the past year. Dr. Marlo’s visit at 4 provided a welcome distraction. He pronounced me healing nicely and cleared me for moderate activity. When I asked how long I would need to stay under Alex’s protection, he carefully avoided the question, a sure sign that Alex had instructed him not to give me an easy timeline. By 6:30, restlessness drove me to prepare for dinner.
I chose the simplest dress from the extensive wardrobe Alex had provided, a navy blue wrap style that covered my bruises while requiring minimal effort to put on. The woman in the mirror looked better than she had that morning, but still pale, still haunted. Marco appeared promptly at 7 to escort me downstairs.
The small dining room, an intimate space compared to the formal dining room where Alex entertained business associates, was bathed in candle light. The table was set for two, crystal glasses catching and multiplying the soft light. Alex was already there, standing at the window with a glass of wine. He had changed into black slacks and a charcoal cashmere sweater that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.
He turned as we entered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. “You look beautiful,” he said, the simple statement holding no artifice. “I look like I’ve been hit by a car,” I corrected Riley. A faint smile touched his lips. Even so, he dismissed Marco with a nod and pulled out my chair.
The gesture reminded me of our first real date, how his impeccable manners had both charmed and amused me. Back then I had thought them the product of a privileged upbringing. Only later did I learn they were a deliberate cultivation, part of the reinvention of a boy from the poorest part of the city, who had clawed his way to the top through intelligence, ruthlessness, and an absolute refusal to be defined by his origins.
Dinner was a masterpiece of Mrs. Russo’s talents, poached sea bass, roasted vegetables, fresh bread. Alex poured me a glass of white wine, then raised his own in a silent toast. I sipped cautiously, aware of the pain medication still in my system. Your color is better, he observed as we began to eat. How are you feeling? Better, I admitted. Still sore, but the fog is clearing.
He nodded, satisfied. Good. Dr. Marlo says you’re healing well. We ate in silence for a few minutes. The familiar routine of dining together, both comforting and disorienting. After so much time apart, I found myself studying him when he wasn’t looking.
The strong lines of his face, the slight flexcks of gray at his temples that hadn’t been there a year ago, the way he still cut his food with surgical precision. “You’ve lost weight,” I said before I could stop myself. His eyes flicked up to meet mine. Surprise evident. “Have I?” “Yes,” I set down my fork. Mrs. Russo mentioned, “You’ve been working too much.” A faint smile curved his lips.
“Spying on me?” Toro hardly just making conversation. I looked away, annoyed at the familiar heat his use of that endearment still kindled. Alex took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. Ask what you really want to know, Sophia. The challenge was delivered quietly, but with the confidence of someone who still believed he could read me like an open book. Fine, I said, meeting his gaze directly.
Who’s trying to kill me? And why now, after all this time, his expression darkened. We have a theory, not one I like. Tell me. He set down his glass, choosing his words with obvious care. Do you remember Paulo Valentini? The name sent an involuntary chill down my spine. Your former business partner, the one who disappeared shortly before I met you. Alex nodded.
He didn’t disappear. He was arrested in Madrid on multiple charges. He’s been in prison for the past 4 years. His jaw tightened until 3 weeks ago when he was released on a technicality. The implications settled over me like a cold shadow. And you think he’s behind the attempt on my life? It fits his profile.
Paulo was always theatrical in his vengeance and he blames me for his arrest. Were you responsible? I asked, the question slipping out before I could reconsider. Alex’s eyes met mine, unflinching. Yes. He was dealing in human trafficking. Children, I don’t tolerate that. The stark admission hung between us.
This was the contradiction that had always haunted me. A man capable of ordering deaths, running illegal operations, controlling a network of criminal enterprises, yet adhering to a strict moral code that drew lines even he wouldn’t cross. Why target me? I finally asked. Why not come after you directly? Because Paulo knows me better than most, Alex replied.
He knows that physical threats mean little to me, but hurting someone I care about, he trailed off, leaving the conclusion unspoken. So, I’m collateral damage in a vendetta against you, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. How long will this go on? How long will I be a prisoner here? Alex’s expression hardened. You’re not a prisoner, Sophia. You’re under protection.
A gilded cage is still a cage, I countered. He set down his utensils with careful precision. Would you prefer I left you exposed, vulnerable to another attempt that might succeed where the first failed? I’d prefer to have a choice in how my life is arranged. I shot back. Something I haven’t had since the moment you got that hospital call. A muscle ticked in his jaw, the only outward sign of his tightly controlled anger.
When Paulo is no longer a threat, you’ll be free to return to your life. Until then, this is the safest option. And how will Paulo cease to be a threat? I asked, though I already knew the answer. Alex held my gaze, his eyes cold and clear as winter. By whatever means necessary.
