The Mafia Heir's Fake Wife

[ S E R A P H I N E ]

I'm a killer.

I killed someone last night.

Sweet old Sephie is dead.

I murdered innocent little Sephie in more ways than I imagined. She died the moment I accepted the money. Gratefully. The biggest payment I've ever received since I jumped on the bandwagon...ever since I joined the world of online sex work.

Yes. I've been selling myself to complete strangers. Lingerie photos. Videos. Explicitly graphic "my diary" entries. You name it.

My profile doesn't flaunt a long list of subscribers. But I'm getting there. It's quite a lucrative side-gig for a rookie.

I suppose I've made history for being the first-ever internet whore among my immigrant family's mostly working class bloodline. In a predominantly Catholic country to boot.

Hey. Don't judge me.

"Tough times call for desperate measures," my bestie would say. Actually, ex-best friend. I doubt he'd approve of the life decisions I've been making lately, though. Wherever he may be.

For now, it's either online whoring or I rob a bank. Well, more than one, preferably. Obviously I can't pull off a string of bank heists on my own.

So, yeah. I'm making easy money out of sad, lonely strangers' carnal desires.

"Two thousand euros," I murmur as I check my profile's withdrawable balance.

A total of 2,012 bucks for some grainy lingerie and bikini shots. Wow. Someone's got quite a disposable income.

I have no clue who "Angelx30" is in real life, but they must be a fan of cheap lingerie and crochet bikinis for paying this much for some low quality selfies flaunting my "assets"... Emphasis on "ass".

The most I've earned since I started selling thirst-trapping photos? A whopping twelve dollars. Until last night.

If "Angelx30" is actually a guy, maybe he had a gut feel about my dire need of cash. Not because today warrants a little celebration.

No thanks. I'm too old and tired of pink and glittery, balloons-all-over birthday parties. I'm not "Baby Sephie" anymore.

She's dead, like I said. "Happy birthday to me." I put my phone away. I ought to smile and look happy for the big, dark, and gooey-looking Brigadeiro cake staring back at me, sitting on the left side of the receptionist desk. Just waiting to be devoured.

I'm on afternoon duty today. Two till eleven. Same as yesterday. The country club looks chill as expected. Not crowded. But also not too quiet.

A couple of regulars are killing time on the finely trimmed grass. Mostly old-school Italian businessmen affiliated with the owner: Ignazio Tomassini.

Mr. Tomassini is my supervisor's boss' boss. A big-timer like the people who frequent this place. I like to think he and my father are still friends.

Well, my supervisor did say that Ignazio offered to pay for the birthday cake and bouquet. The man's the cool and rich godfather I wish I had growing up. No handwritten note from him on the card, though.

I squint at the flowers and glance down at my old wristwatch. Time for my first break. I log off and tap the switch below the desktop screen.

"Later, friend," I tell the cake as if it's got ears. "Hey. I'll be back in 15." I back away from the receptionist desk and step closer to my co-worker. "Alina."

Like always, her dead eyes are glued to her phone. She's a few years older than me and part Russian, but also fluent in Italian. Alina's bleach blonde ponytail jerks slightly when she gives me a nod and nothing more.

"Nice talking," I mutter as I make my way to the back of the lobby. I don't have any real friends here, which is mostly why I don't like hanging out in the employee lounge.

Anyway, it's quieter and more peaceful out here. No eavesdropping ears or watchful eyes. Wherever I look, the view's picturesque, and I feel more like myself here. Alone. Just sorting my thoughts.

The cool breeze nips at my face and exposed arms. I draw in a breath, just staring at the horizon. Behind the hills, the tranquil lake shimmers under the dimming afternoon sun.

I'm still in awe of the scenic beauty of this place, like the first time I've seen every side of it. Fresh air. Lots of green. Lots of space. Vibrant flowers here and there.

Although this property is almost my age, it still looks up to par. It's well-managed throughout the year because the Tomassinis have more than enough money to keep this club running until whenever they want to. Some days the fact makes me wish the Tomassinis adopted me after my parents died in a car crash or something.

