Billionaire Baby Bargain
Rain lashed Milan like God was personally offended by its designer labels.
It was cold and punishing—like the universe had scheduled her nervous breakdown for tonight and wasn’t taking no for an answer.
The phone was frozen to her cheek. Her mother’s voice crackled, splintered, thick with tears. “Bambina… [per favore]… hurry! Your Papa… he’s on the roof of Torre Diamante! He says he’s going to jump!”
Jump?
Oh. Fantastic. Just perfect.
Because if there was anything Alessandra needed on top of overdue rent and failing grades, it was her father attempting a dramatic exit from a skyscraper.
Her stomach dropped, a freefall she couldn’t stop.
She didn’t answer. Her legs were already moving, bare feet slapping across the rain-slick cobblestones outside the crumbling Brera Academy dorm—because why not add pneumonia to her problems?
The city’s edge stretched around her, deserted. No taxis. No help. Just her and the icy downpour, the image of Marco Rossi teetering on the glass crown of the Volkov family’s headquarters burning itself into her mind.
Seriously, who thought building an all-black skyscraper was a good idea? Was the architect going for “supervillain chic”?
Her chest tightened. Using sarcasm was what she did best to ease her apprehension.
She didn’t have time to think.
Out of the storm, a sleek black Maserati Levante glided down Via Manzoni like it owned every last raindrop.
Instinct overruled terror.
She flung herself into its path, arms wide, hoping she wouldn’t end up as a tragic news blurb: Local girl flattens self in front of luxury SUV.
SCREECH—
The tires shrieked. The car skidded to a bone-rattling stop inches from her knees, the engine’s growl vibrating up her spine.
Rain plastered her thin dress to her skin, making it cling to her shivering frame.
Her hair hung in dripping ropes across her face. She was fairly sure she looked like a drowned sewer rat auditioning for a cheap melodrama.
Inside, the driver—some looming silhouette she couldn’t quite see—cursed, voice gravel-rough. “Alpha,” he rasped, “you hurt?”
Alpha?
Who called people that?
Was this some sort of werewolf cosplay? The back seat was pitch dark.
She couldn’t make out a face. Just the sense of…someone. Watching. Judging. The presence made her pulse rabbit against her throat.
She couldn’t afford to care.
She had nothing left except raw desperation.
The locks clicked open with a heavy thunk. She clambered into the passenger seat, dripping onto the immaculate, blood-red leather. She smelled like wet pavement, cheap soap, and panic.
“Please,” she gasped, voice thin and frayed. “To Torre Diamante. My father… he’s going to jump. [Per favore]. He's at the top of Torre—just go!” She stared at the dashboard, refusing to glance back into that black cavern of a back seat.
Whoever was back there, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t have room in her head for more monsters tonight. The driver hesitated—just a beat—before the car surged forward, engine snarling like it was personally offended by the weather.
For twenty minutes, she sat in suffocating silence, every nerve screaming.
Rain battered the windows in endless sheets. Once or twice, she thought she felt eyes on her—cold, assessing—but she refused to look.
They hit Porta Nuova at speed, the Maserati slicing through barricades of flashing lights and parked cruisers.
Police swarmed.
Reporters shouted over the wail of sirens.
Firefighters struggled to position an inflated airbag at the skyscraper’s base.
The Torre Diamante glistened black and indifferent, as if it had better things to do than host her family’s breakdown.
Before the car had fully stopped, she shoved the door open and bolted. “Papa! No—[aspetta]!” she screamed, voice cracking. The word was ripped away by the wind. A collective gasp tore through the crowd.
“He jumped!” Time splintered. A dark shape fell—a blur of motion—and struck the airbag with a muffled thump. A bounce. A final, horrible impact on the pavement.
“[Dio mio!]”
“[Madonna Santa!]”
Shouts blurred into an endless roar. Her father’s face—white, slack—burned into her vision.
The air disappeared, replaced by frozen, liquid dread. “No… Papa… [non]…” Her legs dissolved.
Darkness rose, thick and final.
She collapsed onto the wet concrete, the last thing she felt the drumbeat of rain on her skin—and the phantom scent of expensive cigarillo smoke lingering in her hair.
