Kiss of the mafia enemy

Alessandra’s point of view.

I told myself that if I stayed quiet long enough, the knocking on my door would eventually stop. It didn’t.

The sound came again— slow, steady, and patient in a way that told me whoever stood outside wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t need to ask who it was. I already knew. And I already knew what they had for me.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of this at all.

I wanted to believe that if I ignored it long enough, the whole thing would vanish—that I’d wake up, realize this was just another one of my anxiety-fueled nightmares. That I’d be able to laugh about it later with Kira over tea, maybe even go retail shopping with my best friend. But the world didn’t work like that for people like me. Not in this house. Not with this family.

When they said something had to happen, it would happen.

“Ms. Alessa, please don’t get me in trouble,” came Kira’s voice, muffled but unmistakably weary.

Damn it. Of course, it was her. If it had been anyone else, I could’ve pretended not to hear them. But Kira? She didn’t deserve that.

I loved that woman more than I’d ever admit out loud. She’d practically raised me, patching up scrapes and broken hearts while my parents were too busy running the business. She was the best person in this house—outside my blood, anyway. The thought of her getting scolded, maybe even punished, because of me made my chest tighten with guilt.

“You know I have to give this to you,” she said again, softer this time. She, too, knew how much I didn’t want whatever was waiting in that box.

I sighed, dragging my fingers through my hair and staring at the door like it was the one at fault. My feet felt like pure solid steel as I forced myself to move. Each step was heavy. I didn’t want to do this, but I had to. The sound of the lock sliding open was louder than it should’ve been.

The door creaked, and Kira immediately slipped in, a small package clutched tightly in her hands. Her eyes were glossy, and she looked at me like she wanted to apologize for this without it ever being her fault.

“I’m really sorry about this, sweetie,” she said softly, her voice cracking on the last word.

It hit me how she seemed to be taking this harder than my own mother, which said a lot.

I loved my mom— I really did. She was strong, brilliant, and terrifying in all the ways a woman in our world needed to be. But she was also a professional at detaching herself from emotions when it came to family business. She knew exactly how my father’s syndicate worked; she’d thrived in it, breathed it. This whole arrangement, this forced marriage, barely made her blink. To her, it was a strategy. A merger. Another step toward peace and growing stronger.

Kira, though… she wasn’t built for this world. She knew of it, was the most loyal person, she and her husband, but she was still soft-hearted.

She’d spent years listening to me rant about it, about him.

Zavier Martínez.

The name alone made my stomach twist.

He was heir to the Martínez syndicate, or The Crimson Reign, as they liked to call themselves. The same man who was now, apparently, my fiancé.

I was supposed to marry him. The same guy I’d despised since the day we met.

And I hated everything about him. His stupid, piercing green eyes always looked like they could see right through me. His six-foot-five frame made everyone around him shrink a little. His smooth, self-satisfied voice made my blood boil every time he opened his mouth because I didn’t understand how he could be so suave and how people could fall for his charms.

God, even his birthday annoyed me. The exact same day as mine. Only he had the audacity of being born a year earlier— like the universe itself had given him that extra head start just so he could hold it over me.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Kira offered, her soft brown eyes softening as she looked at me.

“No, Kira, thank you,” I forced a smile upon my lips.

Kira gave me a subtle nod and exited the room. I once again locked the door behind her. I haven’t locked myself in my room since I was sixteen, almost ten years ago. I was back to my default, throwing my fit, locking myself inside the room. When I exited the room, I made sure everyone felt my wrath.

I inhaled deeply and peeled the package open. It was supposed to be my ring. The last ring proposed ended up in the sea in a matter of seconds, it’s fine though because it was too cheap to be on the finger of a Moretti.

This ring arrived in a black-velvet box stamped with Zavier’s family’s crest, a serpent coiled around a dagger, all in a red tone; the serpent had a crown too. With a shaking hand, I opened the box. Inside rested a shining gold band carved with intricate filigree in the shape of thorns, wrapping around a deep, blood-red ruby that catches the light like liquid fire. I gasped at the tiny black diamonds glinting along the band’s edges, elegant but dangerous, just what you’d expect from them.

