His Virgin Stripper

37- Dressed For The Devil

Sienna

I sat frozen, my fork hovering uselessly over my half-eaten plate as I stared dumbfounded at the double doors Marcello had just stormed through.

I let out a ragged breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my shoulders slumping as the rigid posture I had forced myself into collapsed.

What a joke.

I looked down at the dress, suddenly feeling ridiculous. I had actually listened to Roxy. I had sat at the vanity, letting her convince me that putting on makeup and dressing up would give me some kind of upper hand.

And for what? The man hadn't even blinked. He hadn't acknowledged the effort, he hadn't lingered on the dress, and he certainly hadn't given me the satisfaction of seeing him stumble.

Instead, he had sat there looking like a striking, unbothered god in a bold red dress shirt, his dark hair pulled back into a neat man bun, treating me with the exact same detachment he’d probably use to read a manifest.

He had just laid down his cold, unyielding rules like a judge handing down a sentence, immune to whatever pathetic trap I thought I was setting.

The irritation burned hot in my chest, mixing with the lingering, humiliating memory of how easily he had broken me. I was furious at him, but more furious at myself for caring if his eyes lingered when I walked into the room.

Desperate for a distraction, I pushed my chair back and stood up. I ate the remaining bites of my food quickly, barely tasting the eggs, and began gathering the empty porcelain plates.

I stacked them neatly, picking up the silver cutlery and the half-empty cup of espresso Marcello had left behind, needing to do something with my hands to stop the subtle shaking that always returned when I thought about the contract.

I pushed through the swinging door leading into the kitchen, the low hum of the industrial refrigerator greeting me as I stepped inside.

The woman I had noticed earlier, the one who had been serving Marcello when I first walked in, was standing by the large sink. She turned her head as the door clicked shut.

Up close, she was striking. She was undeniably beautiful, even with the subtle shadow of wrinkles threatening to make itself noticeable around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

She wore her age like a badge of honor, her long black hair neatly pinned back, though it blended seamlessly with the few white strands that years on earth had given her.

There was an elegant, motherly grace to the way she held herself, a stark contrast to the rigid, military precision of the armed giants guarding the corridors outside.

"Oh, you didn't have to bring those in, dear," she said, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic rhythm as she reached out to take the heavy stack from my hands.

I froze for a fraction of a second, my eyes widening. She had an unmistakable American accent. It was out of place under this roof, totally different from the thick, gravelly intonations of the security detail.

"It's fine, ma'am," I offered a small, tentative smile as I let her slide the plates into the warm, soapy water. "I didn't want to leave a mess out there."

The woman looked at me, her gaze traveling over my face, taking in the light makeup and the tense set of my shoulders. A soft, knowing smile broke across her features, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening.

"He's difficult, huh?" she asked, turning back to the sink to rinse a glass.

I let out a dry, breathy laugh, leaning my hip against the counter as the sheer weight of the morning pressed down on me. "Very. Honestly, that's an understatement."

"He has a way of making a room feel small," she agreed, her tone light but layered with an unspoken understanding of the man who had just left me reeling.

"I don't even know how you manage it, ma'am," I admitted, watching her hands move efficiently through the water.

"Everyone else in this house looks like they're waiting for an order to execute someone. You're the only person who hasn't looked at me like I'm trespassing."

The woman chuckled, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a clean dish towel. She turned around to face me, leaning back against the edge of the sink.

"Please, stop calling me ma'am," her blue eyes crinkled with amusement. "It makes me feel older than my hair makes me look. Call me Ma Rosa."

I swallowed the tight knot in my throat, the name tasting warm and human in a place that felt frozen. "Ma Rosa," I repeated softly.

"There you go," she said, her expression softening into something maternal. She took a step closer, her voice dropping into a quieter, more serious register.

"I know what you're going through must feel terrifying. I see the look in your eyes. But try to be patient with Marcello. I know he comes across as a monster, and he's done things that justify that title, but he hardly grew up with any love around him. He was molded by cold men who taught him that vulnerability is a death sentence. He doesn't know how to handle something... soft."

Her words hung heavily in the air between us. I didn't know how to answer that. How was I supposed to be patient with a man who had effectively bought my existence?

"I... I should get back upstairs," I whispered, my voice suddenly feeling very small.

"Go on," Ma Rosa gave me a supportive nod.

I left the kitchen, my mind spiraling as I walked back through the quiet dining room. Ma Rosa’s words looped in my brain, colliding with the image of Marcello, his knuckles white against the desk, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like iron.

He was a product of his environment, sure, but that didn't make the cage he had built around me any less real.

By the time I reached the grand staircase, my thoughts were a total mess. I started climbing the steps automatically, my eyes fixed on the polished wood until my eyes caught something or someone.

Roxy was waiting for me at the landing of the first flight, leaning casually against the banister while scrolling through her phone.

I stopped a few steps below her, crossing my arms over my chest. "You seem more interested in your phone than in what happened down there," I said, my tone a mix of exhaustion and light irritation.

Roxy didn't look up for a second, her thumb typing out a final message before she shoved the device squarely into her pocket. She looked down at me, a massive grin instantly breaking across her face as she stepped down to meet me.

"That's literally impossible, and you know it," her voice dropped into a pestering whisper as she linked her arm through mine, dragging me up the remaining stairs.

"I’ve been sitting out here for twenty minutes waiting for the big debrief. Come on, give me the details. What did he say? Did he like the dress? Tell me he stared at your legs, Sienna, please give me a win here."

My lips pressed into a tight line as we continued to climb toward the residential wing.

"Sienna! Don't do this to me," Roxy whined, giving my arm a sharp, playful yank as we turned the corner into the long corridor. "The suspense is killing me. Did he give you that dark, brooding look? Did he do the voice?"

"Can you wait till we get to the room at least?" I hissed, looking around to see if any of Marcello's giants were listening to us.

Roxy let out a dramatic groan, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. But the silence lasted for exactly three steps before she cracked.

She leaned in close, "Okay, fine, I’ll wait to hear what he said. But just answer me one thing. What did his face look like when he first saw you? Tell me he looked like he wanted to eat you alive right there on the breakfast table.

A sharp, breathy laugh burst out of my mouth, clearing away the heavy anxiety that Ma Rosa had left behind.

"Oh my god, you're an i***t," I laughed, breaking away from her grip.

I took off into a sprint down the hallway toward my room, my boots thudding against the floorboards as I tried to escape her questions.

"Sienna, get back here!" Roxy yelled behind me, her own high-pitched laughter echoing down the corridor as she chased after me.