In love with my mafia stepbrother

LAYLA The morning air was crisp as I stepped out of the cab, my suitcase rolling unevenly on the cobblestone drive. Mom’s text had been simple: “Here’s the address. Go, settle in, and I’ll see you soon.” Simple. Easy. Except for one tiny problem—I had no idea what I was walking into. The mansion loomed in front of me like something out of a movie. Tall white pillars framed the entrance, glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and marble steps gleamed under the sun. I swallowed hard, my heart stuttering. Mom had done well for herself. Not just well—she’d hit a level of wealth that made my modest family home feel like a tiny dollhouse in comparison. I took a shaky breath and approached the security post. Two men in crisp black suits barely looked at me before waving me through. Relief hit me. A kind-looking older woman appeared just inside the door, her smile warm and practiced. “You must be Layla,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Linda, the housekeeper. Welcome. Let me show you to your room.” I followed her through polished hallways, the air tinged with lavender and some underlying hint of leather and wood polish. The grandeur, the artwork, the chandeliers, everything looked like it belonged to royalty. Then my mind kept wandering. The people who owned this place—my soon-to-be Stepdad and stepbrother—were they nice people? How awkward would this be? When I finally saw my room, I nearly stopped breathing again. It wasn’t just a room—it was a suite. Light poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off the cream walls and the plush carpet. A king-sized bed stood perfectly made, and a sitting area overlooked manicured gardens. After dropping my bags, I headed straight for the bathroom. It was one of those digital touchscreen showers. I stared at it for what felt like ten minutes, trying to figure out how to turn it on. Back home, all you had to do was twist a knob. Simple. Here? I waved my hand at the screen like it was a magic spell, pressed buttons in the wrong order, and nearly scalded myself. Finally, after what felt like a small battle with technology, I got the hang of it. I couldn’t help but smile, almost wanting to shout in victory. The shower itself was worth every moment of frustration—more luxurious than anything I’d ever experienced. I lingered under the warm spray, letting it wash away the tension in my shoulders, and tried to calm the jumble of nerves in my chest. I wrapped myself in a towel, freshly showered and feeling the tension of the day slowly melt from my shoulders. I decided to call Stacey, my best friend. She needed to know I’d arrived safely. Except… my phone wasn’t in my bag. Panic bubbled. Where had I put it? Then I remembered: I dropped it downstairs on the sofa when I was switching bags—the load had been too heavy on one hand. Since only Mrs. Linda was home, I hurried down the stairs, still in my towel, planning to rush back before anyone returned. I found my phone exactly where I left it. Relief washed through me—until the front door unlocked. I froze. And there he was. He was shirtless, his skin glistening with sweat. Muscles defined, carved, sculpted. He looked like someone who lived in the gym—or someone the gym was built for. He was perfect in every way. My mouth watered. Maybe he wasn’t real. Maybe my eyes were lying to me. A part of me wanted to run my fingers across his chest just to verify he wasn’t an illusion. He pulled off his earbuds, eyes locking with mine. “You’ve been staring,” he said, voice deep, calm, annoyingly confident. “What are you doing in my house?” Oh God. Oh no. I stammered, my brain a puddle of nerves. “I—I’m your mother’s daughter. No—mom’s fiancé’s—your father—I mean… I’m—” He raised an eyebrow. “Oh. You’re the stepsister.” “Yeah. That. Thanks,” I mumbled, face heating. Thanks? Thanks for what? He nodded once, then added, “You know you’re almost naked.” My soul left my body. I looked down at myself—towel, wet hair, bare legs— Oh God oh God oh God. Can the ground open up and swallow me? Heat flooded my face. I had officially embarrassed myself in front of the hottest man I had ever seen. I bolted up the stairs like a fool, not even bothering to say anything back to him. Back in my room, I swore to avoid him like a plague. ……. Two hours passed. I was starving, but my pride wouldn’t allow me to face him. Not yet. Not now. I called Stacey. I had to tell someone. She was predictably incredulous. “He can’t be that hot,” she said. “You’re exaggerating!” I wasn’t. Not even a little. Just as I hung up, Mom’s voice rang through the house. Relief. She was home, finally. I dashed downstairs, forgetting myself in my excitement. Mom’s hug was warm and familiar, the scent of lilies surrounding her. “Oh, cupcake, I missed you,” she said. Her hands framed my face, and for a moment I felt safe. We sat on the sofa, talking. I told her about exams, about life, about everything, secretly hoping Henry wouldn’t walk in. And then… the universe mocked me. Henry walked back into the living room… With a towel in his hand. “Here, Mom,” he said, handing it to her. My stomach twisted. Mom? Mom? Since when did he start calling her that? And why did I feel something ugly—sharp—curl in my chest? Jealousy. Why was I jealous? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I wasn’t even sure if it was just jealousy, because why was I suddenly aware of every inch of him again? He looked calm, casual, but I could feel the tension crackling in the room. My face heated. Henry was going to be a problem, I thought, grimly. No, more than a problem. He was going to be… everything I wasn’t supposed to want. And I already wanted him.