This ring was more than just a ring, it screamed Zavier, it screamed ‘survive me if you can’instead of ‘I love you’

There was a note with the box. I already knew my blood pressure would spike from the letter; still, I reached for it. Like a moth to a flame is how Zavier and I, fire and gasoline, who cannot resist burning the other.

I opened the note, over the years of taunting notes sent back and forth, I learned to read his sharp, cursive, and strong handwriting. Zavier even went as far as spraying his damn sandalwood scent on it.

"Since we’re stuck with this circus, I figured I’d give you something that actually suits you. Impossible to ignore, like you getting on my nerves."

“P.S. Don’t lose it this time. It already cost me most of my patience, and if it ends up as fish food, I’ll make sure you join it for company.”

It was signed too, as always, “Yours unfortunately, Zavier.”

I squeezed the ring in my palm, taking a deep breath. All this because of one stupid fucking mistake.

Three Months Ago

I stared at Cami like she’d just confessed to the most atrocious crime against humanity— in my book, she did. My mouth actually hung open for a second because I couldn’t process the words that had just left hers. She was my best friend, my person, smart as hell, a literal lawyer, and somehow still capable of doing the dumbest shit imaginable.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ll actually cry,” she whimpered. She sniffled and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

Oh, she was serious. This was bad.

“What the fuck, Cami?” I finally asked, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. I could feel my anger bleeding into every word, no matter how much I tried to hold it back, the anger just came out.

“What?!” she said defensively, her tear-streaked face twisting, and I handed her a napkin from the table.

Fantastic. Now she was going to cry over Gerry. His name was Gerry, for fuck’s sake.

“You were with rat boy for this long for what, exactly?” I demanded, already feeling the laugh bubbling up in my throat because, honestly, it was too ridiculous to take seriously. “I mean, at first, I thought, okay, maybe she’s not with him for his looks. Maybe he’s got a good personality or something,” I said and paused, letting that thought hang there before shaking my head. “He didn’t.”

Cami’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing together like she wanted to defend him but couldn’t come up with a reason why she should. Because we both knew she couldn’t.

“Then I thought, alright, maybe he treats her better than all the other idiots she’s dated, you know, not one of those controlling, self-obsessed bad boys who think being moody counts as depth,” I said and threw my hands up. “Nope. Wrong again.”

Cami did love herself as a bad boy. She turned bright red, the kind of embarrassed flush that crawled all the way to her ears, but I wasn’t done. Not even close. I was going to lecture the hell out of her.

“Then I thought, okay, fine. Maybe he’s at least good in bed. Maybe he’s well-endowed and actually fucks you into next week,” I whispered, lowering my voice as I said it, watching both our expressions drop in synchronized disappointment at the words.

“You’re telling me that ugly fuck-face can’t even make you come?” I asked, dead serious but still reeling from the absurdity of it. My voice pitched upward like I was waiting for her to say Just kidding—but no.

Nothing. And he had the audacity to cheat, too.

What the hell was she even with him for then? The man was a walking list of red flags. He mistreated her, yelled at her like a child, threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way, and, God help me, was shorter than her. And not the confident kind of short either. The insecure, sulky kind that couldn’t handle her wearing heels without making a scene about it, and Cami's shoe closet was basically only heels.

He wasn’t decent-looking, didn’t treat her right, couldn’t make her happy in or out of bed, so seriously, what the hell had she been thinking?

“I should slap you for this,” I finally muttered, shaking my head, my hands balled into fists at my sides. I could practically feel steam coming out of my ears.

Cami flinched, but I wasn’t done glaring at her.

“I mean it,” I said, my voice a low growl now. “If loving you didn’t come with this much emotional labor, I’d have already done it.”

“You’re right,” she said softly, words neither of us ever liked saying out loud. Her tone was small, a little wobbly, like admitting defeat was physically painful. “You should slap me. I wasted like five months of my life on him,” she added, then leaned forward and actually turned her face toward me, offering her cheek to slap.

I blinked, half laughing, half shocked.

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, reaching out, but instead of slapping her, I pinched her cheek, just hard enough to make her squeak.

She yelped and rubbed the spot.

“I love you,” I sighed, picking up my caramel latte and taking a slow sip. The warmth slid down my throat, helping to cool the irritation simmering in my chest. Then an idea sparked, a perfect, wicked, me kind of idea. I leaned back in my chair, a smirk tugging at my lips. “And I know exactly what we should do.”

