Page 4 of Mafia Heir's Broken Vows

"This is why you shouldn't be here," Alessandro says, his tone sharper now as if scolding a child.

I glare at him, anger bubbling to the surface to drown my unease. "Is that what this is? You saving me?"

He stops abruptly, turning to face me, his eyes blazing behind the mask. "It's exactly what this is, Serafina. You might not want my help, but you damn well need it."

My breath catches, the truth of his words sinking in like a stone. He doesn't wait for my reply, turning on his heel and leading me further into the shadows. I follow, every step heavier than the last.

The Rose Garden is deserted, the impressive glass dome shimmering with the flicker of fairy lights. Roses bloom indefiance of the cold, their subtle fragrance mingling with the night air. Alessandro stops, turning to face me. We're alone, and suddenly I am afraid.

The cold air bites at my skin, but the heat of his gaze makes it impossible to feel anything but him.

He steps closer, and I instinctively back away, my heels catching on the uneven stone. His hand shoots out, gripping my elbow to steady me. The touch burns, igniting a dangerous warmth that spreads through my veins.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and laced with a warning. "I wouldn't want you to fall."

I yank my arm away, but his presence is suffocating, heavy as a storm cloud hanging over me. Every breath feels harder, heavier, under the weight of him.

"Why are you really here, Alessandro?" My voice is sharper than I intended, but I don't care. "What do you want from me?"

His eyes darken, the answer lingering on his lips but unspoken. "The truth," he says at last, though his gaze says otherwise.

"Tell me the truth," he demands, his voice low but edged with steel. I will never tell him the fucking truth. He doesn't deserve it. "Why are you here?"

"There's nothing to tell," I lie smoothly. His posture changes. I have made him angry in my defiance. "I am working."

His jaw tightens. "Marco's men are here. Watching you. Why?"

I cross my arms, defiant. "You think I'm involved with Marco? You are funny, aren't you? He hired my company to organize the event; it is his year to host this shitshow." It's not a lie; that's the reason I'm here.

His eyes narrow. "Then explain why they're following you around." He needs to back off.

A beat of silence stretches between us. Electricity charges the air as we stare at one another, nothing has changed. I still hate him. He comes closer, stepping into my personal space, trying to disarm me with his fucking sex appeal and that god-damned scent he wears.

"Stay away from me, Alessandro," I whisper, but it sounds weak, even to me.

He steps closer. "I can't. And neither can you." I wish that was a lie—that I could force my body to hate him like my head and heart do. But I'm already dripping wet just being near him. A single innocent touch like holding his arm has my entire body tingling with desire. The way he can disarm me of my common sense is dangerous.

The air sparks between us, but the sound of footsteps shatters the moment. We both turn. I am relieved by the welcome interruption. I know where that interaction was heading, down a slippery-fucking-sexy-slope.

"We need to leave. Now," Alessandro says. I hesitate, not willing to just do as he tells me, but a shiver runs up my spine. He senses danger, and my body is telling me the same thing.

And despite everything—the past, the pain, the mistrust—I blindly follow him further into the shadows.

ALESSANDRO

It's fucking freezing outside as I lead Serafina away from the Rose Garden, her tiny hand trembling slightly in mine. She tries to mask it—that fear—but I see through it. I always have. Marco's men are here, and she's more than just an employee. Why is she tangled up with him? She is hiding something, and I want to know what.

We move deeper into Rosewood Hall, away from the crowd and the prying eyes hidden beneath glittering masks. The dim hallway is lined with ancient portraits, their painted eyes following our every move. I don't stop until we reach the Hall of Mirrors, the flickering candlelight casting endless reflections around us. The décor carefully selected to create a 'mood' for valentines, a stupid holiday I have always hated.

"Take off the mask, Serafina," I command, my voice low but firm. I want to see her face, to know what lies she is trying to conceal behind the delicate gold.

Her chin lifts defiantly. "No."

I step closer, closing the distance between us. She smells like sunshine and seduction. "You want to play games? Fine. But not with me. Not tonight." I'm not interested in games—those are for children and fools.

Her breath hitches, but slowly, her hands rise to the delicate mask, she unhooks it and lets it fall to the marble floor. Her face—the same and yet different—stares back at me, fierce but vulnerable.

"Satisfied?" she snaps. How could I be satisfied when I am looking at her, not claiming her?

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