Dominic
Control. It's more than a principle – it's survival.
I've lived with it since before I understood what it meant to be human. Control over everything. My surroundings. My enemies. My desires. It's the only thing standing between me and the abyss. Lose control, and you lose everything. Your purpose. Your power. Yourself.
I'd been ignoring Gianna's calls for days, her messages, her attempts to reach me. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't afford to. I was busy. It had been a messy month. More violent than usual. With blood on my hands, I couldn't afford the softness of her voice. It could've made me want to be something I couldn't be – merciful.
My business – my work – doesn't have room for anything or anyone that weakens me. It's blood, death, manipulation, and the kind of deals that leave stains you can't scrub off. There's no place for someone as kind as her in that world. She doesn't belong here, and I sure as hell wasn't going to drag her into it.
But it wasn't just about keeping her out of this life. It was about keeping myself in control. I've seen what happens when you start letting emotions slip through the cracks. I won't make Don Salvatore's mistake. She could soften Salvatore. She had my own thoughts shifting, her presence flickering in my mind when I least wanted it – part of me wanting to own her, another part wanting to just protect. I couldn't afford that kind of conflict. Cutting her off was the only way forward. No calls, no meetings. Just void. For my own sanity.
And yet, I couldn't ignore her forever. I had to deal with it. I had to do what was necessary.
So, I decided I would talk. Set boundaries for her. Soon.
But when I heard the knock on my office door, I thought it was one of my men. I never expected it to be her.
Gianna.
I felt the irritation rise in me before the door even opened. This girl had no business being here. Not in my world. Not in my office. And definitely not at my doorstep.
But then the door opened, and there she was. Soft. Innocent. Holding a bag that made her look... ridiculous.
Cookies.
My mind went blank for a second.
Gianna Moretti was standing in front of me, not in some tailored suit or some sophisticated, calculated look. No, she was in a cardigan – one that practically cried "I'm made of spring mornings, hello!" – and she was holding a bag of cookies like it was the most normal thing in the world to do.
My thoughts scrambled. It was so absurd I almost laughed.
She didn't belong. Not with that soft expression, not with hands that had never held a weapon or buried a lie. She looked like a memory someone forgot to burn.
"Hi," she said, her voice careful. "I brought cookies. Thought maybe we could talk about the marriage?"
The marriage. Like it was some awkward misunderstanding between neighbors.
I stared. Not at the cookies – though fuck, she even tied the bag with a ribbon – but at her. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't apologizing. She was... here. And holding her ground like she actually thought this would work.
Cute. And infuriating.
"You brought cookies," I said flatly.
"I thought it might break the ice," she offered. Not a joke. She meant it.
I took the bag from her hand, slow, deliberate. Her skin brushed mine – clean, untouched by everything I've done – and it pissed me off how human she felt. Like a warmth I wasn't supposed to want.
"I don't eat cookies," I said, voice like a blade.
She flinched, just barely. But then her chin lifted. "You don't have to. I just... thought if you tasted them, maybe you'd see I'm not what you want. And reconsider the whole thing… please."
That nearly got a laugh out of me. Reconsider. As if I hadn't already buried that possibility ten steps ago.
Still, she kept looking at me like I was someone worth reasoning with. Like I could be persuaded by butter and sugar.
Gianna didn't get it. This wasn't some bad date she could bake her way out of. This was blood and legacy and control – and I had no reason to defy Salvatore.
But she was standing in front of me, determined and delicate, and something about that combination hit me like a slow-working poison.
She thought she was negotiating.
She wasn't.
But something about that please made me not want to crush her heart.
"I'll eat one," I said, watching her reaction more than I watched the cookie.
Her face lit up, foolish and sweet, and for a moment I hated how much I wanted to keep her like that. Soft. Unspoiled. Mine.
But softness doesn't survive in this world. Not without consequences.
I took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Still looking at her.
"I'm not backing out," I said softly. "Cookie or no cookie."
She didn't move. Didn't wilt. And that was the problem.
She was stubborn.
She might survive this.
But she also might take pieces of me with her if I wasn't careful.