Chapter 5

“Oh wow,” I gasped, playfully placing a hand on my chest. “A man who knows how to handle cutlery. Be still, my heart.”

Luca, seated beside me like a storm cloud with cheekbones, coughed into his glass in a way that absolutely said this is hell.

Marco leaned closer. “I do train with knives and... other things.”

I fluttered my lashes. “Oh? I bet you’re good with your hands.”

Luca dropped his fork. “Seriously?”

I didn’t even look at him. “Problem, Bianchi?”

“Nope,” he said tightly. “Just enjoying the show.”

“Well, don’t blink,” I said with a sweet smile. “You might miss something.”

Marco grinned. Luca’s temple pulsed. I, meanwhile, basked in the glow of my petty goddess moment.

After dinner, I escorted Marco to the security station like the kind, charming mafia heiress I was. We laughed, we fake-flirted, I may or may not have lightly touched his bicep when he showed me the surveillance setup. Pure art. Ten out of ten. My Academy Award is on the way.

I was on my way back to my room, smirking to myself like the chaos queen I am, when my phone buzzed.

Another email.

Same cryptic sender. No subject. Just one line of text:

“You’re still marked. He can’t protect you forever. See you soon, Principessa.”

The world slowed.

The air thickened. My hands went cold.

Before I could even blink, I felt him.

Luca.

Moving like shadow and smoke.

And then he was right there, shirtless—again, because of course—and the second he saw my face, he knew.

“What happened?” he asked, all lethal control with that frightening calm he got when he was about to destroy something.

I didn’t answer. I just handed him my phone.

His face changed. Slowly. Like watching a storm crawl across the sea.

And then?

He snapped.

He gripped my phone with one hand, muscles flexing with divine rage and vengeance, and stalked to the nearest table, where he pulled out his burner phone and started speaking Italian so fast I could barely keep up.

“Controlla l’indirizzo IP. Subito. Fammi sapere se viene da Paris o Brazil. E blocca tutto il traffico su quel server. ORA!”

Translation: Someone was about to lose their soul.

I stood there blinking as he slammed the phone down and turned to me with the fury of a fallen angel and the intensity of a jealous Greek god.

“Why didn’t you tell me the second this came in?” he growled.

“Because I was busy flirting with the new security guy,” I snapped, folding my arms.

“You’re playing games with your life, Andria.”

“Oh please. It’s called petty healing.”

“You call Marco healing?”

“I call your smugness the disease,” I fired back.

He marched toward me, shirtless chest heaving with angry breaths, eyes blazing. “This isn’t a joke. They’re escalating. Whoever this is, they’re watching you.”

“I’ve been watched my entire life,” I bit out. “By enemies. By allies. By you.”

His nostrils flared. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Then stop treating me like I’m your teenage sidekick and start acting like someone who respects me.”

His eyes locked on mine—furious, conflicted, too intense. “I do.”

“Then stop being smug. And put a shirt on.”

“No.”

Of course not.

He grabbed the phone again and called someone—Mama, apparently—because I heard him say, “France” and “Pull them from the gala now. It’s serious.”

Oh great.

Now my parents, who were currently in Paris attending some exclusive gala with billionaires and Birkins, would be flying back in a panic because someone decided to cyber-threaten me again.

Luca ended the call, jaw tight.

“They’re coming home,” he said. “Your father wants full lockdown. You’re not leaving this villa until we track them.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t act like you care.”

“I don’t,” he snapped. Then paused. Then added, “I just don’t want you dead.”

Oh wow. How romantic.

I pushed past him toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he barked.

“To do my skincare routine and scream into a pillow. Anything else, General Smugness?”

He ran a hand through his hair, abs still flexing like traitors. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re shirtless. Again. For the love of all that is holy, put on some clothes before I get emotionally confused and accidentally kiss you on purpose.”

That shut him up.

I smirked, tossed my hair, and climbed the stairs.

Let him squirm.

Let the Diablos come.

And let Luca Bianchi regret every second he let me grow into this unstoppable, petty, stunning hurricane.

The next morning was not boring. Because nothing says “morning delight” quite like your best friend nearly being tackled by armed mafia guards in Versace heels.

It started with the sound of bells. Repeated. Sharp. Disrespectfully early.

And the chaos that followed was… well, peak Gregori Mansion Lockdown Drama.

I was halfway through a cappuccino and trying to process the fact that my favorite moisturizer was out of stock when my phone buzzed with a text so aggressive it deserved a siren:

🛑 OPEN THE GATE BEFORE I BODYSLAM THIS GUARD WITH MY PLATFORM HEELS!

— MIAAAAAAAA

I froze.

Mia?

MIA.

My ride-or-die. My favorite Brazilian hurricane in a leather jumpsuit. My childhood bestie. A six-foot glamazon with cheekbones that could slice through glass and a walk that made men question their entire existence. She was back from Milan via Paris, where she’d just wrapped a Vogue Italia shoot, and clearly had decided lockdown didn’t apply to her.

I dashed to the front window and screamed. “WHY IS SHE STILL OUTSIDE?!”

There she was—flawless, fuming, standing at the iron gates with sunglasses perched on her head and her driver looking like he regretted his entire career. The guard—clearly new—was saying something into his earpiece while Mia looked one high-heeled stomp away from disarming him with a purse.

“Let her in!!” I shouted to no one in particular, already storming down the marble hallway. “Are you all insane?! That’s Mia Monteiro, not a terrorist!”

By the time I reached the foyer, the guard still hadn’t budged, so naturally, I went feral.

I flung the door open, stood at the top of the stairs like a goddess of wrath in silk pajamas and fluffy slippers, and screamed—

“SHE’S ON THE GUEST LIST, THE BLOOD LIST, AND THE ‘LOOK FABULOUS WHILE EATING GELATO’ LIST! LET. HER. IN.”

That must’ve done it, because suddenly the gates opened.

Unfortunately, my scream also woke Him.