I tilt my head, listening and feeling for the sweet spot.
Pressure.
Release.
A small turn.
I reset and try again.My fingers ache, but I don’t rush it.I’ve never been the kind of girl who gives up just because something fights back.
A flicker of unease stirs in my gut.Does he have cameras?
Of course he’d have them.Hidden ones.Discreet.Watching every corridor, every door.Probably watching me right now.
I pause and glance up at the corner of the ceiling, half-expecting a red light to blink at me.But there’s nothing.Either I’m clear or he’s better at hiding them than my father ever was.
Good.I enjoy a challenge.
I go back to the lock, twisting the pin just right, coaxing the mechanism instead of forcing it.I feel it then, the faint shift, the internal give.My pulse spikes.
Click.
The sound is gentle but conclusive.
I pause for a second, listening for footsteps, voices, or the weight of consequence.But the house remains silent.
I gently open the door an inch.Just enough.That’s all I need to slip inside.
The air inside is colder.Not in a comforting way.But in a sharp, alert way.This is Lorenzo’s office.Not the version of him that bent me over last night and fucked me until I forgot my name.This isn’t the man with calloused hands and a mouth that ruins you.This is the strategist.The king of damnation.The version who plays chess with people’s lives and carves kingdoms out of ash.
I move in slowly, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.
Every step deeper into the space feels like crossing a line.
The desk is oversized, dark, heavy, built for command.Not a scrap of clutter.Laptop open but asleep, daring anyone to try it.Pens arranged in a straight line, none out of place.There’s a crystal decanter off to the right, filled with something golden and expensive.Two glasses sit beside it.Only one’s been used.
My eyes wander to the wall opposite the desk.
Maps are pinned to the wall.Black sharpie smeared across it.Some towns are circled, while others are crossed out with angry Xs, as if someone wanted to erase them from existence.
And then I see him.
One photograph stops me cold.
Matteo De Luca.Mid-turn.Jaw clenched.Eyes dark and unreadable.There’s a cruel kind of beauty about him—the kind that messes with your head.It makes you pause before your brain catches up to your body and realizes you’re staring.Sharp cheekbones.A mess of tousled dark hair that looks accidental but never is.Stubble smudged along a razor-sharp jaw.And those lips—full, plush, made to wreck you.Not built for soft smiles.Not shaped for forgiveness.
Even pinned to a fucking corkboard, he looks untouchable.Lethal.Magnetic.
Matteo De Luca.
Every girl noticed him.How could they not?
He didn’t just walk into a room—he fucking dominated it.Took the oxygen, the attention, and the rules like it was nothing.The air shifted when he moved.It sank into your bones, like gravity decided he was the new god it worshipped.
My breath sticks because I noticed him too.I remember the way my stomach dropped the first time I saw him.The way my eyes didn’t want to look away.
Power looks good on some people.
On him?
