Marked by the mafia devil’s heir

The kitchen warfare

If Lorenzo De Luca expected me to sit in a corner, weep, and look beautiful for his brooding pleasure, he had severely miscalculated.

By day three of my official estate house arrest, the initial paralyzing terror had settled into a sharp, vibrating irritation. Yes, I was a hostage. Yes, my supervisor's life hung in the balance. But working twelve-hour shifts standing over a boiling industrial dishwasher teaches you one vital skill: how to handle arrogant men who think they own the room.

The heavy oak door to my room was no longer deadbolted during the day. As long as I didn't approach the massive glass perimeter windows or the heavy iron gates outside, I was allowed to roam the residential wing.

Naturally, my first stop was the kitchen.

"Who allowed you in here?" a sharp, heavily accented voice barked the moment my bare feet hit the pristine white marble floor of the estate’s kitchen.

A middle-aged man in a spotless white chef’s uniform stood behind an island, holding a terrifyingly sharp carving knife over a slab of expensive wagyu beef. Two younger kitchen assistants froze, staring at me like I was a ghost.

"I allowed myself," I said smoothly, walking right up to the massive, commercial-grade stainless steel refrigerator. "The room service in this fortress is terrible. The pantry in my room only has saltines and water. I need real food."

"This is a private kitchen for the De Luca family," the chef hissed, stepping forward and pointing the knife at me. "You are the prisoner. You eat what is brought to you."

"The prisoner is starving," I countered, throwing the fridge doors wide open. My jaw almost dropped. It looked like a luxury grocery store. "And the chef who brought me lukewarm chicken ramen three days ago needs to look up the definition of seasoning. Seriously, where is the garlic? Where is the hot sauce?"

"Out!" the chef roared, his face turning an impressive shade of crimson. "Guards! Remove this girl!"

"Is there a problem here?"

The low, vibrating baritone cut through the kitchen heat like an iceberg.

The chef immediately snapped to attention, lowering his knife. I turned around, a carton of organic eggs clutched in my hands, to find Lorenzo standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored slate-gray suit, his hands casually buried in his pockets. The bandage on his broken nose was smaller now, but the faint purple bruising around his eyes made him look completely lethal.

"Sir," the chef stammered, bowing his head. "The... the girl. She is invading the workspace. She is insulting my menu."

Lorenzo didn't look at the chef. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine, tracking the way I held the eggs like a shield. "You’re making a mess, Alina."

"I’m trying to make breakfast," I corrected, refusing to back down. I walked past him, setting the carton down on the counter next to a row of copper pans. "Your staff is hoarding the good ingredients. If I’m going to be stuck in this golden cage while you hunt for a ghost ledger, I’m not doing it on an empty stomach."

Lorenzo stared at me for a long, silent beat. The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the hum of the refrigerator. The assistants looked ready to faint, clearly expecting him to order my execution right there on the marble floor.

Instead, a tiny, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in Lorenzo’s jaw.

"Leave us," he commanded quietly.

The chef and his assistants didn't need to be told twice. They practically sprinted out the side door, leaving the heavy carving knife behind on the cutting board.

The moment the door clicked shut, Lorenzo stepped closer. The sharp, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne immediately pushed out the smell of the kitchen. He leaned against the marble island, towering over me, his shadow completely enveloping my smaller frame.

"You have an extraordinary amount of confidence for someone whose life depends on my mood," he murmured, his voice a dangerous, low purr.

"My life depends on whether or not my father surfaces," I reminded him, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms. "And until he does, you won't touch a hair on my head. Because if I die, your only bait is gone. You need me alive, De Luca. So you might as well let me scramble some eggs."

Lorenzo reached out, his movements so fast my brain barely registered them. His heavy, warm hand clamped firmly around the edge of the counter right next to my hip, effectively trapping me against the marble. He leaned down until his face was inches from mine, his blue eyes burning with a dark, intense fascination.

"You think you understand how this world works, little mouse," he whispered, his breath hot against my lips. "You think because I haven't broken you yet, I won't. Do not mistake my curiosity for weakness."

"I don't think you're weak," I whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, though I forced my chin to stay up. "I think you're a bully who is frustrated because a broke cafeteria worker isn't crying at his feet."

Lorenzo’s gaze dropped to my mouth, his eyes narrowing as if he were fighting an internal battle. For a terrifying, breathless second, I thought he was going to strangle me—or do something infinitely worse. The tension between us was thick, suffocating, and entirely dangerous.

Slowly, he leaned back, breaking the spell. He reached past me, picked up the carving knife from the cutting board, and flipped it effortlessly in his gloved hand before sliding it into a wooden block.

"Make your breakfast," Lorenzo murmured, turning his back to walk away. "But if I smell burnt toast in my house, I’m cutting off your internet access."

"I don't even have the Wi-Fi password!" I yelled to his retreating back.

"It’s password123," he called out right before the heavy kitchen doors swung shut behind him.

I stood alone in the massive kitchen, a sudden, breathy laugh escaping my throat. The devil had a sense of humor. And the war of wills had officially begun.