Cami blinked, confused, her brows knitting together as she tilted her head.

“Oh no,” she said slowly, already suspicious.

“Oh yes,” I replied with a grin that only grew wider.

She crossed her arms, waiting for me to elaborate.

“We should go to The Scarlet Dream,” I declared, the words tasting sweet as victory. The image was already in my head. There would be music pulsing, lights low, the two of us dressed to turn heads.

“Clubbing?” she asked, frowning as if the concept was foreign after months of dating that troll.

“Yep,” I said, popping the ‘p’and nodding with full enthusiasm. “Short dresses, high heels, hair styled to absolute perfection,” I said, lifting my hand like I could already see it. Her confidence would return, that fire back in her eyes. “It’s exactly your thing. And since Gerry banned you from doing anything remotely fun, I’d say we make up for lost time.”

I hated Gerry because even a girls' trip wasn’t allowed, not without him.

Cami rolled her eyes, but the faintest smile was already fighting its way onto her lips.

“I’ve got the place booked on Fridays,” I continued, leaning in like I was sharing some top-secret information. “And trust me, there’ll be plenty of hotties there. Quality ones. Men who actually know how to use a brain cell and their hips,” I winked.

Her laughter broke through the tension, that loud, genuine sound I’d missed hearing from her.

“We’ll find you a good rebound,” I said with a wicked grin. “One that wipes Gerry the Gremlin right out of your memory. By Monday, everything will slide back into place,” I said.

“I’m not against that,” Cami admitted with a soft laugh, her smile finally matching mine.

“Good,” I said, smirking over the rim of my cup. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Her expression faltered slightly then, hesitation slipping into her tone.

“I’ve heard Zav goes there on Fridays, though,” she said, voice uncertain.

The name hit the air like a spark on gasoline.

Of course. Zavier.

Cami and Matteo, his best friend, had both been stuck between us for years, helpless referees in a feud neither side could bring to an end. They hated being in the middle of it, but it was too late.

“I have the club on Fridays,” I said firmly, straightening in my seat. My tone left no room for argument. “He gets it on Saturdays and Sundays. We already settled this, so don’t worry about it.”

I forced a small, reassuring smile onto my lips.

Zavier Martínez and I had gone to war over almost everything, control, pride, territory, even stupid little things like parking spots. It had gotten to the point where we had literal competitions for public places. Scarlett Dream was one of them.

That place was mine four nights a week, Tuesdays through Fridays, and everyone in the city knew it. Especially him. He knew the rules. He knew not to show up.

And if he did… Well. That would be his mistake.

Friday night came faster than I expected, and before I knew it, I had my ass seated in the car, ready to be driven to Cami’s house to pick her up for our plans.

I swear, the second she stepped out of her house, I knew I had my old Cami back. Gone was the heartbroken girl who’d spent a week crying over a man who didn’t deserve her.

The dress was a tight, silver glitter one that clung to every perfect curve she had. The neckline plunged all the way to her navel. It shimmered every time she moved. Her black heels were those expensive custom ones I’d ordered for her birthday. The red bottoms matched the exact shade of the lipstick playing on her smirking lips.

“You look so fucking hot, I’d wife you up if I were a man,” I said, letting out a low whistle as she climbed into the car.

Marcus, my driver, didn’t even flinch. He’d been working for me long enough to know I said a lot of questionable things.

“Oh yeah?” Cami laughed, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she settled into the seat beside me. “We’d have two kids already.”

“More like five,” I shot back with a grin, buckling my seatbelt. “And probably a sixth on the way.”

“Fuck, you can be such a flirt sometimes,” She snorted, clutching her stomach.

“Only with people who deserve it,” I said, smirking at her reflection in the tinted window.

“What about Kingston as rebound?” she then asked.

Kingston was the son of my father’s right hand-man who also happened to be my right-hand man. Kingston was a good at his job, loyal but would make a terrible boyfriend.

“Nope, leave my people out of it.”

The car ride was filled with easy laughter and warmth. We caught up on the small things we’d missed, though, honestly, there wasn’t much. We texted and called almost every day. But there was something different about being together, in person.

When the car finally pulled up, Marcus opened the door for us. I stepped out first. The club’s neon sign glowed crimson above the entrance. I turned and offered my hand to Cami.