The next few days established a strange rhythm, a simulacum of domestic life underscored by the constant presence of security and the unspoken tension between Alex and me. My physical healing progressed steadily, the bruises fading from angry purple to sickly yellow, the pain in my ribs dulling to a manageable ache, the stitches in my arm beginning to itch as the wound knit itself together.
Each morning, I woke to fresh flowers in my room, and breakfast served precisely how I liked it. Each afternoon, I wandered the mansion under Marco’s watchful eye, rediscovering spaces that held too many memories. Each evening, Alex and I shared dinner, our conversation skirting the edges of what remained unspoken between us.
He never mentioned Paulo Valentini again after that first night. And I didn’t ask. The less I knew about whatever minations were unfolding beyond the mansion’s walls, the less complicit I would feel in their outcome. It was the same willful ignorance I had attempted during our relationship, the deliberate blindness that had ultimately proven impossible to maintain.
On the fourth day, restlessness drove me to the kitchen. Mrs. Russo welcomed my offer to help prepare dinner. Her knowing smile suggesting she recognized my need for purposeful activity. Baking had always been my therapy, my meditation, the one place where I felt completely in control. “Mr.
Vega will be pleased,” she said, setting out flour and butter for me. “He always said, “Your hands were magic with pastry. I focused on measuring ingredients with precise care. This isn’t for Alex. It’s for me. I need to feel useful. She nodded, tactfully, changing the subject. How are you healing? The bruises look better.
I’m fine, I replied automatically, then amended. Better? Still sore, but improving. We worked in companionable silence, me preparing a pair and almond tart while she assembled the main course. The familiar motions soothed me, the careful measuring, the kneading of dough, the methodical slicing of fruit.
For a little while, I could almost forget the circumstances that had brought me back to this kitchen. You know, Mrs. Russo said casually as she chopped herbs. He never brought anyone else here after you left. I kept my eyes on the pastry I was crimping. That’s hardly surprising. We were only together for a year. The non-committal sound managed to convey volumes of disagreement. Long enough for him to give you his mother’s ring. My fingers faltered.
He told you about that? He didn’t have to. Mrs. Russo glanced at my bare left hand. I recognized it the moment you started wearing it. I was there when his father gave it to his mother. The ring, an elegant emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds, had been presented without fanfare one quiet evening. It belongs with you now,” Alex had said simply, sliding it onto my finger.
Only later did I learn its significance, that it had been his mother’s most treasured possession, one of the few items of value his father had managed to give her before his murder. “I had left it on his desk when I departed, unable to take something so precious when I was abandoning its giver. “That was a different time,” I said, resuming my work with forced concentration. Mrs. Russo gave me a long look. The heart doesn’t know time, Karamia.
Nor does it recognize the convenient boundaries we try to draw before I could formulate a response. Marco appeared in the doorway. Ms. Reeves, Mr. Vega would like to see you in his study. The formal request delivered through an intermediary when Alex could easily have texted or called me directly, suggested business rather than personal matters. Apprehension settled in my stomach.
now?” I asked, gesturing to my flower covered hands. Marco nodded. He said, “It’s important.” Mrs. Russo took the tart from me. Go. I’ll finish this. Wash your hands and don’t keep him waiting. Alex’s study, a spacious room lined with bookshelves and dominated by a massive desk of dark wood, had always been his sanctuary.
During our time together, I had rarely entered it uninvited. Recognizing it as the place where the man I loved became the man others feared, Marco left me at the door with a respectful nod. I knocked lightly, then entered at Alex’s muffled, “Come in.” He stood by the windows, phone to his ear, his back to the door. The set of his shoulders betrayed tension that hadn’t been present at breakfast.
“Keep me updated,” he said to whoever was on the line, then ended the call and turned to face me. You wanted to see me?” I asked, remaining near the door. Alex gestured to one of the leather chairs facing his desk. “Please sit. There’s been a development.” I perched on the edge of the chair, suddenly conscious of my casual appearance.
Leggings and an oversized sweater, hair pulled back in a messy bun, traces of flower probably still visible despite my hasty washing. Alex remained standing, leaning against the desk rather than sitting behind it. The position put us nearly at eye level. A deliberate choice that I recognized as an attempt to equalize our dynamic.
Paulo Valentini has made contact, he said without preamble. My heart stuttered with you. Through intermediaries, he’s proposed a meeting. Why? The question emerged as barely more than a whisper. Alex’s expression remained carefully neutral. He claims he wasn’t behind the attempt on your life. He wants to clear the air. Establish that we don’t need to be at war. Do you believe him? No.
