Chapter 133 133

Chapter 133 133
Mia 
The day drags on, a slow, heavy passage of time measured only by the shifting angle of the sunlight across the marble floors of the mansion. I am restless, a hum of electric dissatisfaction vibrating beneath my skin. It’s a craving deep in the pit of my stomach, an ache that demands to be filled. I wander from room to room, my bare feet sinking into the plush rugs, but nowhere feels right. I am drawn, inevitably, to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the terraced garden.
He is down there.
Alessandro.
Even from this distance, high above the manicured lawns, he commands the space. The glass is cool against my forehead as I press closer, watching the scene unfold below like a silent movie. It is a meeting, serious and stiff, a gathering of his most trusted men. They stand in a loose semi-circle around him, a sea of black suits against the vibrant green of the grass and the dark, glossy leaves of the hedges. They look like crows perched on a wire, indistinguishable in their uniformity, but he… he is the hawk.
He stands with his back to me for a moment, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black Armani suit. The jacket is perfectly tailored, hugging the muscles of his back, tapering down to his waist. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of heat through me. He turns slightly, and I catch the profile of his face—the sharp cut of his jawline, the straight bridge of his nose, the slicked-back black hair that catches the golden afternoon sun.
One hand is buried deep in his pants pocket, a casual gesture of absolute authority. He isn’t gesturing wildly or shouting orders. He just stands there, emanating power, speaking in low tones that I can’t hear but can feel. The other men nod, stiff and respectful, hanging on his every word. He is the Don, the king of this concrete jungle, and every inch of him screams control.
My eyes trace the lines of his body, remembering how those muscles feel under my palms, how they tense and coil when he is inside me. I remember the weight of him, the scent of his skin—sandalwood, gunpowder, and something uniquely Alessandro. My heart rate picks up, thudding against my ribs. The hunger grows claws.
As if he senses the weight of my gaze, he turns. His head snaps up, those stormy gray eyes locking onto mine through the expanse of glass. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t smile openly. But I see the corner of his mouth twitch, a microscopic shift that betrays his composure. He knows I’m watching. He knows what I’m thinking. He sees the hunger in my eyes, mirroring his own. He quickly suppresses the smirk, turning his attention back to his lieutenant, but the damage is done. The connection snaps tight between us, an invisible tether pulling me down toward him.
I stay at the window for hours, watching the light change. The golden hues of late afternoon bleed into the soft purples and indigos of twilight. The garden lights flicker on, one by one, casting long, dramatic shadows across the lawn. They illuminate Alessandro’s face from below, highlighting the sharp angles, the darkness of his beard, the intensity of his gaze. He looks like a fallen angel presiding over a court of demons.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the group begins to disperse. The men bow their heads or shake his hand briefly before turning away. The meeting is over.
The silence of the mansion feels louder as I watch them leave. One by one, sleek, black luxury cars purr to life along the driveway. The sound of expensive engines cutting through the quiet evening air—Maseratis, Bentleys, Mercedes. They glide away from the estate, their taillights receding into the darkness like glowing red eyes. The gates swing shut, sealing us back in our private world.
Alessandro remains standing in the garden, alone now. He loosens his tie slightly, rolling his neck, the movement fluid and predatory. He checks his watch, then looks back up at the house. He knows I’m still there.
I don’t hesitate. I turn away from the window and head for the French doors that lead to the terrace. I am wearing a robe, a simple silk thing that slips over my skin like water. It’s white, stark against my tanned skin, but underneath it, I am completely bare. No lace, no silk, just skin warming skin. The air inside the house is still, but as I slide the door open, the cool night breeze rushes in, raising gooseflesh on my arms.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth fills my nose. I step out onto the stone patio, my bare feet silent against the cold flagstones. I walk down the steps, onto the grass, damp with evening dew. It tickles my toes, a sharp contrast to the fire burning inside me.
He sees me approach. He stands still, watching me come closer, his hands returning to his pockets. The garden lights cast him in a halo of soft amber, making his gray eyes glow like molten silver. He doesn’t move, letting me come to him.
I stop right in front of him, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. The fabric of his suit is rough against my fingertips as I reach out and rest my hands on his chest. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, strong and slow.
"Alessandro," I breathe. My voice sounds husky, even to my own ears.
He looks down at me, his eyes darkening, roaming over my face, my hair, descending to the silk robe tied loosely at my waist. He knows. He can probably smell my arousal from here.
"Mia," he rumbles, the sound vibrating in his chest and into my hands. "You were watching."
"I was always watching," I admit.