Someone's calling. I fish my phone from my side pocket as it vibrates underneath my pencil skirt. I hope it's not someone from the bank. "Hey, Ma," I say after taking the call.

"Honey, where are you?" my mom asks, her frail voice on the other line a bit nasal. "Sephie?"

I nearly wince at the nickname. "Still at work. What's up?"

"Did you get your dad's texts? He's been trying to reach you."

"No. Why?" My breathing halts. Did something happen to them?

"He wants to talk to you about, erm, a few things. Happy birthday, sweetie."

"Thanks." I pull my phone away from my ear and smile at her gentler tone, then switch the call to speaker mode.

"You really can't come home?"

"I'm working till Sunday night."

"Just take a sick leave tomorrow."

"I can't, Ma. No one's gonna cover my shifts." I sigh when she mutters something in Italian. "Hey," I say in a calmer voice, "I'm fine. They gave me a bouquet and cake. I'll just bring what's left of it back to the apartment."

"Sweetheart, it's your birthday. Come home for a bit," my workaholic mother encourages in a fairly somber tone. "We miss you."

"Miss you, too."

"You work too much."

"Because I have to," I want to say. I press my tongue on the roof of my mouth instead. "Sorry. I just can't this weekend. Where's Dad?"

"Probably stitching up his patient. But he said he's leaving the clinic in an hour."

"You're home?" I ask while two of our wealthiest clients practice their backswing on the other side of the green.

"Mm-hmm. Just got back from the bank," my mom replies, mumbling her words.

"Bank? Why?" I hold my breath. The last thing I want her to say: she went bank-hopping again for a loan. Another loan to pay off most of our old debts. "Ma..."

"We... Your dad and I... We were just thinking about getting another loan."

Shit. How much this time? Now my mother sounds anxious. Preoccupied. "Did you?" I close my eyes. "Tsk. Ma..."

"Honey, you know we have to."

I restrain a sigh as my toes curl in my navy blue heels. Shit. We're definitely in big trouble. "Fine." Ugh. There's no point arguing with her now. "I guess I'm not quitting this year." As if I have a choice.

My mom diverts the conversation while I pretend I'm way calmer than how I really feel. We chat about her day and how my dad's holding up.

I don't mention the disappointment I feel about possibly working for the Tomassinis for another decade just to pay off some of my parents' outstanding balances and the growing interest. They're already stressed enough.

For now, the easiest, quickest way to get that kind of money is to take my online side-hustle to the next level.

The real challenge? I need to make that happen without my family ever finding out.

•

•

•

I go back to my post before my break is up.

Seeing Ignazio Tomassini standing beside my supervisor leaves me speechless. They're next to Alina. The two older men are speaking Italian, looking pretty engrossed in the report on the desktop screen.

What numbers are they looking at? This month's CSAT data? Recent complaints from clients?

My legs feel stiff as I man the front desk. I straighten my posture, log back into my account, and paste a small smile on my lips in case Mr. Tomassini glances my way. I should thank him for the cake and flowers. They don't look cheap at all.

I've just finished checking our updated weekend schedule when I hear the man's throaty chuckle.

Ignazio must be laughing at something Alina said in her accent. She speaks Italian but not better than I do, which Ignazio probably finds endearing in a way. "Seraphine, happy birthday," he greets in his jovial baritone as he stands before me, his tan and hairy forearms resting on the edge of the front desk.

To match his enthusiasm, I give him a big smile and slightly bow. "Grazie, Signore. Bello vederti." [Thank you, Sir. Great to see you.]

"Sei bellisima. Occupata, mia cara?" [You look beautiful. You busy, my dear?]

"No, Signore."

For the next few minutes, we chat about our work schedule and my parents. Then Ignazio glances down at the untouched birthday cake and my blouse. A grin reveals thin creases around his jowls, as if he appreciates how I look in our new uniform.

Like always, he looks well-dressed and ready for anything. Slicked back hair. Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. Dark and thick beard. Strong jawline.