The single syllable was delivered with absolute certainty. It’s a trap designed to draw me out. I studied his face, searching for clues to his thoughts. Then why consider meeting at all? Because ignoring him ensures he’ll try again. With you, with me, with someone else in my organization. Alex pushed away from the desk, moving to pour two glasses of water from a crystal decanter.
The defensive position isn’t sustainable long term. He handed me a glass, his fingers carefully avoiding contact with mine. I’m telling you this because it affects your safety. The meeting is set for tomorrow evening. Where? Neutral ground. A private dining room at the Belleview Hotel. The venue surprised me.
That’s very public. exactly why he chose it. Harder to anticipate all variables in a public setting. Alex took a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his glass. My security team is working on contingencies, but the situation is fluid. I set my untouched glass on a side table.
Why are you really telling me this? You’ve been handling everything else without consultation. A flicker of something, possibly admiration, crossed his features, always perceptive to Sorro. He set his own glass down. I’m telling you because I need you to remain here tomorrow under heightened security. No excursions, not even within the house. Stay in your suite. The directive delivered in his business tone. Sparked a familiar rebellion.
I’m not one of your employees, Alex. You don’t get to confine me to quarters. His jaw tightened. This isn’t about authority. It’s about safety. If something goes wrong tomorrow, this house could become a target. The implication sent a chill through me. You’re saying he might come here after me? It’s one possible scenario we’re preparing for. Alex’s voice softened slightly.
I don’t want to frighten you, Sophia. The probability is low, but I need to know you’re secure while I deal with this situation. I stood, suddenly unable to remain still. And if something happens to you, what then? Do I just stay locked in this gilded cage indefinitely? Alex’s expression remained impassive.
But his eyes, those expressive eyes that had always betrayed his true feelings, revealed a flash of genuine surprise at my concern. If something happens to me, he said carefully. Giorgio has instructions to ensure your safe passage to anywhere you wish to go. A new identity, sufficient funds, complete disappearance. The detailed contingency plan stunned me into momentary silence.
He had considered not only his own potential death, but what would happen to me afterward, had crafted an escape route that would provide for my safety and comfort long after he was gone. “I don’t want to disappear,” I finally said, my voice barely audible. “And I don’t want you walking into a trap.” Alex moved closer, close enough that I could detect the familiar scent of his cologne.
“Are you worried about me, Toro?” The question asked without mockery or presumption deserved an honest answer. Yes, I admitted despite everything. Yes. Something shifted in his expression. A softening around the eyes, a slight release of the tension he carried in his jaw. He lifted his hand as if to touch my face, then let it fall back to his side.
I’ve survived worse situations than this, he said quietly. and I have every intention of returning tomorrow night. The unspoken implication, returning to me, hung in the air between us. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” I said, the words emerging before I could censor them. Alex’s eyes held mine. “I promise.
” After a beat, he added, “Will you do as I ask? Stay in your suite tomorrow?” I nodded reluctantly. “Yes, but I want updates. Real ones, not sanitized reassurances.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. You always did hate being handled with kid gloves. He glanced at his watch. Security preparations.
Recognizing the dismissal, I moved toward the door, then paused with my hand on the knob. Alex. He looked up from his desk where he’d already begun reviewing what appeared to be building plans. Yes. Why did you let me go? The question had haunted me for a year. And now with the possibility of losing him permanently looming before us, I needed to know.
When I left, you could have found me, brought me back. You didn’t even try. Pain flashed across his features there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Because you asked me to let you go, he said simply. and I discovered that the one thing I couldn’t do, even for myself, was deny you what you truly wanted. The raw honesty in his voice rendered me speechless.
I nodded once and slipped out of the study, closing the door softly behind me. The remainder of the day passed in a haze of nervous energy. I finished the tart under Mrs. Russo’s watchful eye took a long shower that did little to clear my head, and eventually found myself on the terrace as evening fell, watching the sun sink into the ocean in a blaze of orange and gold.
Marco maintained a discreet distance, his vigilant presence a reminder of the danger that had brought me back to this house. I wondered how many men like him would accompany Alex tomorrow. How many layers of protection would stand between him and Paulo Valentini’s vengeance? Dinner that night was quiet, almost somber. Alex ate little, his mind clearly elsewhere.
I found myself studying him when he wasn’t looking. Memorizing the lines of his face, the exact shade of his eyes, the way his hands moved with controlled precision, as if preparing for a loss I refused to acknowledge might be coming. “You should get some rest,” he said eventually, breaking the silence that had stretched between us.
