Immediately Luciano got out, Emilia barely had time to react before Alessandro grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward until she was flush against his chest. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the lingering cigarette smoke between them, intoxicating and overwhelming.
"You're playing a dangerous game, dolcezza" he murmured, his voice dark and laced with warning.
Emilia smirked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "And you think I'm afraid of danger?"
His grip on her wrist tightened, heat radiating from his palm as he spun her around and slammed her back against his desk. Papers scattered onto the floor, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. He caged her in with both hands, his body pressing against hers.
"You should be," he whispered, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
Emilia refused to shudder, refused to let him see the way he affected her. Instead, she dragged her fingers up his chest, slow and taunting, her nails grazing the fabric of his tailored suit.
"You talk too much, Bianchi," she purred.
A growl rumbled in his throat. Without warning, he gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, eyes dark and predatory.
"You want me to shut up, dolcezza?" he taunted.
Before she could throw a biting remark, his lips crashed onto hers, rough and demanding. He didn't kiss like a man seeking affection—he kissed like a man claiming dominance, swallowing her protests, leaving no room for hesitation. He bit her lip, making her gasp, and he used that moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, tasting her.
Emilia fought against the whirlwind of heat pooling in her stomach, her hands pushing against his chest—only for him to grab her wrists and pin them above her head.
"You started this," Alessandro murmured against her lips, "but I finish things, amore mio."
He bit down on her jawline, trailing his lips down her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. A sharp gasp escaped her as he sucked just below her collarbone, no doubt leaving a mark.
"Fuck you," she hissed, twisting in his grip.
He chuckled darkly, his fingers tracing the hem of her blouse. "That's the plan, bella."
Her breath hitched. Heat and tension crackled between them, a fire neither of them was willing to put out. But before he could go further, Emilia suddenly yanked one of her hands free, grabbing the dagger hidden in her thigh holster.
In a flash, the cool steel was pressed against Alessandro's throat.
His smirk only widened.
"God, I fucking love you," he whispered.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips still tingling from his assault. "Keep dreaming, Bianchi."
Alessandro only leaned in closer, the blade at his throat doing nothing to deter him. He licked the corner of his lips, eyes gleaming with something dark and insatiable.
"I don't need to dream, dolcezza. You're already mine."
She hated how her body betrayed her, how her pulse hammered against her ribs.
This man was a problem. And yet, she couldn't fucking resist him.
She immediately rushed out and headed home instead of the office.
Russo estate
Emilia sighed for the 20th time since she got home.
Sofia Russo watched her daughter with sharp, knowing eyes from across the dining table. She elegantly sipped her wine before placing the glass down with a soft clink.
"Emilia," she finally spoke, her voice laced with amusement. "Are you going to tell me what's on your mind, or do I have to drag it out of you?"
Emilia, who had been absentmindedly stabbing her fork into her untouched dinner, snapped her head up. "Huh?"
Piero, seated at the head of the table, set down his knife and leaned back in his chair, watching his daughter with mild interest. "Your mother is right," he said, his deep voice unwavering. "You've been sighing like a lovesick teenager since you got home. That is not like you."
Emilia scowled. "Lovesick?" she scoffed. "I'd rather drown myself in acid."
Sofia chuckled. "Then why do you look like someone just turned your world upside down?"
Because someone did.
The memory of Alessandro's lips against hers, the heat of his touch, the way his voice curled around her spine like a lethal promise—it all made her skin burn. The worst part? She hadn't slapped him. She should've. She should've pulled out a gun and shot him right between those arrogant eyes.
Instead, she had run.
Like a fucking coward.
Emilia clenched her jaw and pushed her plate away. "I don't want to talk about it," she muttered, standing up.
"That Bianchi boy," Piero said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "He's the problem, isn't he?"
Emilia froze mid-step.
Sofia raised a perfectly arched brow, sitting back in her chair. "Alessandro?" she mused. "Now that is interesting."
Emilia turned around, her face impassive. "I can handle my problems, Dad," she said coldly. "You don't need to interfere."
Piero studied his daughter for a long moment before smirking. "Good," he said. "Because if you want him dead, all you have to do is say the word."
Emilia's fingers twitched.
She should've said yes.
She should've ordered his death right then and there.
Instead, she said nothing.
Because, despite everything, a part of her wasn't sure she wanted Alessandro Bianchi dead.
At least… not yet.