Still handsome despite the graying hair above his ears. The designer clothes and his gold watch only reveal a tiny fraction of his family's wealth. Some would say he's the Italian-born-and-bred version of "zaddy", and I won't argue.

I'm not crushing on him, though, contrary to what my co-workers have been feeding the rumor mill. The man's too old for me, and very much married.

My heart only jumps back to life whenever I catch a glimpse of his son. Ignazio's only son and heir.

Dominico. My future husband.

We'll get married here in Italy. Somewhere private and romantic. Someday. Then we'll buy a house. Have cute babies. Raise our kids in a peaceful town and make thousands of beautiful memories together...

Dominico Tomassini is going to be my knight in shining armor. My Prince Charming. My soon-to-be happily ever after...

He just doesn't know it yet.

•

•

•

The universe seems to enjoy testing my conviction about staying in this country. Dunno why, but, it probably has something to do with my recent career choices.

I'm no longer just an online sex worker by night. After that quick meeting with Ignazio and my co-workers, my day job now includes working as a bartender slash waitress at his parties.

The first will be his yacht party off the coast of Ilfonzo. Although my supervisor did say I'm just gonna be serving food and drinks to some guests for two nights, I highly doubt he didn't mean Ignazio will be paying us extra to "entertain" the guests on his yacht all night.

"Seraphine, ti vedro lì?" [Seraphine, see you there?] Ignazio grins at me as he walks out of the conference room with his younger assistant and my supervisor.

"Certo. Grazie, Signore." [Of course. Thank you, Sir.] I give Mr. Tomassini a quick bow and make my way back to the front desk. "Show up with a smile. Tend the bar. Get paid. Go home," I murmur to myself once they're all out of earshot.

Despite my hesitation, a part of me couldn't say no to Ignazio's offer of a 25-euros-an-hour weekend gig. I mean, he's still the big boss.

Saying no to him could be grounds for insubordination. No matter how risky working on his yacht will be. There'll be security staff on the boat, though, including his bodyguards. Men like him don't just throw parties without bodyguards.

Ugh. I don't know what to wear. I just know we're supposed to show up in something light and tight-fitting. Beige or maroon. Ignazio's favorite colors, perhaps.

As the hours pass, the sky darkens and the air turns nippy. I log off at ten past eleven. I grab my purse and put on my coat.

Now I just have to go back to the apartment, pack up some toiletries, then get some sleep after I find the right outfit. Something a little sexy. But not too revealing.

I got a new job to slay.

•

•

•

Mr. Tomassini's yacht party isn't as extravagant as I expected. It's pretty low-key actually.

No outrageous six-course gourmet dinner. No crazy fireworks or anything. Not even 20 guests.

It's a big boat. High-end. Every piece of furniture on this yacht looks brand new and expensive. Like the food and drinks we served tonight. It's not a megayacht, but spacious enough for 30 people.

It's almost two in the morning, the moon barely visible behind the huge clouds. The muffled chatter, laughter, and club music must be coming from the guests still hanging out by the pool on the upper deck. The rest must've retreated into the cabins already.

I can't leave this bar just yet. I'm not supposed to clean up before three. I won't get paid in full tomorrow if I don't do this job properly. I'm practically alone down here, just minding my own business.

Not sure why I feel antsy. Something just doesn't feel right. But my phone gives me some ideas to distract myself. I opt for a quick chat with a stranger to pass the time.

No effort necessary. "Angelx30" is of course trying to sext with me. I'm unusually anxious and bored, so I bite his bait.

Not sure why I feel too comfortable flirting with him, even sharing some of my personal information. It's the anonymity, I suppose.

Like me, he lives here in Italy, he said. Maybe around my age. Or a little older.

I don't really mind. I like how there's no communication barrier as much as I enjoy our more than friendly banters. Feels nice to be appreciated and pursued every once in a while. Even though I know he's just chatting me up for new nudes.

Well, semi-nudes. I don't give a shit if he sends me a million bucks right now. I'm not sending HD photos of my coochie to anyone. Ever.