Tomorrow will be challenging for everyone. I nodded, setting down my napkin. Will I see you before you leave? I’ll stop by your suite, he promised. The meeting isn’t until evening. We walked upstairs together. The familiar route suddenly waited with unspoken fears and regrets. At the door to my suite, Alex paused. Sophia. He began, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.
A rare occurrence for a man whose verbal precision was legendary. “I know,” I said softly, saving him from whatever he was struggling to express. “Be careful tomorrow,” he nodded once, his eyes holding mine for a long moment before he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. “Sleep eluded me that night.
I tossed and turned, my mind conjuring increasingly dire scenarios for the meeting ahead. By dawn, I had abandoned any pretense of rest and stood at the window, watching the sky lighten over the ocean. The day crawled by with excruciating slowness. True to his word, Alex stopped by my suite midm morning, dressed in one of his finest suits, charcoal gray with the faintest pinstripe, a blood red tie providing the only splash of color.
Armor, I observed, recognizing the psychological tactic of dressing to intimidate. He smiled faintly. Old habits. We stood awkwardly for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say. So much history between us. So many unresolved feelings. And now this new threat casting its shadow over any potential reconciliation. I’ll have Giorgio keep you updated. Alex finally said, “Try not to worry.
Telling me not to worry is like telling the tide not to come in.” I replied, attempting a lightness I didn’t feel. His smile turned genuine. One of the many things I’ve always admired about you. Your capacity for concern, even for those who don’t deserve it.
You deserve it, I said quietly, the admission costing me more than I wanted to acknowledge. Something flashed in his eyes. Hope perhaps or determination. He stepped closer, closing the distance between us with deliberate intent. His hand rose to cup my cheek. The touch gentle despite the strength I knew those hands possessed. When this is over, he said softly.
We need to talk, really talk about everything that happened. Everything that could still happen. My heart still. Not now, he interrupted gently. When I return, when you’re safe. Before I could respond, he leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead. A gesture so tender, so at odds with the dangerous man the world knew him to be, that tears pricricked behind my eyes.
Be safe,” I whispered as he pulled away. “Always,” he promised, his thumb brushing once across my cheekbone before he stepped back, composing himself once more into the formidable figure that commanded respect and fear in equal measure. After he left, the day stretched before me like an endless desert.
I tried reading, tried watching television, tried even taking a nap, but nothing could distract me from the clock’s slow progression toward the 700 p.m. meeting time. True to Alex’s instructions, Giio provided updates. Clinical factual reports delivered via text message. Convoy departed. Full security compliment. Advanced team secured location. No anomalies detected.
Mr. Vega arrived at hotel. Proceeding as planned. Each message provided momentary relief, only for anxiety to build again in the silence that followed. By 6:30, I was pacing the suite, unable to sit still. By 7, I was standing at the window, staring unseeing at the darkening sky, my stomach in knots. At 7:15, my phone buzzed with a new message. Meeting initiated.
Communication blackout until conclusion. The update, while expected, did nothing to ease my fears. The communication blackout meant exactly what it sounded like. No updates until the meeting ended, regardless of what transpired within that private dining room. Minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness.
Outside, the last light faded from the sky, leaving only darkness broken by the distant sparkle of city lights far below the cliff. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, seeking some relief from the tension headache building behind my eyes. At 8:30, the door to my suite opened without a knock.
I spun around, hope and fear waring within me, only to find Marco rather than Alex in the doorway. Ms. Reeves, he said, his expression grimmer than usual. You need to come with me now. My heart plummeted. What happened? Is Alex? No time to explain. He cut me off, already moving into the room to grab a jacket from the closet. We need to move you to a more secure location.
He helped me into the jacket with efficient movements, then took my elbow, guiding me toward the door. Stay close to me. Don’t stop for anything. The urgency in his voice silenced any further questions. I followed him into the hallway, noticing immediately the increased security presence, armed men positioned at intervals, all with hands hovering near weapons, all with expressions of heightened alertness.
Marco led me not toward the main staircase, but to a service elevator I hadn’t known existed. Concealed behind what had appeared to be an ordinary panel in the wall, the small compartment descended rapidly to what must have been below ground level. The garage, I asked as the doors opened to reveal a cavernous space filled with vehicles. Marco shook his head.
Secondary exit point less visible than the main gates. He guided me toward a nondescript black SUV with tinted windows, opening the rear door and practically lifting me inside. Only when he closed the door behind me did I realize we weren’t alone in the vehicle. Sitting opposite me, his elegant suit now disheveled and stained with what looked horribly like blood was Alex.
