Chapter 5: Raising Desire

The hallway was quiet, but the tension that trailed Vincenzo Moretti was loud—thick, electric, and foreboding. He walked with a predator's calm, hands swinging at his sides, black shoes tapping ominously against marble floors. Two guards stepped aside silently as he pushed open the heavy, steel-reinforced door.

The air in the room was cold—frigid like the heart that walked in.

His accountant was slumped in a chair, arms tied to its back, legs bound to the legs of the chair. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. The man shivered, the only sound in the room aside from the low hum of a water pump filling a steel drum with ice water.

Vincenzo closed the door behind him slowly, the click of the lock echoing like a gunshot.

He walked forward and yanked the blindfold off.

"Boss—Boss, I didn't do anything—I swear on my life!" the man cried instantly, blinking rapidly under the blinding light.

Vincenzo stared at him for a long, silent moment. His face, usually calm and calculated, now reflected a silent rage that burned hot beneath his skin.

"You must think I am a fool."

"N-No—Sir, please, it's a misunderstanding! Just listen—"

He put on his leather gloves with an eerie precision, one finger at a time, his gaze never leaving the man.

"Do I look like I want to listen?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous, almost a whisper.

"Please! I've got a family—"

"That didn't seem to stop you from stealing from me, you know what happens to someone who think they can cross me?" Vincenzo hissed.

His jaw tightened. He turned to the ice barrel. "Do you know what's worse than a dumb man who thinks he is smart?" he asked no one in particular.

The room was silent except for the man's ragged breathing.

"A stupid dead man."

He grabbed the man by his collar and dragged him toward the tub, ignoring the screams and flailing limbs.

"No, please—PLEASE—Boss, don't—!"

With zero emotion, Vincenzo dunked his head under the icy water. The man thrashed, water splashing violently against the walls and floor, bubbles bursting as he screamed beneath the surface.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty.

Forty-five.

He pulled him up.

The man coughed and choked, gasping like a dying fish.

"WHERE. IS. MY. MONEY?" Vincenzo bellowed.

"I—It wasn't me! Please—"

Back under.

Longer this time.

When he came up, his face was pale, lips purple, eyes wide with fear.

"I did it! I took it—I didn't think you'd find out, Boss, I swear—I was desperate, I—"

"You've been stealing from me for months."

"I—I used some! I—I was gonna return it!"

"And the rest?"

"It's at my apartment," the man sobbed. "Please. My wife—she doesn't know. I beg you, don't hurt her—"

Vincenzo's voice turned to ice. "You should be begging for your own skin."

He peeled off his gloves and handed them to one of his men.

"Wrap it up. Clean this mess. Find the money. If the woman knows nothing, she's left alone. If she does—handle it."

"Yes, Boss," the men replied.

As Vincenzo turned, the man screamed after him.

"Please! Have mercy—PLEASE!"

But Vincenzo was already gone, the soundproof door swallowing the last of his cries.

The corridor outside was still. But the quiet didn't soothe him—it only amplified the storm behind his ribs. Anger was familiar. Necessary. But tonight, it wasn't the only thing clawing inside him.

He walked toward his room, his mind lost in thought—until something pulled him out.

A light. A movement. A shadow.

Sofia's door was ajar.

He paused.

Why is her room directly opposite his?

His gaze fell into the room, and every step of rage he'd carried dissolved.

She stood in front of her vanity, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her body—bare shoulders glistening with leftover droplets, her skin flushed from heat. The scent of her soap floated into the hallway, soft and floral.

She sat down, completely unaware of his gaze fixed on her from a distance, and began applying lotion—slow, sensual strokes across her thighs. Her movements weren't seductive. She was simply… caring for herself. But that made it worse.

The way her fingers circled her knees, how they grazed the inside of her thighs with delicate pressure—his jaw clenched involuntarily.

He hadn't expected this.

This need.

He'd seen hundreds of beautiful women. Slept with more than he cared to count. But none of them had made his throat tighten just from watching them breathe.

She lifted one leg onto the bench, massaging from ankle to thigh.

And he imagined her hands on him, and his hand on her delicate skin.

He hadn't realized how long he'd been watching until she looked up—and caught him.

Her eyes locked onto his.

He froze.

And then her expression shifted—from confusion to horror to furious disbelief.

SLAM.

The door shut hard enough to echo through the corridor.

Vincenzo stood there like a man who'd just walked into a bullet.

Fuck.

Inside, Sofia backed away from the door like it had teeth.

"That pervert!" she yelled, grabbing her robe. "Was that why he gave me the room opposite his? So he could watch me? Has he been watching me every night?!"

She turned her head to scan the corners of the room. "Cameras? Oh my god, what if he has cameras?!"

She stormed to the bathroom, flipping the light on and scanning every mirror, she didn't find any.

"What is it with men and not keeping their damn dicks in their pants?" she muttered, tying the robe tightly. "And the towel barely slipped, perv."

Back in his room, Vincenzo sat on the edge of his bed, still stunned.

She had every reason to be pissed. Every. Single. Reason.

And yet…

All he could think about was the way her skin looked in the candlelight. The way her eyes burned when they caught his. The way his name might sound if she were gasping it.

You're losing it, he thought, rubbing his face with both hands.

She's supposed to be the prisoner but he could barely breathe with the thought of her in his head.