If the big boss finds out about my secret online side-job, the management won't hesitate to fire me. I work at a family-friendly establishment, and my face is all over their marketing brochures.

When "Angelx30" doesn't reply to my last message, I drop my phone into my handbag and grab a rag. "Okay. Chill out. Nobody knows. Besides, you're not actually hooking up with anyone."

No one needs to know.

"Right now you're just slinging drinks to filthy rich strangers," I mutter to myself. I wipe some drops of tequila off the leather stools, feeling a bit nauseous.

Not because we're miles away from the coastline and the yacht's been swaying lightly the past few hours. I didn't sleep much last night, for a number of reasons I don't even wanna think about.

"Quit whining." I return to my spot behind the bar. I should be grateful. For being alive. Young. Healthy. Employed. For having a steady job and a few side hustles keeping me and my family afloat. I shouldn't be complaining about my life.

Two nights. That's it.

"Do your job. Get paid. Go home." I take deep breaths, shrugging off a nagging feeling telling me I'm lacking control of my life. I'm putting away some used shot glasses when my peripheral vision catches a familiar face.

Oh shit.

No! This can't be happening.

Dominico? When did he get here?

Crap! I look like a two-dollar hooker in this old mesh dress and drugstore makeup. I don't wear much, but, this is definitely not the right moment or place for our first ever introduction.

It's ridiculously humid out here, so I took off my coat and knee-length boots an hour ago. Now I look like I belong on a stage with a shiny pole.

Darn it! Why? Why tonight? Why does he have to be here, too?

I mean, I had a feeling he would show up with his cousins, even though I didn't see him anywhere during dinner, mingling with any of the guests or anyone familiar.

Where was he all evening?

It's his family's brand new yacht, but the guy doesn't even look remotely excited to be here. Why's he glaring at his phone? Now he looks like he wants to punch the wall.

A bit overdressed for a boat party, Dominico lingers beside the messy pool table, alone and scowling at his phone. The table's about ten steps away.

My stomach's already forming knots. I don't think I can talk to him without stuttering like a total mess. I already feel like an idiot just for wearing this outfit.

Glancing around, looking for another familiar face, I try to keep my legs and breathing steady. "Get it together. It's no big deal. No big deal," I murmur to myself. I can't hide or collapse behind this small bar. The clock says I'm still working.

His cousins and his dad are nowhere to be found. I only see two security guards in the corner, killing time while chatting in Italian.

Dominico looks as if he just ended an office meeting. Why's he here? From what I've gathered, he's not much of a partygoer.

Matching his moccasins, a long-sleeved shirt complements his straight-cut pants. They're darker than his wavy hair that reaches his cleft chin. The clothes aren't loose, but they hide his muscles well.

I know he's got an athlete's body. I've watched him play tennis with his cousins twice.

Where's he going?

I toss the rag away and spray rubbing alcohol all over my hands. They probably smell like wet towels. "Eww." My breath hitches when his firm steps veer towards the bar. Towards me?

I clench my jaw. My legs feel wobbly. I feel like I'm gonna vomit.

Shit! Not good. Not good at all.

Keeping my head down, I pretend to be busy with something while he approaches the edge of the bar. I nearly choke on my own saliva when we finally make eye contact.

I give him a smile as he settles himself on one of the stools. Now we're merely two feet apart. I can smell his minty cologne.

Or is it his shampoo? The soap he uses? It's not too strong or faint. Just the right amount of intoxicating. Fragrant yet still masculine.

Gosh. If he takes another step closer, I'll definitely pass out.

But he stays. The guy's sitting right in front of me! Maybe he wants a drink?

I gotta ask, at least. I clear my throat as noiselessly as possible and put on my friendliest smile. "Posso portarle qualcosa, Signore?" [Can I get you anything, Sir?]

"Whiskey. On the rocks."

"Sure." I grab the most expensive whiskey on the shelf. My armpits and back feel sweaty. Good thing I managed to speak Italian without my voice cracking.

"Thanks."

"No problem." I glance away from his steady gaze and grab a clean glass. Is he staring at my face?