Thank God, he breathed, reaching for my hand and squeezing it with almost painful intensity. Are you all right? Am I all right? I echoed incredulously, scanning him for injuries. Alex, what happened? Whose blood is that? The driver’s door opened. Marco sliding behind the wheel. We’re clear, boss. Taking route C as discussed.
Alex nodded, his attention still fixed on me. Paulo brought unexpected guests to our meeting. The situation escalated. The clinical description couldn’t mask the truth written in the blood on his shirt, the torn knuckles of his right hand, the dangerous coldness in his eyes. “Is he dead?” I asked quietly. “Yes.” No elaboration, no justification.
The engine roared to life, and we accelerated toward a ramp that appeared to lead directly into the cliffside. As we approached, a section of what I had assumed was solid rock slid silently aside, revealing a narrow tunnel illuminated by recessed lighting. “Where are we going?” I asked as the hidden door closed behind us, sealing us into the passageway.
“Safe house,” Alex replied, still holding my hand. “The mansion may be compromised.” Paulo had more allies than we anticipated. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, curving and descending deeper into the earth. When we finally emerged, we were in what appeared to be an ordinary parking garage beneath an upscale apartment building I didn’t recognize.
Marco drove to a reserved space near a private elevator, then came around to open our door. “All clear, sir. The penthouse is secured.” Alex helped me from the car, his hand at my waist, steadying and protective. “Almost there,” he murmured. “Just a little further.” The private elevator required both a key card and fingerprint authentication. It ascended swiftly to the top floor, opening directly into a spacious apartment with floor toseeiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city and harbor below. “You own this building,” I guessed, recognizing the subtle security features that mirrored
those at the mansion. Alex nodded, guiding me to a plush sofa, one of several contingency properties, unknown to most of my organization. Marco disappeared into what I presumed was a security room, leaving us alone in the elegantly appointed living area. Only then did Alex seem to release some of the tension he’d been carrying, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled deeply.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, reaching tentatively toward the blood stain on his shirt. He caught my hand, shaking his head. “Not mine, or at least very little of it is mine.” Relief washed through me, followed immediately by guilt at being relieved when I knew that meant the blood belonged to someone else. Someone who was now dead because of their connection to Alex, to me.
“What happened?” I asked again, needing to understand, Alex sank onto the sofa beside me, suddenly looking exhausted. Paulo never intended peaceful negotiation. He brought three men with concealed weapons. They tried to separate me from my security. His jaw tightened. It was an amateur move, poorly executed. But you killed him.
Not a question this time. He gave me no choice. Alex’s eyes met mine, unflinching. It was him or me, Sophia, and I promised you I would return. The simple statement delivered without drama or expectation struck something deep within me. Despite everything, the danger, the violence, the fundamental differences in our world views, he had kept his promise, had fought to return to me. “How long do we need to stay here?” I asked, looking around at the unfamiliar apartment. “A few days.
” “Until my people can verify the threat is fully neutralized,” Alex hesitated, then added. “After that, you’ll be free to go back to your apartment, your job, your life.” The prospect, which would have filled me with relief less than a week ago, now left me with a strange emptiness.
I had spent a year convincing myself I was better off without Alex, safer without the complications his world brought. Yet here I sat, having just witnessed the aftermath of violence, still feeling more secure in his presence than I had at any point during our separation. And if I don’t want to go, the question emerged barely above a whisper.
Alex went very still, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that saw through every defense. What are you saying, Sophia? I took a deep breath, organizing thoughts that had been swirling since the moment he appeared in my hospital room. I’m saying that running away didn’t work. I still thought about you every day. Still missed you.
Still, I trailed off, struggling to articulate the complex emotions I had suppressed for so long. Still what? he prompted gently. Still loved you, I admitted, the words both terrifying and liberating. Even knowing who you are, what you do, even hating parts of it, I never stopped loving you. The confession hung in the air between us, raw and undeniable.
Alex remained utterly still, his expression unreadable as he processed my words. For a terrifying moment, I wondered if I had misunderstood everything, if his protection had been about possession rather than love, about pride rather than devotion. Then he moved, closing the distance between us with deliberate intent.
His hand came up to cut my face, thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone, where the bruise had faded to a pale yellow shadow. “Say it again,” he whispered, his voice with emotion I rarely heard him express. I met his eyes, those pale blue depths that had haunted my dreams for a year. I love you, Alex. I never stopped.
Something broke in his carefully controlled expression. A damn releasing after holding back too much for too long. He leaned forward until our foreheads touched, his breathing uneven. “Deo, Sophia,” he breathed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined hearing those words again. How many times I’ve picked up the phone to call you only to set it down because I promised to let you go.
