Episode 2: The Estate

365 Days to Fall in Love with Mr. Mafia Boss

The driver didn’t speak. Not when he loaded my single duffel bag into the trunk, not when I climbed into the black Maybach, and not for the entire two-hour drive from Milan to Lake Como.

I didn’t speak either. My signature was still wet in Alessandro’s folder. Isabella Rossi. It looked like someone else’s name.

We passed through iron gates at 11:47 PM. The estate wasn’t a house. It was a declaration.

Villa De Santis rose from the cliffside in tiers of white stone and glass, lights glowing like embers against the lake. Terraced gardens, infinity pool, security cameras tucked into the ivy. Beautiful. And completely inescapable.

A woman waited at the front steps. Early fifties, silver hair pinned up, black dress severe enough to be a uniform.

“Signorina Rossi,” she said, no warmth, no cruelty. Just fact. “I am Daria. Head of household staff. Follow me.”

Alessandro was nowhere. Of course. He’d thrown me into the water and was watching to see if I’d swim.

My room—*my cage*—was on the third floor. All white linens, lake view, fireplace already lit. A dress had been laid across the bed. Red silk. Backless. It would fit perfectly. The thought made my skin crawl.

“Dinner is at eight,” Daria said. “Signor De Santis expects punctuality. That dress is for tonight.”

“Did he pick it?”

Her expression didn’t change. “Signor De Santis doesn’t concern himself with wardrobes. I do. You will wear what’s provided.”

She left. The lock didn’t click behind her. It didn’t need to. I tested the balcony doors anyway. No lock, but a three-story drop to stone and water below. And cameras. One in the corner of the ceiling, blinking red. Watching.

Day one, hour three.

I wore black jeans and my own sweater to dinner. A small rebellion. Daria’s lips thinned when she saw me, but she said nothing. She led me down to a dining room that could seat twenty. Only two places were set.

Alessandro was already there, reading something on a tablet. He didn’t look up when I entered. Candlelight caught the scar on his eyebrow, the sharp line of his jaw. He’d changed into a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were corded with muscle and faint ink I couldn’t make out.

“You’re late,” he said.

“It’s 8:01.”

“Punctuality is respect, Isabella. And you’re here to learn respect.” He set the tablet down. His gray eyes dragged over my outfit, then back to my face. “You ignored the dress.”

“It’s not my style.”

“It’s not about style. It’s about compliance.”

The food arrived. No staff I could see—just dishes appearing through a side door. Risotto al nero di seppia. Squid ink. It stained the white plate like a warning.

I picked up my fork. “So what happens now? You parade me at parties? Use me to make some rival jealous?”

Alessandro cut into his steak, precise. “I don’t parade possessions, and I don’t get jealous. I eliminate problems.”

“Am I a problem?”

He chewed, swallowed, then finally smiled. That same dangerous, sharp thing from the club. “You’re an experiment. I told you. I want to see when you break.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time.”

“We’ll see. Rule two.” He tapped his wine glass. Crystal rang. “You don’t lie to me. Ever. I’ll know. And I punish lies.”

I thought of Luca. Of the photos in that folder. “And if I follow your rules?”

“Then your brother lives. You live. For 364 more days.”

He said it like a sentence, not a reprieve.

Dinner continued in silence. The risotto tasted like the sea and ash. When I set my fork down, half the plate untouched, Alessandro stood.

“Come with me.”

He led me through the villa. No tour, no explanations. Just marble halls, art I recognized from museums, and doors that stayed closed. He stopped at a library. Dark wood, floor-to-ceiling books, a fireplace that wasn’t lit.

He pulled a book from the shelf. The Prince by Machiavelli. Dog-eared. Annotated in pen.

“Do you know what this says, Isabella?”

“It’s about power.”

“It’s about survival.” He tossed it onto the table between us. “Read it. By the end of the week, I’ll ask you what you learned. If your answer bores me, there are consequences.”

A test. The first of many.

“And if I refuse?”

He stepped into my space, and I backed up until the edge of the table hit my spine. He caged me in with his arms, not touching, but close enough that I felt the heat off him. Cedar and smoke again.

“Then I start taking things from you,” he said, voice low. “Privacy. Freedom. Your brother’s fingers. One by one.”

My breath caught. He wasn’t bluffing. Men like him never bluffed.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “You don’t need money. You don’t need me.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth for a half-second. So fast I might have imagined it. When they came back to mine, they were colder.

“I need to know what it takes to make someone like you kneel. Everyone has a price, Isabella. A breaking point. I intend to find yours.”

He pushed off the table and walked out, leaving me alone with Machiavelli and the scent of him in the air.

I didn’t sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the camera too red. At 3 AM, I gave up and went to the balcony. The lake was black glass under the moon. Somewhere out there, Luca was either running or hiding. Because of me.

“Can’t sleep?”

I spun. Alessandro stood in the doorway to my room, silhouetted. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Rule three, probably: No privacy.

“I’m thinking of ways to make your life hell for the next year,” I said, aiming for bravado. It came out tired.

He stepped onto the balcony. The space shrank. “You should be thinking of ways to survive it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s advice.” He leaned on the railing, looking out at the water. Profile sharp enough to cut. “My enemies know you’re here now. They’ll try to use you to get to me. If you run, they’ll find you first. And they won’t offer contracts.”

“You brought me here.”

“I did.” He turned his head. Moonlight turned his eyes silver. “So now you’re mine to protect. For 364 days.”

Mine. The word landed like a brand.

He reached out before I could move, and his thumb brushed under my eye. I flinched. His hand was cold.

“You’re exhausted,” he said, almost clinically. “Sleep. Tomorrow, Daria will show you the estate boundaries. Cross them, and I’ll assume you’re trying to escape.”

“Rule four?”

His lips twitched. “Rule four is: Don’t touch my things. That includes my books, my office, and my men.”

He dropped his hand and left without another word.

I touched the spot under my eye. My skin burned where he’d touched me.

364 days left.

Rule one: Don’t fall in love with me.

Rule two: Don’t lie.

Rule three: No privacy.

Rule four: Don’t touch his things.

He’d given me four rules in one night. How many would he have by day 365?

I went inside and locked the balcony door. It wouldn’t keep him out. Nothing would. But it was mine. A choice.

I picked up The Prince and opened to page one. If he wanted me to learn about power, I would.

Just not the lesson he thought he was teaching.