CHAPTER 7: LINES I DO NOT CROSS
1205 Words
ALESSIO’S POV
I have rules.
They are not written, not spoken, but they exist with the same weight as law. They have kept me alive, kept my family intact, kept Rome from devouring us whole. Rules are the difference between power and chaos. Between a Don and a corpse.
Seraphina threatens those rules.
I realized it the moment I stepped between her and those two men in the café, felt the instinctive surge of violence rise without permission. I had not assessed the situation. I had not weighed consequences. I had moved.
That alone was unacceptable.
Men had looked at her before. Men always look. That is not the issue. The issue is intent, the way their eyes lingered, the calculation behind their smiles. I recognized it instantly because I have worn it myself. Desire mixed with entitlement is a dangerous thing.
I could not allow it near her.
When they left, fear replaced curiosity in their eyes. Good. Fear keeps men honest. Fear keeps them breathing.
Seraphina’s reaction was different.
She did not thank me. She did not soften. She looked at me like she was seeing the shape of something beneath the surface, something she had not wanted to acknowledge.
That look followed me long after I left the café.
I returned to the bar and locked myself in my office, shutting out music, voices, the city itself. I poured a drink I did not touch, staring at the dark glass like it held answers.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
I had told myself I would keep distance. Observe quietly. Ensure Aurora’s safety and nothing more. Seraphina was collateral, incidental, temporary. She would leave eventually. People like her always did once they realized Rome was not gentle.
Except she was not leaving.
She was settling in, weaving herself into routines, becoming familiar in ways I had not permitted. I had watched men lose control over far less, watched empires fracture over women who never meant to become weapons.
I refused to be one of them.
“Boss,” Matteo said from the doorway.
I did not look up. “What.”
“You’re spiraling.”
That earned my attention. I turned slowly, fixing him with a look that had broken stronger men than him. Matteo did not flinch. He rarely did.
“Watch your mouth.”
“I am,” he replied calmly. “That’s why I’m here.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Say what you came to say.”
He hesitated, then continued. “This girl, the one staying with Aurora, she’s changing your patterns.”
“She is under my protection.”
“That’s the problem.”
I exhaled slowly. “You don’t question my decisions.”
“I question risks,” he said. “And she is one.”
He was not wrong. That made it worse.
“Nothing touches her,” I said quietly. “That is not negotiable.”
Matteo studied me. “You sound like you’ve already decided more than that.”
I dismissed him with a look. He left without another word.
The truth was, I had crossed a line the moment I ordered constant surveillance on Seraphina. Not broad. Not invasive. Enough to know where she was, who approached her, what threats lingered too close.
I justified it easily. Her past was incomplete. Someone had erased pieces of her life with intent. People do not disappear unless they are running or being hunted.
Both scenarios required vigilance.
That night I followed her myself.
Not closely. Not obviously. From the opposite side of the street, blending into the city that answered to me. She walked with Aurora at first, laughter soft between them, then alone when they split ways near the apartment.
She did not notice me.
I hated that.
I hated that she trusted the night, that she did not know how quickly it could turn on her. Rome is beautiful, but beauty is a mask. I have buried too many bodies beneath marble to believe otherwise.
A man stepped too close to her near the corner, brushing past deliberately. I tensed, ready to intervene.
She handled it herself.
Her posture shifted, shoulders back, gaze sharp, voice firm enough to stop him without drawing attention. The man retreated, muttering an apology he did not mean.
Pride flared unexpectedly.
She was not weak. Not careless. She had learned how to survive.
That made my need to protect her feel less like duty and more like possession.
I stopped walking.
This was the line.
Back at the apartment building, I remained in the car, engine off, watching lights flicker on behind familiar windows. One by one the city settled. When Seraphina’s window glowed softly, tension eased in my chest.
I stayed longer than necessary.
The next day Aurora confronted me.
She did not accuse. She never did. She simply looked at me over her coffee, eyes too perceptive for her own good.
“You’re scaring her,” she said.
“I am keeping her safe.”
“She didn’t ask for that.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Aurora replied gently. “You don’t get to decide her life.”
I clenched my jaw. “You trust too easily.”
“And you trust no one,” she countered. “That doesn’t mean you get to cage her.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
“I would never cage her.”
Aurora’s gaze softened. “Then stop hovering like a shadow.”
I left without responding.
At the bar that evening, Seraphina appeared unexpectedly. Alone. That unsettled me more than it should have. She took a seat at the counter, fingers wrapped tightly around a glass she had barely touched.
I approached slowly. “You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”
Her eyes lifted, steady, challenging. “You don’t get to tell me where I can be.”
“I get to warn you.”
She leaned closer. “About what”
The space between us felt charged, dangerous. I lowered my voice. “About men who mistake kindness for invitation.”
Her breath caught briefly, then steadied. “Are you one of them”
I should have lied.
“No,” I said. “I am worse.”
Silence stretched.
She did not retreat.
That was the moment I knew I was in trouble.
Because every instinct I had told me to pull away, to sever this before it rooted itself too deeply. Instead I found myself memorizing her face, the curve of her mouth, the resolve in her eyes.
“You’re afraid of me,” I said.
“I’m afraid of what you don’t say,” she replied.
Honesty would destroy us both.
I stepped back. “Go home, Seraphina.”
She hesitated, then stood, gathering her things. At the door she turned once more.
“You don’t get to decide who I become,” she said quietly.
I watched her leave, the weight of her words settling heavy in my chest.
She was right.
And that terrified me.
Because if I did not decide, someone else would.
And I would burn Rome to the ground before I let that happen.
- Writer