His vulnerability so rarely displayed touched something deep within me. This was the Alex few people ever saw. The man beneath the power and control. The boy who had grown up too fast after watching his father’s murder. The soul who had carved out his place in a cruel world through sheer force of will. What happens now? I asked softly.
Nothing’s changed. You’re still who you are. I’m still who I am. He drew back slightly, his hand still cradling my face. Everything’s changed to Sorro. I’ve changed this year without you. He shook his head. It forced me to confront things I’d been avoiding. Questions about legacy, about the future.
What kind of questions? I prompted, sensing he needed to verbalize thoughts long kept internal. Alex stood, moving to the wall of windows that showcased the glittering city below. His city as he had always seen it. For a long moment, he stared out at the lights, gathering his thoughts.
“My father built his small empire through brute force,” he finally said. “He died for it, left my mother, a widow at 34 with a 10-year-old son to raise alone. I swore I would do better, be smarter, more strategic, build something that would last. I remained silent, recognizing the rare moment of cander for the gift it was.
When I met you, he continued, I was at the peak of my power. Everything I had worked for was secure. I believed I had achieved what my father never could. He turned back to face me. But loving you, it changed the equation. For the first time, I started to question whether power was worth the constant vigilance, the enemies, the isolation. The admission stunned me.
During our time together, Alex had never expressed doubts about his chosen path. He had worn his authority like a second skin, moving through his world with absolute certainty. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. A sad smile touched his lips.
What would I have said? That the great Alexander Vega was questioning everything he’d built? that I was considering walking away from an empire because a pastry chef with defiant green eyes made me want something different. He shook his head. I wasn’t ready to admit it even to myself, let alone to you. And now, I whispered. He moved back to the sofa, sitting closer to me than before. Now I’ve had a year to think about a life without you in it.
To recognize that power means nothing if you have no one to share it with. to understand that some legacies aren’t worth the cost. Hope fluttered in my chest, fragile and uncertain. What are you saying, Alex? I’m saying that I’ve been transitioning my businesses for months, he replied.
Moving resources to legitimate enterprises, distancing myself from the aspects you found most troubling. I stared at him, trying to process what he was telling me. You’ve been going legitimate because of me. For me, he corrected gently. Because the man I want to be is not the man my father raised me to be. Because I want a future that doesn’t involve looking over my shoulder, wondering who might be targeting those I love. His fingers intertwined with mine.
But yes, you were the catalyst. Loving you showed me possibilities I had never considered. The revelation left me speechless. All this time, while I had been trying to rebuild a life without him, he had been reshaping his world, motivated by the loss of what we had shared. “It’s not complete,” he continued, reading my silence as skepticism.
“Some connections can’t be severed overnight without creating more danger. But I’ve made significant progress. Another year, perhaps two, and Alexander Vega will be known only as a successful businessman with diverse investments.” “Is that even possible?” I asked, not wanting to doubt him, but struggling to believe such a transformation could truly occur. With the right motivation, anything is possible.
His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. I have considerable resources, loyal people, and detailed plans. And Paulo, I couldn’t help asking, was he part of these plans? Alex’s expression darkened. Paulo was an unforeseen complication. His release from prison accelerated certain timelines, forced decisions I would have preferred to make more carefully. He sighed. His death will create ripples, but ultimately simplifies matters.
He represented old connections I needed to sever anyway. The clinical assessment of a man’s death should have disturbed me more than it did. Perhaps I was becoming desensitized to the violence that surrounded Alex’s world. Or perhaps I was finally accepting that in his reality sometimes terrible choices had to be made.
“What happens now?” I asked again, this time with different meaning behind the question. “With us?” Alex lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against my knuckles. “That depends entirely on you, Sophia. I can offer you a future different from our past. Not perfect, not without complications, but moving in a direction I think you could make peace with. His eyes held mine. But I won’t make promises I can’t keep.
There will still be shadows for a while. Still danger though diminishing. And if I can’t handle those shadows, I asked, needing to be certain he understood my fears. Then I will respect your decision as I did before. His voice was steady, though the pain behind his words was evident.
I would rather lose you to honesty than keep you through deception. The raw truth of his statement touched me deeply. This was the fundamental difference between the Alex I had left and the man before me now. A willingness to be vulnerable, to acknowledge limitations, to prioritize truth over possession. I need time, I said finally. Not to decide if I love you. I know I do. But to understand what a future together really means now.
Relief flickered across his features. Time is something I can give you. Stay here where you’re safe. While we sort through Paulo’s aftermath. Use these days to ask whatever questions you need answers to. I’ll hold nothing back. No more secrets? I pressed. No more secrets, he promised. Though some truths may be difficult to hear. I’d rather difficult truths than comforting lies, I replied.
A genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face, transformed his expression. “You always were braver than you gave yourself credit for to sorrow.” He leaned forward slowly, giving me ample opportunity to pull away.
When I didn’t, his lips met mine in a kiss so achingly tender, it brought tears to my eyes. A homecoming and a new beginning wrapped into one perfect moment. The days that followed established a different rhythm than the tense coexistence we had maintained at the mansion. The penthouse became our neutral territory, a space untainted by past memories or associations.
Here we began the delicate process of rediscovery. True to his word, Alex answered every question I posed, no matter how uncomfortable. He explained the structure of his organizations, the progress of his transition to legitimate businesses, the complications that remained.
He shared details he had previously shielded me from, not to frighten me, but to ensure I understood exactly what choosing him would mean. In turn, I shared my experiences of the year we had spent apart, my lonely apartment, my promotion to head pastry chef, the friends who had tried and failed to set me up on dates.
I told him about the nights I had dreamed of him, the mornings I had reached for him only to find empty space beside me. I bought your building, he confessed one evening as we shared dinner on the penthouse terrace. 6 months after you left, I paused, wine glass halfway to my lips. You what? A faint smile touched his mouth. I couldn’t directly ensure your safety without breaking my promise not to interfere in your life.
So, I purchased the building, improved security, installed better locks and cameras. It was the most I could do while respecting your boundaries. The revelation should have angered me. The intrusion, the presumption. Instead, I found myself touched by his restraint. He could have done so much more. Could have inserted himself back into my life in a hundred different ways.
Instead, he had found the one approach that protected me without controlling me. Is there anything else I should know about? I asked, only half joking. Other properties you’ve acquired to keep tabs on me? His expression turned serious. I established a trust in your name, managed by an independent firm with instructions to contact you only in the event of my death. He set down his fork.
I needed to know you would be provided for, no matter what happened. The casual mention of his mortality, something he had never before acknowledged as anything but a distant theoretical concept, struck me forcefully. This was perhaps the most significant change in him, a recognition of his own vulnerability, a willingness to prepare for failure rather than simply assuming success. You really did believe you might not survive this past year, I said quietly.
Alex met my gaze directly. I’ve never feared death for myself, Sophia. But the thought of leaving you unprotected. He shook his head. That was unacceptable. 5 days after our arrival at the penthouse, Marco announced that the situation had stabilized. Paulo’s remaining allies had either pledged loyalty to Alex or disappeared, recognizing that challenging him would be feudal. The mansion had been thoroughly secured. All traces of the disruption erased.
“We can return whenever you’re ready, boss,” Marco reported, his professional demeanor unchanged despite the chaos of the past week. Alex looked to me, eyebrows raised in silent question. Not yet, I said, surprising both of them. I’m not ready to go back there. After Marco left, Alex joined me on the sofa where I had been reading. The mansion holds too many memories. I nodded, setting aside my book.
Some wonderful, some painful, but right now, I prefer this. I gestured to the neutral space around us. It’s ours, not just yours that I’m visiting. Does that make sense? His expression softened with understanding perfectly. We’ll stay as long as you like. That night, for the first time since my accident, we shared a bed.
There was no pressure for physical intimacy, just the profound comfort of falling asleep in familiar arms, of waking to find him watching me with an expression of wonder, as if he still couldn’t quite believe I was there. Healing came in unexpected moments. in Alex teaching me to play chess.
His patience a stark contrast to the ruthless strategist I knew him to be in business, in cooking together in the penthouse’s sleek kitchen. His surprisingly skilled hands working alongside mine, in quiet evenings, watching the sunset over the harbor, discussing dreams neither of us had previously dared to voice aloud.
“Would you ever want children?” he asked one such evening. The question emerging naturally from a discussion about his latest legitimate acquisition, a chain of family restaurants he planned to expand. The query caught me off guard, not because I hadn’t thought about it, but because the Alex I had known before would never have raised the possibility.
Children represented vulnerability, potential leverage for enemies, complications in a carefully controlled existence. Yes, I answered honestly. Someday, when the time is right, I studied his face, searching for clues to his thoughts. Would you? A complex emotion crossed his features. Uncertainty mixed with longing, I never allowed myself to consider it before. The risk seemed too great.
He was quiet for a moment, then. But now, thinking of a little girl with your eyes, or a boy with your stubbornness, a smile touched his lips. Yes, I would like that very much. The simple admission represented everything that had changed in him. The willingness to envision a future beyond power and control, to embrace vulnerability as strength rather than weakness.