The second we walked through the doors, the bass hit. It was low, steady, addictive. The scent of expensive perfume, whiskey, and something darker hung in the air. It was an elite club for most of the underground world and shady rich people. Bodies moved to the rhythm, lights flashing across faces, sequins, and skin.

I could feel eyes on me almost immediately. It wasn’t unusual, being a Moretti meant attention followed wherever I went, but tonight, it was different. Intense.

My stomach dropped. That feeling—I knew it too well.

My eyes darted toward the private lounge, the section roped off with deep red velvet, guarded by a man who looked like he’d rather take a bullet than let anyone through.

And there he was.

Zavier.

Even from here, I could see the dark shirt rolled up at his forearms, the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint of his watch as he lifted a glass to his lips. Those green eyes, those infuriating, piercing green eyes, found mine in the crowd, and just like that, the air shifted.

It wasn't a surprise. It was a challenge. Of course, he was here.

He wasn’t supposed to be, but then again, Zavier Martínez never did know how to follow the rules, especially when it came to me.

Not that I played by the rules.

Zavier’s point of view.

Friday night.

I could’ve been anywhere I wanted— hell, I could’ve taken a flight to Santorini, spent the weekend there, and flown back Tuesday like it was nothing. But instead, I chose to come here. The Scarlet Dream.

Partly for the whiskey. Mostly for her.

A certain woman with auburn hair who was a pain in my ass with a temper that could burn cities down.

I knew this was her night. Fridays belonged to Alessandra Moretti— or so she liked to brag. She’d won it off me in a poker game months ago, and to this day, I wasn’t entirely convinced it had been fair. The Morettis weren’t exactly known for honesty. They’d lie, cheat, and charm their way through anything if it meant getting what they wanted.

And Alessandra? She was the worst of them all.

Hell, the woman had the audacity to be born on the same damn day as me and still acted like the universe revolved around her birthday. She acted like I stole her day when I was born a whole year before her. She’d always had that look in her eyes, a look of defiant, untamed, impossible to ignore. It drove me crazy in every sense of the word.

I lifted my glass and took a slow sip of whiskey, the burn spreading through my chest as I scanned the room. I’d been showing up to her so-called “Fridays” every week for the past three weeks, and still, no sign of her. I was starting to think she’d chickened out— or maybe she was just enjoying the idea of keeping a place without using it— I did the same, but I expected better from her, I wanted her to find me here.

I sat back in my private lounge, legs stretched out, an arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. The woman beside me was a brunette model, apparently, talking about her latest campaign, some luxury brand she’d just worked with.

She was pretty enough. Perfect hair, expensive perfume, legs for days. Everything about her screamed high-maintenance and designer-label vanity. But I could barely focus on what she was saying. Her voice was soft and practiced, and all I could think was how empty it sounded.

She told me about her waist size, the new shoes she’d gotten, what parties she’d been invited to, and which designers she worked with— that was literally all she could talk about. And all I could do was nod, sip my drink, and wonder if this was how I sounded when I talked about my guns. God, I hoped not.

I needed more than that. More substance, more fire. Something, or rather, someone who could actually keep up.

And right on cue, the door opened. As if the universe heard me, I manifested here.

She walked in.

Alessandra.

The first thing that I noticed was her hair, that deep auburn color that caught every bit of light and somehow looked like it was made of flames under the club’s light. She’d slicked it back, a slight part in the front, perfectly deliberate and infuriatingly sexy.

My gaze trailed down her body, slow and shameless.

Those legs, toned and smooth, wrapped in impossibly high heels that made me wonder how she wasn’t twisting an ankle every ten seconds. She moved with confidence, though, like she owned the damn floor. And technically, she did four times a week.

Then came the dress.

A shimmery, short pink dress that hugged her figure like it was custom-made for her alone. The back was practically nonexistent, her bare skin smooth and inviting, daring anyone to look twice. Next to her was her best friend, Cami, also glittering in silver. Together, they looked like trouble.

Still, my focus stayed locked on Alessandra. Always her.

It was almost laughable. Cami’s dress was low-cut, the kind meant to turn heads and break necks, but all I could think about was how Alessandra would’ve worn it better. Her curves, her attitude, the way her big, perfect breasts would’ve filled it, yeah, that dress would’ve been lucky to cling to her.

