Bound to Mafia Princess

Protection

Alessia

I take another step closer, closing the distance between us until we’re barely a foot apart. His height is daunting, his broad frame shadowing me, but I refuse to let him intimidate me.

“I don’t need you,” I say, my voice low but firm.

His gaze locks on mine, and for a moment, the air between us feels like it might crackle. “Maybe not,” he says quietly. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

There’s something in his tone, something I can’t quite place, that makes my chest tighten. It’s not pity, not disdain—it’s almost like he understands me, and that realization unsettles me more than anything else.

“You won’t last,” I say, my lips curling into a smirk. “I’ll make sure of it.”

His smirk returns, slow and confident, like he’s accepting a challenge. “Bring it on, princess.”

The way he says it—low and deliberate, with just the slightest hint of amusement—sends an infuriating shiver down my spine. I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel seen in a way no one else ever has.

Without another word, I spin on my heel and continue down the hallway, my head held high. He doesn’t follow immediately, but I know he’s watching me.

And that, somehow, is worse.

When I finally reach the sanctuary of my bedroom, I slam the door shut behind me, leaning against it as I try to catch my breath. My heart is racing, my mind a chaotic mess of anger and something I don’t want to name.

This is going to be a nightmare.

I don’t care how broad his shoulders are, or how sharp his jawline is, or how his eyes seem to see through every defense I’ve built.

I will break him before he breaks me.

-------

I’ve always thought my room was my haven. The one place in this sprawling estate where I could breathe. But tonight, it feels smaller, suffocating even.

The moonlight pours in through the massive windows, casting pale streaks across the hardwood floors. I’ve left the curtains open, a habit I picked up years ago. I like the reminder of the world outside, the city lights in the distance whispering promises of freedom.

Freedom.

The word tastes bitter on my tongue as I pace the length of my room, my bare feet silent against the cool wood. My father’s voice still echoes in my head, the command wrapped in that icy tone he uses when there’s no point arguing.

“You’re reckless.”

“You’re a liability.”

“You’re getting a bodyguard.”

It’s not just the words that sting—it’s the meaning behind them. In his eyes, I’ll never be more than a risk. Something to be managed. Controlled. Caged.

I glance at the mirror on the far wall, catching a glimpse of myself. My reflection looks composed, calm even. But my eyes—those tell the truth. They’re stormy, the icy blue sharpened with frustration.

It’s him. Jay Carter.

I hate how he looked at me earlier, like he already had me figured out. Like he knew exactly how far he could push before I’d snap. And the worst part? He was enjoying it.

I slam my hand down on the edge of my vanity, the sharp sound cutting through the silence.

I hate him.

I hate the way he made me feel—seen, vulnerable, small.

But mostly, I hate that he’s right.

The thought makes my stomach churn, and I push it away, burying it under the layers of defiance I’ve spent years perfecting.

---

The soft knock on my door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I freeze, my hand still gripping the edge of the vanity. No one knocks on my door—not unless they want something.

“Go away,” I call, my voice sharp.

The door creaks open anyway, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. His presence fills the room before he even steps inside, the faint scent of leather and something sharp and masculine hitting me first.

“What part of ‘go away’ didn’t you understand?” I snap, spinning around to face him.

Jay leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed the same as earlier—black shirt, black jeans, boots that look like they’ve seen a few wars. His dark eyes sweep over me, taking in my silk camisole and shorts without so much as a flicker of emotion.

“You didn’t lock the door,” he says, his voice maddeningly calm.

“Didn’t think I needed to,” I retort, glaring at him. “Apparently, my personal space doesn’t matter.”

He shrugs, his lips twitching into that infuriating smirk. “I told you—I’m here to keep you safe. That means being where you are.”

I take a step toward him, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. “So what? You’re going to stand outside my room all night? Like some overgrown guard dog?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he says, his tone neutral, almost bored.

The audacity of this man.

I march up to him, stopping just short of touching him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move—just stands there like a goddamn statue, staring down at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“Let me make something very clear,” I say, my voice low and steady. “You may work for my father, but you don’t work for me. You don’t get to tell me what to do, where to go, or how to live my life.”

His smirk fades, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable. Then he steps forward, just enough to close the gap between us, and I feel my breath hitch.

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “I’m here to make sure you keep living it.”

The words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I forget how to speak. He’s too close, his presence overwhelming, his gaze cutting through every wall I’ve spent years building.

“You’re in over your head, princess,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. You’ve spent your whole life playing with fire, and one day, you’re going to get burned.”

I swallow hard, my pulse racing in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“Maybe I like the fire,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.

His gaze darkens, and for a moment, I think he might say something—something that will shatter whatever fragile balance is holding this conversation together. But then he steps back, putting just enough distance between us to make me feel like I can breathe again.

“Get some sleep,” he says, his tone cool and detached. “You’re going to need it.”

And just like that, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I let out a shaky breath, my hands trembling as I lean against the vanity. My reflection stares back at me, the storm in my eyes fiercer than ever.

I hate him.

I hate the way he makes me feel—like I’m not as strong as I pretend to be.