This was a mistake. His words continued to echo in my head, even after all this time.
The hell it was. It was deliberate—every touch, every bite, every moment he'd pinned me against that desk. And now he wanted to pretend it never happened? No. I refused to be another woman manipulated by another Ricci brother.
I slipped from the silk sheets, my bare feet silent against the cool hardwood floor. But instead of heading straight for the balcony as I'dplanned, something outside caught my attention. Movement in the gardens below—more than the usual night patrol.
Pressing myself against the window, I peered down at the estate grounds. Additional security personnel moved across the lawn, their forms barely visible in the darkness. New vehicles I hadn't seen before were parked near the service entrance. Something was happening. Something that had Vittorio's people on high alert.
I counted at least six extra guards, maybe more. The normal patrol pattern had been disrupted, replaced by something that looked almost like… preparation for siege.
My escape plan would have to wait. But this development presented a different kind of opportunity. If Vittorio was distracted by whatever threat was approaching, it might be the perfect time to gather intelligence. To arm myself. To prepare for whatever storm was coming.
I spent the remaining hours until dawn watching, learning the new patterns. When Lila brought breakfast, I noticed the same tension in her movements that I'd observed in the guards. Quick, efficient, eyes constantly darting to the windows.
"Is everything alright?" I asked casually.
She startled, nearly dropping the tray. "Of course, dear. Just… busy day ahead."
But her weathered hands trembled as she set down the coffee, and she left without her usual maternal concern—no gentle scolding about eating enough, no asking if I'd slept well.
I spent the day strategizing. If the balcony escape was too risky now with increased security, I needed alternatives. I needed weapons. And I needed to understand what had everyone so on edge.
The answer came in fragments throughout the day. Hushed conversations in the hallway that stopped when I approached. The arrivalof more vehicles. The sound of Vittorio's voice, sharp with command, echoing from his study.
I'd met most of the household staff by now—Lila the housekeeper, Marco the groundskeeper, Jonah from security who always seemed to be watching a bit too intently. Unlike the others who treated me with professional courtesy, Jonah's gaze lingered uncomfortably, as if he was cataloging my every move for someone else's benefit.
By evening, the tension in the house was palpable.
The dinner summons came earlier than usual, delivered by Lila, whose usually warm demeanor had turned stiff and worried. She wouldn't meet my eyes at all. I'd spent the afternoon choosing my outfit carefully—a simple black dress that wouldn't restrict movement, flats instead of heels, hair pulled back in a practical style.
Tonight would be different. I could feel it in the charged air, see it in the way the staff moved with barely controlled urgency.
The dining room was dimly lit, candles flickering across the polished mahogany table, but the romantic atmosphere felt forced against the backdrop of whatever crisis was unfolding. Vittorio stood at the head of the table, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, but his usual composed demeanor was strained. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the room's entrances even as he gestured for me to sit.
More telling was what I could see through the French windows—additional guards positioned around the garden, their earpieces glinting in the fading light.
"You seem tense," I observed, taking the chair to his right. "More than usual."
"Precautionary measures," he said simply, but I caught the way his hand moved instinctively toward his jacket—checking for his weapon.
"For what?"
His ice-blue eyes studied me for a moment. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
But everything about his posture suggested otherwise. This wasn't just caution—this was preparation for war.
The first course arrived—a delicate soup that smelled of herbs and wine. As I ate, I watched Vittorio, noting how his attention kept drifting to his phone, how he positioned himself to keep both doors in view. The servers moved with unusual efficiency, clearly under orders to minimize their time in the room.
"Expecting company?" I asked.
Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. The sharp sound made him tense, and when he glanced at the screen, something shifted in his expression—a hardening that made my stomach clench.
"Excuse me," he said, rising from his chair. "I need to take this."
He moved toward the window, turning his back to me as he answered. "Enzo."
His voice was low, controlled, but in the quiet dining room, I caught fragments: "…south perimeter… How many vehicles? When did they arrive?"
My pulse quickened. Someone was out there. Someone who had Vittorio and his entire security team on high alert.
