Chapter 5

The First Burn

The dining room in Alessandro Moretti’s penthouse gleamed under a low chandelier, its light catching the polished mahogany table and the crystal wine glasses. The city of Milan sprawled beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering maze of lights against the night. Livia Rossi sat across from Alessandro, her posture rigid, the silk of her emerald dress catching the glow. Her auburn hair was swept up, exposing the tense line of her neck, her green eyes sharp but guarded. The air held the faint scent of rosemary from the untouched plates of roasted lamb between them, the silence thick, broken only by the soft clink of Alessandro’s fork.

He leaned back in his chair, his dark suit open at the collar, the faint scar on his jaw catching the light. His obsidian eyes studied her, not predatory but steady, introverted yet commanding, his words always chosen with care. “You haven’t eaten,” he said, voice low, resonant, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Livia’s fingers tightened on her napkin, her knuckles pale. “Not hungry,” she said, her tone clipped, defiance simmering beneath her calm. She wasn’t here to play house, not after Dante’s taunts at the gala, Sofia Conti’s smirk burning in her memory, or the note from Marco still hidden in her clutch.

Alessandro’s gaze didn’t waver, but his head tilted, a subtle acknowledgment. “You’re angry,” he said, not a question, his reserved confidence unnerving her. “Good. It keeps you sharp.”

She scoffed, dropping the napkin on the table. “Don’t pretend you know me.” Her voice held an edge, but her chest tightened, the memory of his kiss at the gala—public, claiming, yet oddly gentle—stirring something she didn’t want to name. Jealousy over Sofia’s bold move on him lingered, a thorn she couldn’t pull.

He sipped his wine, the movement deliberate, his silence louder than words. “I know cages,” he said finally, voice soft but weighted. “You’ve been in one too long.”

Livia’s breath hitched, her eyes narrowing. “And you’re what? My savior?” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a challenge. “You’re just a new lock, Alessandro.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, his restraint maddening. “Maybe,” he said, setting the glass down. “But I don’t need to break you to keep you.”

Her pulse kicked, his words landing like a spark on dry tinder. She wanted to snap back, but the truth in his gaze—quiet, trusting, not possessive—stopped her. She pushed her chair back, standing, needing space from the heat building in her chest. “I don’t need your philosophy,” she said, turning toward the windows, Milan’s lights blurring as her mind churned.

Alessandro stayed seated, his stillness a contrast to her restlessness. “Then tell me what you do need,” he said, voice calm, inviting, not demanding.

She froze, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The question cut deeper than she expected, cracking open memories she’d buried. Dante’s betrayal, his voice mocking her as he sold her to her father’s debts, his arm around Sofia at the gala, their laughter sharp as glass. Her father’s dismissal, cold and final, “You’re no use without power.” The words had carved her hollow, but here, in this gilded cage, something stirred—a fire she hadn’t felt in years.

She turned back, her eyes blazing, meeting his steady gaze. “I need to be more than a trophy,” she said, voice low, raw, each word a confession. “Dante took everything—my name, my choices. He never saw me, not once.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, her anger spilling like wine. “And now he’s got her, parading Sofia like I was nothing.”

Alessandro’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—anger, maybe—crossing his face, but his voice stayed even, sparing. “Dante’s a fool,” he said, standing now, his tall frame filling the space without crowding her. “Sofia’s his mirror, not his match. You’re no one’s shadow.”

Livia’s chest heaved, her jealousy over Sofia dimming under his words, but doubt lingered, sharp and stubborn. “And what am I to you?” she asked, stepping closer, her voice a dare. “Your prize? Your project?”

He moved toward her, deliberate, stopping just out of reach, his eyes locked on hers, not soft but certain. “You’re a war I’ll fight,” he said, voice low, each word deliberate, a vow not a claim. “Not for me, but with you.”

Her breath caught, her heart stumbling. The room seemed to shrink, the city’s hum fading, leaving only the weight of his gaze, his quiet trust piercing her defenses. She wanted to push back, to call it a lie, but his restraint—never reaching, never overwhelming—held her, a spark igniting something new. Her hand lifted, almost touching his chest, then dropped, her fingers trembling.

Before she could speak, her phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with Dante’s name. Livia’s stomach twisted, her eyes flicking to Alessandro, who nodded, silent permission. She snatched the phone, opening the text, her jaw clenching at the words: Russo’s coming for you, Liv. You’re not safe with him.

She deleted it, her fingers steady, but her pulse raced, Marco’s note about Russo’s plans flashing in her mind. Alessandro watched, his expression unreadable but alert, his trust in her unspoken. “Dante?” he asked, voice calm, no judgment.

She nodded, her voice tight. “He says Russo’s after me.” She met his gaze, defiance flaring. “I’m not running.”

Alessandro stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm, light but grounding, not possessive. “You don’t have to,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I’ll handle Russo. But you—” He paused, his eyes searching hers, reserved yet open. “You’re not fighting alone.”

Livia’s throat burned, her defenses cracking under his quiet vow. She thought of Sofia’s smirk, Dante’s betrayal, Russo’s threat, and the note in her clutch—her leverage, her power. For the first time, she felt seen, not as a prize but as a force. Her hand grazed his, a fleeting touch, her heart waking to something dangerous, something hers.

She stepped back, needing air, her voice steady despite the fire in her chest. “I’m not your war, Alessandro,” she said, a challenge and a promise. “I’m my own.”

He nodded, his lips curving faintly, his trust unwavering. “I know,” he said, voice low, final, as if he’d been waiting for her to say it.

Livia turned toward the windows, the city sprawling below, her reflection sharp in the glass. Dante’s text, Sofia’s taunts, Russo’s threat—they burned, but so did she, her resolve hardening, her heart alive with a fight she was ready to claim.