SINFUL PROTECTOR

ARIA'S POV

“You’ve officially lost your fucking mind.”

I slammed my palm on my father’s mahogany desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot through his office. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Moretti estate—miles of blood-soaked territory we called home. Outside, men with rifles patrolled like this was a battlefield. Maybe it was.

“Watch your tone, Aria,” my father warned, voice dangerously calm.

I laughed—a hollow, humorless sound. “Tone? You’re talking about tone when you just told me I’m getting a fucking babysitter?”

“He’s not a babysitter. He’s a bodyguard.”

“I don’t need one!”

“You nearly died, figlia mia,” he snapped, pushing out of his leather chair with a grace that didn’t match the steel in his voice. “They shot at you. Twice. One bullet missed your head by this much.” He held up two fingers. “I won’t risk it again.”

“I handled it,” I hissed. “I got out. I wasn’t crying for help.”

“You were lucky.”

“I was smart.”

He let out a low, guttural sound. “No. You were reckless. Just like your mother.”

The mention of her sent a blade through my chest. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”

Silence stretched between us like a razor’s edge.

We didn’t speak about my mother. Not unless we wanted to bleed.

My father exhaled and rubbed his temples. I hated how old he looked all of a sudden. The once-invincible Don Moretti, showing cracks in his stone face.

“I’m not debating this,” he said. “You’re my only daughter. I can't lose you.”

“That doesn’t mean I need some muscle shadowing me like a damn stalker!”

“This isn’t just about protection,” he said, voice low. “It’s about sending a message. Someone went after my blood. That blood walks around in heels, curses like a sailor, and refuses to listen to me—but it’s still my blood. And if I don’t guard you, I look weak.”

My fists clenched. “So I’m a pawn now? A symbol?”

“You’re a fucking target!” he roared, slamming his hand on the desk. “I buried too many people I loved. I won’t bury you.”

I stared at him, heart thudding in my chest.

For a second… just a second, I saw the man behind the Don. The father. The grief. The fear. But it wasn’t enough to make me submit.

I straightened my spine. “I said no.”

He smirked darkly. “You think you have a choice?”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.

“He’s already here.”

I froze.

“What?”

“You’re arguing over something that’s already been done. He’s outside.”

I blinked. My heart kicked against my ribs.

“You son of a—”

“Let him in,” my father barked at the door.

It opened without a sound.

And the room fell into silence.

The first thing I saw were the tattoos—ink curling up a pair of muscled forearms, crawling up his neck like shadows. A raven, a skull, a string of Roman numerals. A story written in pain.

He was tall. Broad. Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Tight black shirt. Leather holster under his jacket. He looked like sin and smelled like smoke.

Then I saw his eyes.

Ice blue.

Cold. Unreadable. Dangerous.

He didn’t smile. Not even a flicker of emotion touched his face.

My breath caught in my throat.

He didn’t look like a bodyguard.

He looked like a killer.

“This,” my father said, standing beside me now, pride practically dripping from his voice, “is Alessandro Vittorio.”

Alessandro didn’t bow. Didn’t offer a handshake.

His eyes locked on mine like he was already memorizing the angles of my skull.

I narrowed my eyes.

Asshole.

He spoke, voice low and clean like a blade through silk. “I am your protector.”

And right then, I promised myself—I’d give him hell.

And one thing I never do is break a promise.