Chapter 18: His Worse Nightmare

Standing outside Aria Moretti’s door was the closest thing to hell I’d ever experienced—and I’d slit a man’s throat in a burning building before.

I stood there, back rigid, fists clenched at my sides, jaw so tight it felt like it might snap in half.

What the hell had I done in my past life to deserve this?

Babysitting the Don’s insufferable daughter was not part of the contract when I agreed to protect the Moretti empire from the shadows. I was an assassin, not a goddamn glorified chaperone. I took bullets without flinching. I slit throats in the dark. I didn’t follow around rich, spoiled brats who threw tantrums and broke vases when they didn’t get their way.

But here I was.

Standing guard like some obedient fucking guard dog outside the door of the woman I hated most.

The taste of her still lingered on my mouth.

Disgust curled in my stomach.

I didn’t want to kiss her.

I had to.

She was going to blow everything up. She’d been seconds away from dragging me down in front of her father, and I’d done the only thing I could think of to stop her—

I kissed her.

A kiss like a gunshot. Violent. Tactical. Meant to shut her up, not... not whatever the hell it turned into.

And then she moaned into it like some needy little tease.

Fucking hell.

My fists tightened again, nails biting into my palms.

She was the most dangerous mission I’d ever been assigned.

I heard footsteps and straightened instinctively, scanning the corridor.

Of course.

Her.

Aria.

She was stalking toward me like she owned the damn world, chin held high, that same infuriating smirk pulling at her lips. I didn’t even blink as she stopped in front of me, hands on her hips like she thought I gave a damn what she had to say.

Her wet hair was half-dried now, curling against her cheeks. She’d changed into a short, black silk top and matching shorts that showed off legs I didn’t want to look at.

I kept my eyes ahead.

Still, I felt her smirk widen.

“I just had a little chat with Daddy,” she said sweetly.

Here we go.

“And guess what?” She leaned in slightly, so close I could smell her—vanilla and something darker, something dangerous. “We made a deal.”

Silence.

She leaned even closer.

“You get to babysit me… for six months.”

My jaw twitched.

She smiled wider, like she was unwrapping a gift she couldn’t wait to destroy.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Alessandro. I’m going to rain down hell on you.”

She stepped back, her eyes gleaming with malicious glee. Like she’d just won a war. Like I was some lowly foot soldier and she was the queen.

She didn’t realize something crucial.

I didn’t play games.

I ended them.

Six months.

Six months of this arrogant, reckless, manipulative brat testing my patience.

But at least now I had a deadline.

Six months before I’d never have to see her face again. Six months before I could scrub her out of my memory. Six months before I was free of her.

I stared straight ahead. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed my face.

That pissed her off.

I heard it in the sharp huff she let out.

“You’re not untouchable, Alessandro,” she spat, voice sharp and biting. “Just because my father trusts you doesn’t mean I do.”

I didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

She stormed past me, bumping her shoulder against me on purpose as she yanked open her bedroom door.

It slammed behind her a second later, the echo ringing down the hallway like a starting gun.

I released a breath through my nose, slow and controlled.

Let her play her games.

Let her try to break me.

I wasn’t like the rest of her toys. I didn’t bend. I didn’t snap. I didn’t break.

I’d survived bloodbaths and betrayals, bullets and blades.

She was just a spoiled, delusional child.

But still… I didn’t move from the door.

Didn’t trust her not to sneak out and get herself kidnapped within the next ten minutes.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Watching. Waiting.

I didn’t need to remind myself why I was here.

Her safety was the Don’s priority. And mine, by extension.

Even if she didn’t know it, she had enemies. Enemies that would slit her throat just to make her father bleed.

She thought this was about power.

She had no idea.

This was about survival.

Hers.

And maybe, at this rate, mine too.

The rest of the evening passed like slow torture.

She didn’t come out again.

Didn’t scream, didn’t throw anything, didn’t slam open the door in another fit of dramatic rage.

Just silence.

Which, somehow, was worse.

By midnight, I was still outside her door, motionless, hyperaware of every sound inside.

I could hear her pacing once. Then music. Then silence again.

God only knows what she was doing in there.

Plotting. Scheming. Dreaming up new ways to push every single one of my buttons.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Marcus

Lorenzo: Status?

Me: Still breathing. Barely.

Marcus: Babysitting a brat isn’t usually fatal. Unless she kills you first.

Me: Six months. That’s the deal.

Lorenzo: Six months with Aria? I’d rather take a bullet.

Me: Don’t tempt me.

I put my phone away and refocused, body still alert, mind still locked on the job.

Protect the target.

Even if she was a living nightmare wrapped in attitude.

I shifted slightly and cracked my neck. The marble floor was cold. My back ached. I’d stood still for hours.

But this wasn’t the worst I’d endured.

Not by a long shot.

No, the worst was her.

The way she’d tasted. The heat in her eyes. That fucking moan she’d made when I kissed her.

I shoved the thought out of my head like a live grenade.

It meant nothing.

She meant nothing.

This wasn’t attraction. This wasn’t desire.

This was war.

And I was just waiting for her next move.

The door cracked open at 1:07 AM.

I didn’t even flinch.

She stood there, eyes narrowed, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching a blanket around her shoulders.

We stared at each other in silence.

Then—

“I can’t sleep,” she said flatly.

I said nothing.

“I can hear your breathing through the door.”

Still nothing.

“It’s annoying.”

I blinked slowly. “You want me to stop breathing?”

She rolled her eyes. “I want you to disappear.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

She made a face like she’d tasted something sour. “God, you’re such an ass.”

I didn’t flinch. But something sharp twisted inside me.

I liked when she called me names.

It meant she was rattled.

It meant I was winning.

She stood there for another beat, like she wanted to say something else—maybe launch another verbal grenade—but instead, she let out a sound of frustration and slammed the door again.

Louder this time.

Good.

Let her rage.

I’d been forged in worse.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.