Sophia didn't sleep. She spent the night in the sprawling primary suite, lying stiffly atop the impossibly soft duvet, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the penthouse. The low, constant hum of the climate control. The faint creak of a floorboard somewhere else in the vast space. Every sound was amplified, every silence felt like a prelude to something terrifying.
She'd explored the closet and found it stocked with clothes, all with the tags still on. Simple, expensive pieces in her size—linen trousers, silk blouses, soft cashmere sweaters. The intimacy of it, the presumption, made her skin crawl. He'd had someone buy clothes for her. He'd known her size. He'd thought of everything.
When the first grey light of dawn began to filter through the small, high windows that weren't covered by the shutters, she gave up on rest. She showered in the enormous, marble-lined bathroom, using the provided toiletries that smelled of sandalwood and bergamot—his scent. It was like being washed in him. She dressed in the simplest outfit she could find: a pair of black leggings and a grey cashmere hoodie that felt like a whisper against her skin.
She needed coffee. Desperately.
Cracking open the bedroom door, she listened. Silence. Perhaps he was still asleep. The thought offered a sliver of relief. She could make coffee, find a corner, and try to gather the shattered pieces of her composure alone.
She padded silently into the great room. The shutters were still down, the space lit by soft, automated lighting. And then she saw him.
Alessandro Morano was standing in the kitchen, his back to her.
He wasn't in a suit. He wore a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants that did nothing to hide the powerful, lean muscle of his back and shoulders. He was… making coffee. The domesticity of the scene was so profoundly dissonant that she just stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching.
He moved with the same efficient, economical grace in the kitchen as he did everywhere else. He ground the beans, measured the water, his focus absolute. This was a man who did nothing by halves, not even this.
He must have sensed her presence. He stilled, then slowly turned around.
Without the armor of his suit, without the backdrop of his power, he looked different. Younger. The early morning light softened the harsh angles of his face, but it couldn't soften the intensity in his dark eyes. He looked tired. She wondered if he'd slept as poorly as she had.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the expanse of polished concrete. The air hummed with the quiet gurgle of the coffee maker and everything that had been said—and left unsaid—the night before.
"I couldn't sleep," she finally said, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet room.
"Neither could I," he replied, his voice a low rasp. He turned back to the counter, grabbing two simple white mugs from a cabinet. "Coffee?"
It was such a normal question. So utterly bizarre given the circumstances. "Please,"she whispered.
He poured the coffee, black and steaming, into both mugs. He pushed one across the island counter toward her. She approached cautiously, like a skittish animal, and took the mug. Their fingers didn't touch.
"Thank you," she said, cradling the warm ceramic in her hands. She took a sip. It was rich, strong, and perfect.
He leaned against the opposite counter, watching her over the rim of his own mug. The silence stretched, but it was different from the tense silence in the car. This was… contemplative. Awkward. Charged with the strange intimacy of a shared morning.
"Did you…", she started, then stopped, unsure how to ask. "Your shop is fine,"he said, anticipating her question. "Leo sent a man to water the plants and check the alarms. There were two orders for pickup; he handled them."
She blinked. "He… handled them? Leo arranged flowers?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "No. He paid your part-time girl double to come in and do it. The business continues. No one is the wiser."
Of course. He didn't solve problems himself; he deployed resources. He was a general, and the world was his battlefield. Even something as simple as watering a petunia was a tactical decision.
She took another sip of coffee, the rich flavor grounding her. "What happens today?"
"We wait," he said simply. "My men are working. I will make calls. You will… exist."
"Exist," she repeated, the word tasting bitter. "I'm not very good at just existing."
"I know," he said, and there was a note of understanding in his voice that surprised her. "I've seen you work. Your hands are never still."
The observation was so specific, so personal. He had been watching her that closely in her shop. The memory of his gaze on her, which had felt so violating then, now felt strangely seen.
"What do you do?" she asked suddenly. "When you're not… handling things?"
He seemed slightly taken aback by the question. No one probably asked the Don about his hobbies. "I read,"he said after a moment. "History. Strategy. I train." "Train?" "Boxing.Jiu-jitsu. A body is a weapon. It must be maintained." He said it with the same matter-of-fact tone someone else might use to talk about car maintenance.
She tried to imagine him in a gym, sweating, straining. The image was unsettlingly visceral. "And you?"he asked, turning the question back on her. "When you are not creating beauty for a living?"
It was the first time he'd asked her about herself. Not about her father, or her shop, but about her. "I…I don't know," she admitted. "The shop is my life. I guess I don't do much else." It sounded pathetic saying it out loud.
"There is nothing wrong with a life dedicated to a single, beautiful purpose," he said, his gaze intense. "It is a rare thing."
The compliment, wrapped in such stark simplicity, warmed her more than the coffee. She looked down into her mug, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
The moment was broken by the buzz of his phone on the counter. He picked it up, his expression immediately shifting from contemplative to focused, the mask of the Don sliding back into place. He read the message, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"What is it?" she asked, her own anxiety spiking.
"Nothing for you to concern yourself with," he said, his voice losing its softness, becoming businesslike. "A development. It requires a call."
He pushed off from the counter, phone in hand. "The shutters will raise in fifteen minutes. You can look at the view. Do not go near the windows." It was an order, delivered coolly.
And just like that, the fragile, tentative connection was severed. The man who appreciated a life of beauty was gone, replaced by the commander.
He walked away toward his room, already speaking low and rapid Italian into the phone.
Sophia was left alone in the kitchen, the warmth of the coffee mug doing little to fight the sudden chill. The conversation was over. The waiting had begun.
But for a few brief minutes, over coffee in the silent, shuttered room, she had caught a glimpse of the man behind the monster. And that, she realized with a sinking heart, was far more dangerous than fearing him ever could be.