"From what? The pastry chef?"
He doesn't laugh. He never does. "Where are you going, princess?"
"Why, you gonna come tuck me in?" I challenge.
He steps forward, slowly. Controlled. Like everything else about him. "You think this is a joke, but it’s not. There are people who would do anything to get close to you, just to get a foot in the door. You want to end up on someone’s leash, like you’re a pawn in Carlos’s next deal?"
That hits home harder than I want to admit. "Maybe I just want to feel normal for a night."
He shakes his head. "Normal doesn’t exist for girls like you."
Girls like me.
Mafia princesses with dead mothers, absentee brothers, and a father who only sees value in how much you can be sold for. Angelo always says I'm useless—a burden. Daddy dearest only cares that I stay clean and quiet.
The only one who cares aboutmeis my brother Marcello, but he's clear across the globe, in Sicily, where father exiled him to the day our mother died. The only contact we have is FaceTime and texts, to which he doesn'talways reply. I know he's busy building his own empire in Sicily, but it still hurts when a week goes by without a reply. I haven't seen him in two years—not since my little escapade.
"Goodnight, Raffael," I say sweetly, stepping past him. "Don’t wait up."
He grabs my wrist. Not rough. Not hard. Just enough to stop me. "You think any of those boys out there are worthy of you?"
"Worthy? You sound like my father."
"No, I don’t," he says quietly. "Because I actually care."
I freeze.
He lets me go. And the space where his fingers were? It burns.
"You're going to break hearts, princess," he murmurs. "Just don’t let yours be one of them."
With that, he disappears back into the shadows of the house like he was never there. Leaving me standing there trembling, furious at him, at myself, at the butterflies fluttering back to life in my stomach.
Fine. If I can't have him, then I’ll prove I don’t need him.
Tonight, I’m going to the club.
And I’m going to forget all about Raffael DeSantis.
What the hellis she doing here?
My shift guarding her was over hours ago. Sophia fucking Orsi is not my problem for the next twelve. I'm here for a different assignment. Damn Rufus for being lax. I should call his lazy ass over here and have him pick her up. If our boss, Carlos, gets wind of his precious daughter hanging out at this club, he'll have both Rufus and me skinned alive, which will probably be easy compared to what he'll do to Sophia.
At the very least, I should grab her royal pain-in-the-assness and take her home. Instead, I'm here, watching her from the shadows like I always do. I don't know what it is about this girl that has me all hot and bothered at the same time. Some irrational protective instinct, maybe. It's not attraction. Until a few months ago, she was jailbait. I don't look at underage girls. I don't look at women under twenty-five, period.
Ever since I was assigned as Sophia Orsi’s bodyguard two years ago, my life has been one long, slow descent into hell. At first, I thought it was a reward—an upgrade. Being on the protection detail for the princess of the Orsi family? I was stupid enough to think it meant trust. Prestige. Hell, maybe even a step up in the ranks.
Turns out, it was a curse wrapped in a promotion. A purgatory with lipstick and heels. Sophia and her friends have been tossing me flirtatious glances since the moment I showed up in a black suit and earpiece. Sixteen-year-old girls playing games they don’t understand, batting lashes like it’s some private joke. Some men might’ve seen it as an ego boost. I saw it for what it was—an ambush. A goddamn trap.
Their giggles? A migraine waiting to happen. Their teasing? A loaded gun with my name carved into the bullet. I’ve tried everything—brushing them off, scolding, ignoring them, pulling the cold, hard-ass routine. Nothing works. They have a bet going. I heard them talk about that—it's not like they're being subtle. The winner gets to see who can bring the bodyguard to his knees first and wear his leather jacket.
And the worst part?
They don’t care. Not about what it would mean. Not about the bloodbath that would follow if I so much as looked too long in their direction. If a nobody like me ever laid a finger on one of the capos’ daughters—even if it was them doing the chasing—I wouldn’t just lose my job. I’d lose my skin. My teeth. My heartbeat.
But Sophia… she’s different.
Not in the obvious ways. She’s a brat like the rest of them—mouthy, entitled, thinks the world revolves around her. But there’s something in her eyes when no one’s watching. Something sad. Something sharp. Something that hits too close to places I’ve buried deep. That’s the part that makes her really fucking dangerous. Because I don’t want her like that. I’m notthatguy. I’d never touch an underage girl. Never even thought about it. But I feel something. Something I don’t know what to do with. Something that grows stronger every time she slams a door or rolls her eyes or calls me a glorified babysitter.