Dominico puts his phone down when I serve him his whiskey.

"Here you go."

A slight frown wrinkles the tan skin above his brows. They're dark but not too thick, like his hair. "You drink?"

"Uh..." Why's he asking? 'Cause I look like a party girl? "Not really," I finally say after staring at him for about five seconds like I didn't understand English.

"Nice to know." He looks me up and down. "Make it two, will ya?"

Shit. That voice and accent... I feel like I'm about to melt. Tonight's not the first time I've heard his deep and fairly raspy voice. I heard him speak English when I first saw him at the country club, but I didn't expect him to be this fluent.

Most Italians I've met have thick and regional accents. Dominico almost sounds like he lived in America for a while. Is his mother from the US? Canadian? Did he grow up in another country?

I don't know much about his childhood. I just know his dad's family proudly hails from Florence, and his mother's a foreigner. Non-European, as far as I recall.

Faking another smile, I pour whiskey into a different glass and slide it beside his first. "Enjoy your drink, Sir." I step away from him and grab the rag again.

Distraction. I need to distract myself from his gorgeous face and his deep-set, soul-gripping eyes. They look a pale shade of green with light brown specks around his pupils. I glance down at his manly hands.

No wedding band or tan lines—enough proof he's still a bachelor. "That's not part of your job."

Clasping the damp rag, I straighten up and face him again. I can't help but stare into his eyes.

Did he just initiate another conversation with me? Why? Did he mean, I don't look the least bit qualified for this gig?

I press my lips together and fold the rag, trying my best to look calm. "It's fine." I put on another smile. "Not busy with anything, as you can see. Happy to help out."

"You're not being paid to clean." Dominico takes a sip of his drink.

"I really don't mind."

Before he can say anything else, his buzzing phone steals his attention.

Thank goodness. I grip the rag and fling skeptic glances at him. There's a natural ease in the way the fine lines on his angular face deepen. Almost like frowning is his default.

I don't respond to him, because I actually don't know what to say. I can only make guesses as to why he seems upset and more brooding than last time he visited the country club.

The guy's acting like I've done something annoying. Does he always talk to their employees this way?

Gee. I hope not. Besides, he's not my boss; his father is. But I shouldn't get pissed off by this guy's attitude.

Maybe he's just having a shitty day. Or does he know I'm rather unqualified for this bartending job? That I've only tried this once?

Maybe he knows I just work behind a desk, and that my receptionist job has been my only source of income since I dropped out of college. Aside from my top secret part-time job, that is.

So, he remembers me? From the country club? Is that why he's making small talk? Or does he think I'm a...

Did his father tell him I'm one of the escorts?

•

[ S E R A P H I N E ]

"You good?" Dominico squints at me, then tosses back the whiskey in his second glass.

"Sì, Signore." [Yes, Sir.]

The guy stares at me with furrowed brows. "Don't call me that."

My heart drops at his emotionless voice. My shoulders tense up, and my cheeks feel like they're burning. "Pardon?"

"I'm not your boss."

My gut clenches. Embarrassment heats up my throat and the back of my eyes. "Right." I try not to scowl as I put away the cleaning supplies.

What the heck is this asshole's problem?

Is it me? Because I didn't even try to look like I belong here? Is he disgusted by this outfit? Because I look too tacky for his refined tastes?

According to some pictures online, he dated a 20-something Spanish model slash actress. Therefore he probably likes women with immaculate fashion taste.

The jerk finally gets up from the stool and swigs the rest of his drink. As I keep my mouth shut, Dominico plops the empty glass back on the bar. "And I'm pretty sure you know my name."

•

•

•

The dimly lit space around us remains still and silent as I stare at him, trying my best not to make a face or react to what he just said.

Is he being serious? Who here doesn't know him and his family?

The Tomassinis are one of the wealthiest clans in this country. Although it's his older brother and second wife who are frequently mentioned in business articles and finance news the past decade, lately Ignazio himself is also getting some attention and praise from his peers.

Can't say the same for his son, though. I'm not sure why this conceited jerk believes I know his name.

