Chapter Seven – His Favorite Sin
614 Words
He didn’t touch her.
Not during dinner.
Not even when the servants had cleared the table and left them alone in the golden silence of the hall.
But his eyes—God, his eyes—devoured her.
Every blink, every breath, every movement she made in that little black dress seemed like a private performance just for him.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, legs spread, gaze dark and unreadable. “Do you know what’s dangerous about you, Alessia?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn't.
“You think your innocence protects you,” he continued, swirling his wine slowly. “But it only makes men like me…curious.”
Her heart clenched. “I’m not a toy.”
“No,” he said softly, “you’re a temptation.”
The word dropped between them like thunder.
He stood, walking toward her. Not fast. Not slow. Just certain.
She should’ve moved. Fled. Screamed.
But her body remained frozen in the velvet seat as he stopped behind her chair, voice brushing against the shell of her ear.
“There’s something you don’t understand yet, dolcezza,” he murmured, his breath tickling her skin. “In my world, what tempts me… becomes mine.”
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
He left her breathless, shaken, untouched—but not unclaimed.
---
The next morning, the black dress was gone. Replaced with soft silk pajamas and a new note:
> “No more locked doors. You’re not a prisoner. But don’t forget—cages aren’t always made of steel.”
Days passed.
Alessia was given a private wing, her own maid, access to the gardens—but never the gates. She could roam, yes.
But freedom?
That was an illusion.
And every time she saw him—passing in the hallways, reading in the courtyard, sipping espresso in the lounge—he would look at her like she was his favorite sin.
No words.
Just that quiet, burning possession.
---
One evening, Alessia found herself alone in the massive library.
The room smelled like leather, pinewood, and old secrets. Shelves towered to the ceiling, filled with dusty volumes of everything from Dante to Machiavelli.
She wandered toward a corner section—poetry.
As she reached for a worn collection of Neruda, a voice behind her froze her spine.
“Poetry?” Lorenzo said, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect that.”
She turned. “You don’t strike me as someone who reads it.”
He shrugged. “I don’t. But I memorize things that taste like truth.”
He walked toward her, plucking the book from her hand. “Pablo Neruda, hmm?” he murmured, flipping pages until he stopped at one.
Then, without looking up, he read aloud:
> “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”
Alessia’s breath hitched.
Lorenzo looked up.
The devil, quoting love poems.
And somehow… it suited him.
“I’m not scared of you,” she said, voice trembling.
He stepped closer. “No?”
“I think I scare you.”
He laughed. Quiet and cold. “You think a girl in silk pajamas scares the head of the Bratva?”
“I think a girl who makes you feel something does.”
There.
She said it.
For a moment, his face went blank.
And then—c***k.
The mask shattered.
He grabbed her chin, firm but not cruel, eyes boring into hers. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Then show me.”
It wasn’t bravery. It was surrender.
And in that second, Lorenzo De Luca did the one thing the devil never should.
He kissed her.
- Writer
