The Don's Dirty Secret

Sofia's POV

The Moretti estate was the kind of place you got lost in on purpose. Marble floors, ceilings so high they made you dizzy, and more doors than any one man needed. It smelled faintly of expensive cologne and danger.

I’d been here exactly two days, and already my nerves were stretched thin. Between memorizing the endless hallways, figuring out which rooms were “for staff” and which ones would get you fired for even glancing at, and avoiding the sharp stares of security guards, I was exhausted.

The boss—well, my boss’s boss—was supposedly never home, so I hadn’t worried much about running into him. I’d only seen Luca Moretti once before in my life. And that was years ago, under the stars, when I didn’t know his last name could get a person killed.

I didn’t expect to see him again.

Especially not like this.

I was carrying a stack of fresh towels, wandering down what I thought was the guest wing. The sound of running water came from a door half-cracked open, steam curling into the hallway. I assumed it was empty. Maybe a shower left running by another staff member.

So I stepped inside.

The heat hit me first, thick and humid. Then the smell—clean, sharp, masculine. My eyes adjusted, and I froze.

He was there.

Luca Moretti, standing in front of a fogged-up mirror with only a white towel slung low around his hips. Water dripped from his dark hair down the ridges of his chest, tracing every line of muscle before disappearing into that dangerous strip of fabric.

My breath caught so hard it hurt. The towels in my arms slipped, one falling onto the glossy tile with a soft thud.

He turned his head slightly, and our eyes locked through the mirror.

“Wrong room, bella?” His voice was smooth, deep enough to vibrate through my bones.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I—I’m sorry. I thought this was a guest bathroom. I didn’t—”

He turned fully, leaning back against the counter like he had all the time in the world. Water still clung to his skin, and the curve of his mouth wasn’t friendly. It was sharp, like a blade disguised as a smile.

“Funny thing,” he said slowly. “You seem to keep finding ways into places you shouldn’t be.”

I forced a shaky laugh. “This was an accident. I’m new here, and I—”

“I know exactly who you are.”

The words hit harder than I expected. My stomach tightened. “Do you?”

“Three years,” he said, pushing off the counter and walking toward me. His footsteps were unhurried, but each one made my pulse jump. “That’s how long it’s been since you disappeared. No note. No explanation. Just gone.”

I took a step back, but the door was too far, and he was too close. “Luca, I—”

“Mr. Moretti,” he corrected, eyes narrowing.

I bit down on my lip. “Mr. Moretti… this is not the time.”

“Oh, I think it is,” he murmured, his gaze dipping from my face to the curve of my neck. “You’re in my house, in my room, and you’re pretending you don’t remember me?”

I did remember him. Every detail. The way his hand had felt warm against the small of my back that night. The way he’d kissed me like he owned me. Back then, I thought he was just another beautiful mistake. I didn’t know about the Moretti name, the blood it carried.

“I took this job because I needed it,” I said quickly. “I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know I lived here?” His smile was cold. “Or you hoped you wouldn’t get caught?”

I shook my head, desperate to break the tension clawing at my skin. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just here to work.”

“Then work,” he said softly, stepping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand reached up, brushing damp hair from my cheek, lingering just a second too long. “Clean me.”

My breath hitched. “That’s not—”

“Inappropriate?” His grin deepened. “You think I care about that?”

I took another step back, but my heel bumped the wall. He was right there, one hand resting beside my head, trapping me in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered.

“And yet,” he said, eyes locked on mine, “you are.”

The air between us felt charged, thick. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to move, but I couldn’t. Not when he was looking at me like that—like I was a debt he was finally ready to collect.

He leaned in, his lips hovering just above mine. My pulse was so loud I could barely hear anything else.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “do you regret it?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but the door behind me slammed open so hard it hit the wall.

“Luca.”

The voice was low, cold, and it made every hair on my neck stand up.

I turned to see Alessandro Moretti in the doorway, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his expression unreadable.

His gaze flicked from Luca to me, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than it should have.

“We have a problem,” he said.

And the way he was looking at me made me think I was part of it.