2 weeks after we arrived at the penthouse, Alex presented me with a small velvet box over breakfast. My heart stuttered as he placed it before me without ceremony. “This isn’t a proposal,” he said quickly, reading my expression. “Not yet. were still finding our way back to each other.
With slightly trembling fingers, I opened the box. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, was his mother’s emerald ring, the one I had left behind when I walked away a year ago. Alex, I breathed, unable to find adequate words. I’m not asking you to wear it, he explained. Just to keep it as a promise that when you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, it’s yours along with everything else I have to give.
I lifted the ring from its velvet bed, the weight familiar in my palm. The emerald caught the morning light, sending fractured green reflections dancing across the table. I left it behind because I didn’t feel I deserved it anymore, I admitted. Not after walking away, Alex reached across the table, his fingers closing over mine.
The ring pressed between our palms. You deserved it then. You deserve it now. Whatever you decide about our future, this belongs with you. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I had made my decision days ago. Perhaps even in that first moment in the hospital when he appeared in my doorway, bringing chaos and safety in equal measure.
I opened my hand, revealing the ring resting on my palm. Ask me, I said softly. Confusion flickered across his face. Ask you what? Ask me to marry you. The words emerged with surprising steadiness. Not someday. Not when everything is perfect. Now, today? Alex went very still, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that saw through every defense.
Are you sure? There are still complications, still dangers. There will always be complications. I interrupted gently. But I’ve spent a year learning what life is like without you. I don’t want to waste another day pretending I’m better off alone. Slowly, deliberately, he took the ring from my palm.
Then, with a grace that belied his powerful frame, he slid from his chair to one knee beside me. “Sophia Reeves,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “You walked into my life carrying a tray of canoli and changed everything. You saw through my walls, challenged my assumptions, made me want to be worthy of the way you looked at me.
He held up the ring, the emerald glowing like a promise. I love you more than I thought possible. Will you marry me? Tears blurred my vision as I nodded. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.” He slid the ring onto my finger where it settled as if it had never left. When he rose to kiss me, I felt the last pieces of my resistance falling away.
Not in surrender, but in the recognition that love didn’t require the absence of darkness. Only the courage to face it together. 3 months later, we were married in a small ceremony on the cliffside grounds of the mansion. Only our closest friends attended. Mrs. Russo, weeping openly, Marco, maintaining his stoic expression despite the suspicious moisture in his eyes.
my fellow chefs from the restaurant creating a wedding cake that was a work of art. By then, Alex’s transition was progressing faster than even he had anticipated. The underworld whispered that Alexander Vega had gone soft, had lost his edge. Rumors he carefully cultivated to facilitate his gradual withdrawal from those circles.
His legitimate businesses thrived under his focused attention, his natural talent for strategy serving him as well in legal enterprises as it had in shadowed ones. We maintained the penthouse as our primary residence, visiting the mansion only occasionally. Some ghosts, we discovered, needed more time to fade, but we were patient, knowing that healing, like love, couldn’t be rushed.
6 months after our wedding, I opened my own peticissery in a charming storefront Alex had purchased as a surprise. Small and elegant, it quickly gained a reputation for extraordinary desserts, drawing customers from across the city. I hired promising young chefs, taught them my techniques, found joy in creating something built entirely on passion rather than necessity. Alex divided his time between his various businesses and our home, gradually delegating more responsibility to trusted lieutenants.
He kept his promise to be honest about the remaining complications in his transition, but those shadows grew fewer and fainter with each passing month. A year to the day after the car accident that had brought us back together, we stood on the terrace of our penthouse, watching the sun set over the harbor. Alex’s arms encircled me from behind, his chin resting on my head.
Regrets? he asked softly, a question he still posed occasionally, as if expecting the answer might someday change. I leaned back against his solid warmth, my hands covering his where they rested protectively over my slightly rounded stomach. Our newest adventure just beginning to show.none, I replied truthfully. Every step, even the painful ones, brought us here. I turned in his embrace to face him.
And here is exactly where I want to be. His eyes, those pale blue depths that had once seemed so cold, warmed as they took in my face. Here, he agreed, one hand moving to rest gently against the curve of our growing child, is everything. As his lips met mine, I reflected on the strange winding path that had led us to this moment.
From a dropped tray of canoli to a hospital room, from separation to reunion, from fear to acceptance. Our story wasn’t perfect. It was messy and complicated and marked by darkness as well as light. But it was ours, and I wouldn’t have changed a single word.
In Alexander Vega’s arms, I had found not a perfect fairy tale, but something far more valuable. A love strong enough to weather storms, brave enough to face shadows, and deep enough to transform us both into better versions of ourselves than we could ever have become alone. And in the end, that was the only happy ending that mattered.