I took another sip of whiskey, a slow smirk pulling at my lips.

She hadn’t seen me yet. But when she did?

I’d make damn sure she knew I was here.

The thing with the Morettis was that they would never actually declare war, not yet, anyway. The same went for us, the Martínez. Declaring war was bad for business, and both families were too deeply rooted, too powerful, to risk bleeding resources for pride. Our operations were intertwined in ways that even hatred couldn’t fully undo. So, we stayed in this uneasy balance, a cold war that had lasted decades.

It started with our grandfathers, both smart enough to realize they’d destroy everything if they didn’t call a truce. Our parents nearly ruined it during their early years of power, but the peace was forced back into place before things got out of hand. Forty years later, that fragile arrangement still held, thin as glass and most definitely a cold war between us, and every time Alessandra Moretti opened her mouth, I could feel it crack just a little more.

Cold war, indeed. She was the only one who treated it like a blood feud written in the stars. I merely played my part; I would not let a Moretti walk all over me.

Finally, she appeared, and those blazing honey-brown eyes found mine across the room. Even before she spoke, I felt that familiar flicker of satisfaction light up in my chest. I leaned back against the leather couch, a slow smirk tugging at my mouth as I took a measured sip of whiskey.

Her friend, Cami, looked like she was trying to talk her down, one hand on Alessandra’s arm, but I knew better. My Little Miss Trouble never backed down, not from me, not from anyone. She’d rather set herself on fire than pretend I didn’t exist in her spot right now. She had to address it.

And just like that, she was storming toward me, those ridiculous heels clicking across the club floor, defiance in every step. I was half-surprised they hadn’t snapped under her temper.

When she reached me, she stopped between my legs, arms crossed tight, chin tilted high like a queen ready to order my execution.

“Keep pouting,” I said lazily, resting my elbow on the back of the couch. “I like the preview,” I said with a wink as I watched her.

Her eyes narrowed, that little spark of fury making her even prettier.

“Your ego needs its own security team,” she shot back, voice dripping with disdain. “You know what they say about men with big egos?” She let the words hang there before her gaze flicked downward to my lap, a small, cruel smirk curling her lips. “They tend to overcompensate,” she said and continued to smirk.

The corner of my mouth twitched. She was playing with fire again, and she knew it.

I stood up, the space between us shrinking until the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Her chin tilted higher as if daring me to move closer, even though her pulse had already given her away.

“Would you like to test that theory?” I murmured, voice low and calm. It was a practiced kind of calm that always made her tense. “Bring out your ruler to dictate whether I’m overcompensating or not?” I offered, stepping just a little closer for my breath to graze her skin, and she shuddered a little.

Her breath hitched, barely, but I caught it. I always did. I leaned in just enough for my breath to brush against her cheek, savoring the flicker of heat that crossed her expression before she masked it with a glare.

She snapped back to her senses, chin tilting up like a challenge she wouldn’t lose, eyes narrowing into golden slits that shimmered beneath the neon lights. Alessandra could’ve spent this time differently, but she just loves me.

“Should I bring my mini-figurine ruler,” Alessandra asked, voice smooth and playful, “or is that too big?” She then asked, lips turning into a wicked smirk as she looked at me.

Her friend, standing a few feet away, tried and failed to hide a laugh, a hand pressed over her mouth. I didn’t even look her way; my eyes were locked on the woman in front of me, the one who could set fire to every ounce of patience I had left with a single sentence. If I were fire, she was gasoline, acetone, anything to make it a fucking explosion.

“Such a big fucking mouth,” I muttered, leaning forward just enough for my tone to scrape against her nerves.

My finger traced the line of her cheek, slow, deliberate, daring her to react. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, and for a second, just one second, she froze. Her pupils widened, her breath caught, and I caught the tiniest glimpse of the pulse that flickered at her throat.

Then she slapped my hand away. Hard. She rarely even froze for me, so I should’ve known.

“What the hell are you doing here, Martínez?” she snapped, voice shifting. Gone was the playful taunt, replaced by something sharper, colder. “You know I have this place from Tuesday to Friday,” She said and spoke slowly, every word dripping with condescension, like she was talking to a toddler. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She always did. I hated it when someone talked to me as if I were a dumb child.

