Chapter 9: A Dangerous Dance

By the time the gala began to wind down, Isla's head was spinning—not from the champagne, but from Alessandro. Every glance, every touch, every carefully crafted word felt like a test. And damn it, she was starting to lose track of whether she was still pretending.

He was too good at this. Too smooth. Too controlling.

And worst of all? She was letting him get to her.

"I'm ready to leave," she murmured, forcing herself to maintain her poise as another wealthy donor passed by with a curious glance.

Alessandro leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against her neck. "Tired already, cara mia?"

His voice, low and rough at the edges, sent a shiver down her spine.

"I'm tired of playing your game," she shot back, tilting her head toward him while keeping a perfect smile for anyone watching.

His fingers flexed slightly against her waist, and she felt his amusement like a spark between them. "Who said you weren't enjoying it?"

Before she could retort, his hand slid down her back—slow, deliberate—until it rested just above the curve of her hip. It wasn't an innocent touch. It was a reminder.

Of who was really in control.

She exhaled slowly, refusing to let him see how much he affected her. "Let's go."

Without another word, he led her toward the exit, his grip firm as if he expected her to bolt at any moment.

Maybe she wanted to.

Maybe she wanted to stay just to prove she could handle him.

The crisp night air hit her skin the moment they stepped outside. The paparazzi were still there, cameras flashing as Alessandro guided her to the sleek black Maserati waiting at the curb.

Always composed. Always in control.

Until the door shut behind them, sealing them in.

The silence was heavy as the car pulled away from the hotel. Isla stared out the window, trying to collect her thoughts.

"You played your part perfectly tonight," Alessandro said, breaking the quiet.

"Of course, I did," she snapped, her frustration bubbling over. "I'm good at pretending."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You weren't pretending when I touched you."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She turned to face him, heat rising to her cheeks. "Don't flatter yourself."

His lips curved into that maddening smirk. "I don't need to. I felt you, Isla."

Damn him.

"You're impossible," she muttered, shifting away from him.

"And yet, here you are."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that she was only here for the money, that nothing about tonight had meant anything. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled with the undeniable truth—

A part of her liked this. Liked the challenge. Liked the way he unraveled her control with nothing more than a look.

The car slowed as they reached the Romano estate, its towering gates opening silently to let them through. Isla exhaled, grateful for the distance, even if it was temporary.

By the time they reached the front entrance, Alessandro was out of the car and opening her door before she could think twice.

He extended a hand, his expression unreadable.

"Always the gentleman," she said dryly, sliding her fingers into his.

"I have my moments," he murmured, leading her up the marble steps.

The house was quiet, the air thick with tension as they stepped inside.

Alessandro released her hand but didn't move away. "You surprised me tonight."

Isla arched a brow. "What, did you think I'd crumble?"

"No," he said, his voice softer now, more dangerous. "I thought you'd run."

Her breath hitched. She should run. Every instinct screamed at her to keep her walls up—to protect herself from the man who could destroy her if she let him too close.

But instead of stepping back, she lifted her chin. "I don't run from a fight."

His gaze darkened, something raw flickering beneath the surface. "Good."

Before she could react, his hand cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing against her cheek. It wasn't soft. It was possessive. Intentional.

"You're mine now, cara mia," he murmured, his lips hovering just above hers. "And I don't share."

Her heart pounded as his words wrapped around her, tightening like a velvet cage.

"I'm not yours," she whispered. "This is just a business arrangement."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his grip didn't waver. "Keep telling yourself that."

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful.

It was a claiming.

A battle for control.

And as much as Isla wanted to resist—

She kissed him back.