Who told him? Does he know about my secret? That I've been crushing on him since the first time our paths crossed?

We've never been formally introduced. I've seen him at the country club a few times, but that's it. We've never actually spoken to each other until now.

The humid air and my numbing feet are urging me to walk out when Dominico stares at me again. I want to get off this boat and forget this conversation ever happened, but the rest of my body feels frozen.

Darn it. I can't stop looking at his face, either. "Anything else I can get you?"

"I'm good." Dominico looks away and scowls at his phone again.

Shock replaces the embarrassment washing over me when he takes out a large bill from his wallet. A tip?

"Thanks for the drink."

"Sure." Giving him my best fake smile, I ignore the money he just about tossed beside the napkin I gave him. I eye the dim exit. "Have a great rest of the night."

When I step away from the bar without touching his money, Dominico smirks at me and finally steps backwards. "I sure hope so."

•

•

•

"I know, Dad. Just...don't bother the Tomassinis again." I muffle a noisy sigh with my palm while my phone warms up the side of my face. "Talk to Mom. Please. Make her understand."

"Bakit, 'nak?" [Why, honey?]

"Dad, you know why." I shake my head and close my eyes. This dizziness won't go away, and it's not because I'm still on a boat. Or the fact that I just endured a disappointing, emotionally scarring one-on-one with the man of my dreams.

But not anymore. No thanks. I've changed my mind. I'm not marrying that guy...especially after he's made it painfully clear that I'm not his type.

"Something wrong, honey?" my father mutters, his tone worried.

"We can't afford to owe these people any more money." And frankly, I don't wanna keep working front desk at the country club for another five years. I have goals. Dreams. I won't survive in this economy on minimum wage throughout my 20s.

"I know, Sephie," my dad murmurs on the other end. Then he sighs as if something convinced him I'm not as calm as I'm trying to sound. "Listen. Stop worrying about us. Okay lang kami ni Mama mo. Kaya pa namin." [Your mom and I are okay. We're still managing.]

"Dad, I'm just saying..." I stifle a sigh. "We have other options."

"Yeah. I know."

"We can't owe them our whole lives." I palm my face and glance around. Coast clear, still. I'm hiding behind the bar, sitting alone on the hardwood floor, my butt almost numb. Thankfully most of the party guests prefer the poolside ambiance.

"I know, honey." My dad sighs loudly. "I talked to Ignazio yesterday, by the way."

"What? Why?" Mr. Tomassini talked to him on the phone? Maybe to remind my dad of how much we still owe their local bank. I'll have to sell my kidneys and then my liver just to pay off the principal's interest.

"He called me after I, uh, left the clinic. At first, I thought he was just checking on the renovations at the clinic, and, y'know, about the loans," my dad mumbles in his usually hoarse voice. "Then he starts asking about you."

"Me?"

"He asked if you're planning to go back to school soon."

"Sure. But, not right now." I scowl and squint at the yellowish lights. "We can't afford it yet." I don't enjoy talking to my parents about their growing debts and financial choices. But for their sake and mine, I sometimes remind them of my reality in this city.

My father won't pressure me into sticking it out until I earn enough to get rid of their debts and pay for my own tuition. But he'll be relieved to hear that I'm willingly pushing aside my academic goals for the time being. Just so I can help them sort out their money problems.

If the Tomassinis will reward my job performance this year, they might give me a hefty raise, and then my first promotion.

Fingers crossed.

•

•

•

Exhausted and enjoying the quiet early morning breeze, I organize the liquor bottles stacked behind the bar. I like the privacy I have for now, almost as much as I prefer my own company.

Dominico won't show up again. Not at this hour. It's a relief that he left me alone before I completely lost my cool.

Unbelievable... We just had our first ever conversation. On his family's brand new yacht, at that. I'm bummed that our first real interaction didn't end the way I imagined it would.

Then again who am I kidding? Dominico probably thinks I'm just another desperate bimbo on his father's payroll, and I have a feeling Ignazio sees me the same way...not that he ever used his position and influence to make me do something dirty or illegal.