And it was taking everything in him not to cross the lines and claim her.

°°°°°°°

"Why is her room directly opposite mine?" Vincenzo asked, his tone clipped as he stood in the hallway with Alessandro.

The butler blinked, slightly taken aback. "Sir, you instructed us to place her in the finest guest room available and make her comfortable, considering she'll be caring for your daughter. That's one of the finest rooms, and it happens to be across from yours."

Vincenzo clenched his jaw. Damn it. He had said that. But in his mind, the "finest room" was somewhere far, elegant, quiet—not across from him, not where he could see her… every night.

"Maybe you can change her?" he asked, though the irritation in his voice betrayed more than concern for logistics.

Alessandro raised an eyebrow slightly but answered calmly, "Of course, sir. We have several guest wings. I can have her relocated immediately."

Vincenzo hesitated.

He should have said yes. It would've been the rational move. Remove temptation. Remove the awkwardness. But something inside him tugged—stubborn, chaotic, and far from rational.

"No," he said at last, running a hand through his dark hair. "It doesn't matter anymore. The deed is done."

Alessandro studied him for a moment longer. "Is everything alright, sir?"

Vincenzo sighed, looking away. "Never mind. I'm sure she's already comfortable where she is. You're dismissed."

"As you wish." Alessandro gave a polite nod and left quietly.

Vincenzo leaned against the wall for a second, staring at her closed door like it held the answers to questions he wasn't ready to ask. What does she think of me now? The image of her slamming the door, the disgusted look on her face—it looped in his mind like a punishment.

She thinks I'm a pervert. Great.

The rest of the evening passed in awkward silence.

Hazel had gone to bed early, exhausted from her tutoring session. Dinner was quiet, too quiet, and without Sofia's laughter, it felt… hollow. Vincenzo hadn't expected her absence to affect him, but it did. He found himself glancing at her empty chair more than once.

Coward, he told himself. He should have gone to her then. Explained. Apologized. But instead, he sat through dinner pretending not to care—when he absolutely did.

Later that night

The mansion was asleep, save for the subtle hum of night lights and distant footsteps from the guards on patrol. The clock struck midnight. A chilly breeze crept through the slightly cracked window of Sofia's room, but that wasn't what kept her awake.

Her stomach grumbled.

She groaned, flipping onto her back in the bed. Should've just gone to dinner, she muttered. But the idea of sitting across from Vincenzo again after that mortifying moment made her curl into herself. Still… hunger was a beast.

She stood, pulling her robe tighter, ready to sneak downstairs or call for Alessandro—when a soft knock echoed at her door.

She paused. Alessandro? bless his soul.

She opened the door slowly.

But it wasn't Alessandro.

It was him.

Vincenzo stood there—clean, composed, and unusually hesitant—holding a silver tray with covered dishes.

Her heart skipped. "You?"

"We missed you at dinner," he said simply, his voice gentler than usual. "So… I brought it to you."

Before she could process it, he stepped inside, placing the tray on her coffee table like he belonged there, I mean it was his house.

Sofia blinked. "Thanks…"

He didn't sit. He just stood there, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt.

"About this evening," he began.

Sofia's heart tensed. There it is.

"I owe you an apology," he said, surprising even himself. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It was... unintentional. I wasn't trying to invade your privacy."

He cleared his throat. "I know how it must have looked, and I understand if you're upset. It's not who I am. That's not what I intended."

Sofia was stunned. An apology? From him?

She looked up at him. There was no smugness. No arrogance. Just quiet remorse.

She exhaled slowly. "It's okay," she said softly. "I mean… you didn't exactly walk in on me and I often check you out, so I guess we are even",

Vincenzo raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Oh?"

"You're hot, I'm not blind," she said plainly, then instantly regretted the words. "I mean—not that I am thinking of have sex with you or anything, I just… You know what, never mind."

He actually laughed. A short, genuine sound.

"Well," he said, voice lighter now, "at least we're even."

She smiled back. "Yeah. Even."

He nodded toward the tray. "You should eat."

She sat, lifting the lid to reveal grilled chicken, sautéed vegetables, and a piece of chocolate tart. Her stomach roared in approval.

"Thank you," she said, surprised again at his thoughtfulness.

He turned toward the door but paused when she spoke again.

"Wait. I… I have a question."

He faced her. "I'm listening."

"It's about Hazel. I hope it's not too much to ask, but… she always gets so quiet when I mention her mom. I was wondering…"

His jaw tightened.

"I just want to understand her better. She's a sweet kid, and I—well, I care."

Vincenzo looked away. A long silence followed before he finally spoke.

"She lost her mother when she was five," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It was… sudden. Violent. I won't go into details. But she hasn't forgotten. She just… learned to live with the silence."

Sofia's breath caught. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry."

He nodded once. "She's strong. She will eventually pull through."

She hesitated, then asked, "Can I ask how she died?"

His expression changed. Not angry. Not cold. Just… broken.

A crack in the iron.

Vincenzo turned for the door.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked—"

"It's fine," he said quietly. "Goodnight, Fiore."

And then he was gone.

She sat there long after the door clicked shut, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Something about the way he said Hazel's strong made her feel like he was trying to convince himself.

But there was more.

So much more.

She was sure of it now.

And maybe… just maybe… she was the only one willing to uncover it.