Accidentally Rob a Mafia Don

Under his Roof

The villa was too quiet.

Bianca hated it.

It wasn’t like the cramped apartment she’d grown up in, where the walls rattled from neighbors’ shouting and the hum of life spilled in from the streets below — children playing, distant sirens, late-night music. Here, there was nothing but silence.

Marble floors gleamed beneath her bare feet. Tall windows framed the Amalfi Coast, sunlight poured in like liquid gold, and white curtains swayed lazily in the salty breeze. It was beautiful, breathtaking even, but to Bianca, it didn’t feel alive.

It felt… suspiciously perfect.

And worse, it felt like a cage.

Lorenzo had brought her here after the Rossetti revelation, refusing to explain much beyond two clipped words:

“You’ll be safe here.”

Safe.

She glanced at the two armed guards stationed near the bottom of the staircase and almost laughed.

Safe wasn’t the word she used.

Trapped was closer.

Every inch of the villa whispered Lorenzo’s presence.

The sleek black piano in the corner of the living room.

The expensive suits are arranged in the wardrobe with military precision.

The bookshelves are lined with worn Italian literature, spines cracked and softened by years of use.

Bianca wandered aimlessly through the rooms, fingertips grazing the cool marble walls, taking in everything she wasn’t supposed to touch.

For all his coldness, his control, and his sharp edges, this place was… personal. It wasn’t just another one of his safe houses or hideouts. This was his sanctuary — the one corner of the world where he could breathe without looking over his shoulder.

And now she was inside it.

Inside his world.

And somehow, that realization made her chest tighten in a way she couldn’t explain.

By the third day, Bianca had had enough.

“You can’t keep me locked in here like some—some porcelain doll!” she snapped, slamming the balcony door behind her so hard the glass rattled.

Lorenzo didn’t even glance up from his espresso.

“I can,” he said lazily. “And I will.”

“I’m not yours to control, Lorenzo!”

That got his attention.

He set the cup down carefully, leaned back in his chair, and regarded her with that calm, lethal gaze that made grown men stutter and beg for their lives.

“Dolcezza,” he murmured, his voice low, soft enough to curl beneath her skin. “If you were mine… you wouldn’t be here arguing.”

Her breath caught despite herself, heat flaring under her skin.

“Then why am I here?” she challenged, stepping closer, testing him.

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then his jaw flexed, and he said quietly:

“Because I decide who gets to live. And right now… that includes you.”

The words should have terrified her. Maybe they did. But what unsettled her more was the flicker of something darker beneath them — possession, obsession, something he didn’t dare name.

After that, Bianca started pushing him.

Testing him.

She wandered deeper into the villa than she was allowed, brushing past rooms he’d locked with unspoken boundaries. She lingered near his men when she wasn’t supposed to, laughing a little too loudly, smiling a little too brightly — just to see if Lorenzo’s jaw would tighten from across the room.

And it always did.

At dinner one evening, she leaned back in her chair, twirling her fork lazily, deliberately letting her smirk linger when she caught his stare.

“You know,” she said sweetly, “for a man who claims not to care, you act like a jealous boyfriend.”

The table went silent.

Matteo, halfway through cutting his steak, froze. One of the guards coughed awkwardly into his napkin.

Lorenzo set his wine glass down. Slowly.

Then he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and smiled. It wasn’t kind.

“Careful, Dolcezza,” he said softly, his voice smooth and cold, like silk over steel.

“Keep testing me. See what happens.”

Bianca’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

Because the thing was…

She wanted to see what happened.

Later that night, she wandered into the library, fingertips trailing over the spines of his books.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Lorenzo’s voice came from behind her — low, quiet, edged with warning.

She turned, defiant.

“Why? Afraid I’ll discover your terrible taste in poetry?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped closer instead, one slow, deliberate step at a time until the distance between them shrank to inches.

Bianca swallowed, refusing to move, refusing to let him see her nerves.

His hand reached past her, fingers brushing hers as he plucked a book from the shelf.

It was nothing.

An accident.

Except… it wasn’t.

She felt the warmth of him at her back, the weight of his gaze as he opened the book, flipping it idly.

“This one,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp near her ear, “is about a man who burns his world to the ground for a woman he can’t have.”

Her throat went dry.

“Sounds obsessive,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly, closing the book with a soft thud.

“Sounds inevitable.”

And then — just like that — he stepped back, leaving her breathless and furious at herself for the way her heart pounded against her ribs.

Sometime past midnight, Bianca found him sitting at the grand piano in the living room.

The melody spilling from his fingertips was soft, haunting, and achingly lonely — the kind of music you didn’t just hear, but felt somewhere deep in your bones.

She stood in the shadows of the doorway, watching him, caught between wanting to move closer and wanting to run.

For the first time, Lorenzo didn’t look untouchable.

He looked… human.

When he finally noticed her, the music stopped, the mask slamming back into place instantly.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked casually, as if she hadn’t just caught him exposing a piece of his soul.

She shook her head.

“Neither can you,” she whispered.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked, something raw and unspoken passing between them.

Then he stood abruptly, shutting the piano lid with a soft click.

“Go to bed, Bianca.”

The next morning, Enzo found him in the study.

“I traced the Rossetti lead,” Matteo said grimly. “It’s her bloodline.”

Lorenzo’s brows drew together, his grip tightening on the glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Explain.”

“Her father,” Enzo said slowly.

“He wasn’t who she thought he was. He stole something from them. Something they never forgave.”

Lorenzo’s jaw clenched, a storm darkening behind his eyes.

“She doesn’t know,” Matteo added carefully.

“And she won’t,” Lorenzo said coldly. “Not until I deal with it.”

Because the more danger she was in… the less willing he was to let her go.

And deep down, Lorenzo feared something worse than the Rossetti vendetta.

He feared himself.