So far the man's only been helpful and nice to me ever since he gave me my first real job. Some people think Ignazio likes me way more than the other girls, mostly because the man has quite a reputation and I'm one of the youngest among the staff.

But maybe I'm just biased? Mr. Tomassini knows I don't do that kind of work.

Unless...

Unless he's also one of my subscribers? Has he seen my racy photos online? Is he "Angelx30"?

Yuck! That can't happen. I can't even stomach the idea of him paying to look at my half-naked photos and...

"No frickin' way." I shake off the thought and massage the back of my head. A dull ache persists near my left ear. But thankfully the nausea's almost gone. I step away from the varnished shelf and check my phone.

"Angelx30" is offline again. Maybe the guy's asleep.

Fine. I'm waiting for nothing. I need to up my sexting game. I roll my eyes and massage my nape. The pool table still looks messy, but I no longer have the energy to clean it up and the whole deck. My muscles are hurting.

It's almost dawn. There's no other staff around. The two security guards must've left while I was on the phone with my dad.

The other girls who came here to work (like I did) are nowhere to be seen. They're probably in the private cabins, doing their escort duties. I hope Mr. Tomassini and his guests are paying them enough.

I grab my handbag and turn the lights off. Thank God I don't have to go that far just to feed myself.

•

•

•

The humidity clings to my skin like a wet cloth. Each step feels heavier as I walk past the dim pool table. Bringing a trench coat to this weekend party isn't doing me any favors.

The staff's cabin should be right below this rug, promising at least four hours of sleep if I'm lucky. After a long day of work, I should be asleep in no time.

Just as I'm about to reach the exit, muffled voices echo from somewhere. They're not too far, and they sound familiar. Two guys?

One's shouting and swearing in Italian. The other one's too muted for me to decipher what he's saying.

Wait. The older man's voice sounds like Ignazio's. I just don't know where exactly the noises are coming from.

The upper decks are still pulsing with club music and distant chatter, drowning out the ruckus I'm investigating. The bass-boosted beats are only worsening this stupid headache.

I take a few more steps to the right until I reach a dim, narrow hall leading to one of the private cabins. This side of the yacht seems quieter, and the splashes of the waves almost sound too distant from here.

I stop in my tracks when the voices get louder. My gut tightens at the sound of Ignazio swearing. Who is he yelling at? I press my cheek against the wall, his incensed tone rather foreign to my ears.

Undeniable rage spills out into his words. Then a grunt and thud interrupt the conversation.

My stomach churns. I'm not the most fluent in Italian, but I'm quite sure he just said he's gonna kill some guy named "Ottavio" if he actually lost "the cargo".

What cargo? Who's Ottavio? And who the heck's driving my employer hopping mad at this ungodly hour?

Shit. My common sense is telling me to run for the exit and pretend I didn't hear anything. But sheer curiosity is pinning my feet on this rug.

What exactly are they fighting about? Why does my boss badly want to hurt some guy for some lost cargo?

My heartbeat doubles its pace. I keep my mouth shut. I slouch beside the closed door, dissecting the conversation as quietly as I can.

I move cautiously to the other side of the door. I can just act like I'm on my way to the upper decks if Ignazio or the other person steps out any moment.

"Leandro will sort out the terms with Falco's son." It's Ignazio talking again, his voice somewhat calmer. "It needs to be done before that shipment gets here."

"From Colombia? When?" the other guy asks with a sigh. He sounds a bit younger than Ignazio.

"Giovedì." [Thursday.]

"Why does it have to be Leandro? Just leave him out of it, Pappa. He and Enzo don't need to get involved."

Shit. What the heck? That's definitely Dominico's voice. I grip the straps of my bag.

Is he alone in the room with his dad? Why are they arguing about his cousins?

I don't know Leandro or Enzo Tomassini personally, but I have seen them on the golf course a few times. I stay put and hold my breath, the tension palpable in the ominous silence.

"Stronzo!" [Moron!] Ignazio begins ranting in Italian about Dominico's stubbornness.

