SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL

*CHAPTER 1: THE FAKE MAID* *SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL by Cassidy* My name is Elara Cruz, and I came to Lake Como to kill a man. His name is Killian Blackwood. Thirty-one years old. Six foot three. Billionaire shipping CEO by day, mafia king of Northern Italy by night. And the man who signed the order to have my brother executed. I stood outside his villa with a fake passport, a fake maid uniform, and a real Glock 19 strapped to my thigh. Villa Blackwood was not a villa. It was a black fortress on a private peninsula in the middle of the lake. No neighbors. No road. Just cold rain, high walls, and bulletproof glass. The kind of house a man builds when he has killed enough people to be afraid of ghosts. The gate opened. "You're the new maid? From the agency?" An old Italian woman stared at me. Signora Russo. Head housekeeper. Sixty-five. Eyes like a knife. "Yes, ma'am! I'm Elara! From Philippines! I can clean very well even if I only finished grade six!" I said in broken English, looking down, playing dumb. Playing innocent. Playing poor. I am none of those things. I am Agent Elara Cruz, NBI-Interpol, Badge 0719. Top of my class in marksmanship, close combat, and stealth infiltration. She scanned me from head to toe. "You are too pretty. Mr. Blackwood does not like pretty maids in his house." "I'm not pretty, ma'am. I just need money for my mama," I whispered. She grunted. "Come. You will stay in the basement. You will never go to the second floor. Especially the East Wing. If you go there, you will be fired. Or worse, you will disappear. Understand?" I nodded like a scared puppy. "Yes, ma'am." She left me in the kitchen to get my uniform. The second she turned her back, I moved. The Intel file from Interpol said Killian keeps a black ledger in his East Wing office. Every transaction. Every murder. Including my brother Marco Reyes, his former driver. Date: 08-15-2021. Ordered by: Vittorio Blackwood. Paid: $50,000 to a Moretti hitman. That ledger was my proof. My revenge. I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the cold marble. No sound. Ten years of training. I could walk on broken glass without making a noise. The East Wing door was at the end of the second floor. A huge steel door with a 6-digit keypad. I was already reaching for it when I heard him. "Who told you you could come up here?" His voice was low, deep, and cold enough to freeze the lake. I froze. Slowly, I turned. Killian Blackwood was standing at the top of the stairs. He was supposed to be in Milan. He was soaked from the rain, his black suit dripping on the wood floor, his black hair messy, his white shirt sticking to his chest. He was holding a black umbrella. He was taller than in his photos. Broader. The tattoo of an eagle crawled up from his collar to his neck. And his eyes — gray, like a storm over Lake Como — were staring directly at me. At my legs. At the faint outline of the gun under my skirt. He dropped the umbrella. BANG. He walked towards me. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator who already knows his prey cannot run. "Mr... Mr. Blackwood! Sorry! I got lost! I'm new maid! I don't know -" I stammered, making my accent thicker. He didn't stop until he was inches away from me. I could smell him. Tom Ford Oud Wood, whiskey, and rain. He was so close I had to look up to see his face. "Lost?" he whispered. "In my private wing? With a Glock 19 on your thigh?" My blood ran cold. Before I could even breathe, he spun me around and slammed me against the wall. His chest against my back, his hand on my mouth to stop me from screaming. His other hand went down, under my cheap maid skirt, fast and rough. I tried to kick him, but he was too strong. His fingers found the garter. And the cold steel. He pulled the gun out and let me go. I spun around, my back against the wall, panting. He held my gun between two fingers, examining it like a toy. "Glock 19. Compact. Good for small hands. Loaded. One in the chamber. You came prepared, little spy," he said, his voice still calm. "I'm not a spy! That's for protection! I'm a girl!" "Protection? In a maid's garter?" He smiled, but it was not a smile. It was a threat. "Who sent you? Moretti? Interpol? Or are you just another stupid girl who thinks she can kill me and become famous?" I said nothing. He stepped closer and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His grip was hard. "You have two options, fake maid." He pressed my own gun against my forehead. The metal was cold. "One, I call my men. They will tie that gun to your neck and throw you into Lake Como. No one will find you. Just like your brother, Marco Reyes." When he said my brother's name, my knees almost gave out. He knew. He knew who I was. "Or option two," he continued, his thumb brushing my lower lip, hard. "You come to my bedroom. You live there for thirty days. You try to kill me every night. Every night you fail, you take off one piece of clothing. And if after thirty days you still haven't killed me, you become mine. For real." "You're insane!" "Yes. I am the Devil of this lake. And you just walked into my house to kill me. Did you think I would let you leave?" The gun was still on my forehead. "So, little spy from the Philippines, what's your choice? The lake? Or my bed?" I looked at the gun. Then at his stormy gray eyes. I had no choice. I needed that ledger. I needed the truth about Marco. I closed my eyes and whispered, "Your bed." "Good girl," he whispered, and lowered the gun. He grabbed my arm, hard, and dragged me away from the East Wing, down the long hallway, towards the massive double doors at the other end. The master bedroom. He opened the doors. The room was huge. Black sheets. A fireplace roaring. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the storm over Lake Como. And one king-size bed in the middle, like an altar. He pushed me inside and locked the door. Click. Click. Two locks. He threw my gun on the black sofa and sat down, loosening his tie, staring at me. "Take off your t-shirt. That's your punishment for lying to me about being lost. Rule one: you fail, you strip." "I'm not taking anything off!" He picked up the gun again and pointed it at me. "Then I will take it off for you. And trust me, I am not gentle." My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From rage. I had trained ten years to kill this man. And on my first hour, I was about to strip for him. But I had to stay alive. For Marco. Slowly, with tears in my eyes, I pulled my cheap maid t-shirt over my head. I stood there in the middle of his devil's bedroom, in a black bra and a maid skirt, with a gun wound on my thigh from his grip, facing the man I came to kill. He looked at me from head to toe, his eyes darkening. "Welcome to Villa Blackwood, Elara Cruz. Welcome to your new home." He leaned back on the sofa, his eyes never leaving my body. "For the next thirty days, you will be sleeping with the devil."