The next day, Alessia found Enzo in his study. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, catching the dust motes in the air and turning them to gold. He was reviewing documents, his pen moving in sharp, precise strokes across the paper. The heavy silver ring on his finger glinted each time his hand shifted. She stood in the doorway, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. After last night—after she had gone to him, after he had held her against his chest and pressed her hand to his heart—surely he would grant her this small thing.
"I want longer calls with Nico," Alessia said.
He did not look up. His pen did not pause. "The terms are the terms. I did not stutter. You consented."
Her breath caught in her throat. She felt the words like a slap, but she forced herself to speak again. "I am not asking to change the contract. I am asking for a small kindness. After what happened between us—"
Now he looked up. His dark eyes were cold, empty of everything she had seen in them the night before. There was no trace of the man who had groaned her name against her skin, who had held her like she was something precious. There was only the don.
"Do not think because you spread your legs for me that the contract has changed," Enzo said.
The words hit her like a physical blow. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach hollowed out, a cold, sickening drop. Her eyes stung, but she would not cry in front of him. She would not give him that. She dug her nails into her palms, the pain grounding her.
"I understand, Don Moretti," Alessia said. Her voice was steady, but it cost her everything. Each syllable was a stone she had to lift.
She turned and walked out. She did not run. She walked with her head high, her spine straight, her footsteps even on the marble floor. Past the guards. Past Signora Esposito, whose gaze flickered to her face and then away. Down the corridor to her room. She closed the door behind her and turned the lock.
Then she let the tears fall. Silent, furious, humiliated. She pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle the sobs, her shoulders shaking. She slid down the door until she was sitting on the cold floor, her knees drawn to her chest. She had given him her body. She had given him her vulnerability. She had let herself hope that she was more than a transaction. And he had thrown it back in her face like it meant nothing.
That night, she did not go to his room. She stayed in her own bed, staring at the ceiling, her chest a hollow ache. The sheets were cold. The silence was absolute.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. The first night, he told himself he did not care. He poured himself a whiskey and stared at the security feed of her empty room. The second night, he paced his study, restless and irritable, snapping at a guard who brought him news he did not want to hear. The third night, he stood outside her door, his hand raised to knock, then let it fall. His fingers brushed the wood. He did not enter. She did not call for him.
The distance between them grew, cold and vast. She performed her duties perfectly. She was polite, distant, untouchable. She did not look at him unless required. When she spoke, it was formal. "Yes, Don Moretti." "No, Don Moretti." She took her meals in silence. She walked the garden with her guard and did not glance toward his study window. He watched her, and the tension in the villa was a living thing. The staff felt it. Meals were silent. The air was heavy with unspoken words.
On the fourth day, he summoned her to his study. She stood before him, her face calm, her heart a fortress. She had perfected the art of being ice. She wore a simple gray dress, her hair pulled back, the locket with Nico's photo resting against her collarbone. She looked untouchable.
"You think withholding yourself matters?" Enzo said. His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with a fury she had not heard before. "I have had women. I will have them again. You are not essential."
She did not flinch. She had prepared for this. She had replayed every cruel word he might say and practiced her response until it was armor. She met his eyes without blinking.
"I understand, Don Moretti," Alessia said.
The use of his title was a door slamming shut. She turned and walked out without waiting to be dismissed. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, steady and unhurried. She did not look back.
He stood alone in his study, the echo of her footsteps fading. He had won. He had reasserted his control. He had reminded her of her place. But her absence was a wound that would not close. He stared at the empty doorway, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. He did not understand why. He told himself he did not care.
He was lying.
That night, he drank more than usual. The ashtray overflowed. He stared at the security footage of her empty room, the bed untouched, the sheets smooth. She was not coming to him. She would never come to him again. He had ensured it.
And he had never felt more alone.