My breath catches when Dominico's comebacks only fuel Ignazio's temper. I cover my mouth when Ignazio resumes spewing profanities at his son.

Then comes a muted noise of something hitting something. It almost echoes. Another thud follows.

Every part of me turns into a stiff rod when the door flies open. The edge almost hits my forehead. I turn and almost run for the stairs, but then I see him.

The light in the cabin gives me a good view of Dominico's bloody profile. He's wearing the same clothes, and it's definitely his blood running down his pointed nose and pouting mouth. "Cazzo." [Fuck.] He swipes at the red stains with his fingers, then wrinkles his brows and forehead when he notices me.

The shock turns into fear and regret as I try not to gawk at him. Concern eventually pulls me out of the daze. I step closer to him with weak knees. I hand him my handkerchief. "You okay?"

The frown etching fine lines on his tan face doesn't leave. "What're you doing here?" Dominico squints at me and only glances at my handkerchief.

I feel like a dumbass. "I... Nothing. I-I was just..."

"Just what?"

Before I can attempt to properly explain my unwanted presence, a seemingly inebriated Ignazio steps out of the cabin with his phone. The man regards me with a look of surprise, most likely unaware of my encounter with his son half an hour ago. "Seraphine, che fai?" [What are you doing?]

"V-Vado a dormire, Signore." [I'm going to bed, Sir.] I try to smile as naturally as possible.

The confusion on Ignazio's face morphs into a faint smirk after he checks out my outfit. "Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"Why, Sir?"

"Step inside, dear. We need to talk." Ignazio opens the door wider. The stench of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath mixes with the musky scent of his perfume, making me dizzy again.

Still wiping blood off his nose, Dominico glares at his father and stands too close to me.

I want to faint. My legs feel like overcooked pasta. Ignazio wants me inside the cabin alone with him? At this hour? "About what, Sir?"

"I phoned your father. We had a brief chat about you yesterday."

"Y-Yeah. He mentioned." My voice cracks when Ignazio steps forward, too close, just as his warm hand touches my bare skin. The side of my arm. My back. Then my hip. I flinch when his thick beard touches the tip of my nose while his other hand strokes the side of my thigh.

Restrained panic begins to suffocate me, but I don't move or say another word. I can't. The wall's right behind me and my mouth feels paralyzed. My legs won't budge.

Before I can snap out of it, Dominico grabs my wrist and pulls me to him, seizing me away from his father's clutches. "No, Pappa. Lei viene con me." [She's coming with me.]

Hold on. What? I'm coming with him? To where?

Dominico's firm grip on my wrist yanks me out of my thoughts. I almost trip when he tugs at my forearm and brings me to the stairs leading to the upper deck, ignoring his father's glare.

We go up the narrow stairs without another word. Like Dominico's steps, the tense silence whispers urgency as we leave Ignazio behind. My vision's almost spinning.

I feel Dominico's grip on my hand and nothing else. My heart's racing, and I'm trying not to look too shocked beside him while he leads me past the pool.

The party's almost over. Most of the guests are probably in the cabins. Yet the music remains quite loud, the fun and vibrant facade around us masking the dark undercurrents beneath.

Once we reach the top deck, a silent apology lingers in Dominico's eyes, and he's no longer touching me. Then he lets out a sigh. For a moment he just stares at the dark waters surrounding us.

This yacht won't dock until sunrise, and I don't do anything except stand next to him with my arms folded over my chest. My skin feels slick with sweat, but my hands and feet are cold. A bit numb.

My chest aches a bit, and my breathing remains unsteady. There's no one else on this deck, but I feel much safer here.

What do I do now? Should I thank him? Apologize for eavesdropping? Give him a quick hug?

Maybe he thinks he had to rescue me. Well, he did, in a way. If Dominico didn't intervene, I wouldn't have been able to say no to his father.

I couldn't. Everyone knows that man doesn't take no for an answer. I just don't know exactly why Ignazio thought I wouldn't say no to him.

Just because my family owes him money?

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