I smiled, a forced, fake, and dangerous smile, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I want to be here,” I responded. My tone was simple, final. No explanation, no apology.

Most people backed down when I stood like that with my shoulders squared, voice low, all steel and danger. But not her. Never her. Alessandra Moretti didn’t shrink under my presence; she fed off it, as if my darkness was the only fuel she ever needed.

Her head tilted slightly, that rich auburn hair catching the light as she looked me up and down.

“Are you sure you want to play this way, Martínez?” she asked, eyebrow arching in that infuriatingly slow, calculated way.

I stepped closer, close enough for her perfume to hit me, something vanilla, powdery but not soft, edged with spice. I bent my head just enough that my next words brushed against her ear.

“What are you going to do, Moretti?” I whispered, my voice lower now, dangerous and calm. “Bite?”

Her lips twitched, her gaze holding mine steady.

“Oh,” she said softly, almost sweetly, “I was hoping you’d say that,” she chuckled.

That sound, her laugh, light but laced with something wicked, and it made my stomach twist. Not from fear. From something worse.

Fuck. This felt like a trap. It sounded like a trap. And yet, some part of me wanted to see what would happen if I stayed.

But I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. Not tonight.

“Have a nice night,” I said finally, smirking as I turned away. I didn’t get far before I stopped, something in me needing that last word— always.

I looked back over my shoulder, catching her glare before it could melt into something else. “Though I assumed with those shoes you’d be looking for a pool,” I said, eyeing her heels before meeting her gaze. “Shame we don’t have one,” I smirked.

Her glare could’ve set the place on fire.

I expected her to say something, some sharp retort, some clever insult. But she didn’t. She just stared at me for a moment, lips twitching like she was biting back a comeback, and then… nothing.

Defeated, I assumed. What a fucking mistake that was to think she had given up, that she didn’t trap me.

The minute I sat back down, thinking I’d won that little round, I’d unknowingly declared another silent war with her.

Two hours later, it began. My server brought over a bottle, my bottle. The one I kept locked away at the club, my own stash of whiskey. I’d bought it myself abroad, left it here for nights like this. Matteo was beside me, mid-conversation, when I poured us both a glass.

The second the scent hit me, I froze. That wasn’t whiskey. I lifted the glass closer, frowning. The color was close, but the smell was… wrong. Floral, soft, sweet. That couldn’t be right, but I knew this whiskey maker had special editions. Was this one?

I took a sip anyway, and that was a fucking bad idea.

Earl Grey tea. The fuck?

Matteo burst out laughing when he tasted it, before I even said a word. That was when I felt it, eyes on me. My gaze shot toward the dance floor.

There she was. Alessandra.

Her body moved with the beat, her ass pressed back against some guy whose name didn’t matter. Her head was tilted slightly, and those golden-brown eyes locked on mine with laser precision. And the second she saw me notice her, that smirk appeared, slow, deliberate, victorious.

She lifted her glass toward me in a mock toast. Inside it was brown liquor. My whiskey. She held the look, tipped the glass back, and downed it like it was nothing.

Fucking hell. That one, I’ll admit, was good. Petty, perfect, and infuriating.

I thought that would be it. That she’d get her laugh, gloat about it later, and move on.

But Alessandra Moretti never knew when to stop.

For a full week, she made my life hell in the most creative ways possible.

First, she parked half her goddamn fleet of cars in my reserved spots. The ones I’d won fair and square. She knew those spaces mattered, and of course, she timed it perfectly, making me late to two major meetings. One of them was with investors who did not find “my little lie” particularly amusing. I ended up forced to use a driver instead of driving myself. Humiliating.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she infiltrated one of my private meetings. She hacked the presentation screen mid-pitch and replaced my carefully crafted briefing with, Shit, help me, some weird porn video.

Not just that, she somehow had the cops show up. The entire building was in chaos for an hour.

I got out before anyone could make an arrest, but not before the story spread like wildfire: rumors about my “taste” in entertainment, endless family teasing, and a PR headache that took days to smother. My father, my cousins, and even Matteo wouldn’t let it go. No one believed it was Alessandra. They all thought it was a virus.

No. This had her fingerprints all over it. And that was when I decided, fine. If she wanted to play this game, I could play too.

But my version of revenge? It was going to make her wish she’d never started.