Lorenzo’s POV

The day started with blood on my hands—figurative, for once, though the memory of last night’s deal, a rival’s plea cut short by my blade, still lingered like smoke. I’d sent Jasmine packing, her venomous glare burning into me as she left, but it was Isabella who haunted me. That slap, her kiss, the way her defiance lit a fire I couldn’t douse—she was a problem I couldn’t solve with a gun or a threat. Now, as I leaned against the doorway of the study, my leather jacket creaking, I watched her, my new maid, scrubbing the floor like it had personally wronged her. Her chestnut hair was tied back, strands sticking to her sweat-damp neck, her black dress riding up as she worked. My eyes traced her, unbidden, and I hated how much I noticed—the curve of her spine, the stubborn set of her jaw.

She was on her knees, hands raw from the brush, the bucket of soapy water sloshing beside her. The other maids moved around her, their whispers sharp but distant, their glances wary. Isabella didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge them, just scrubbed harder, her movements fierce, like she was trying to erase more than just dirt. I caught the low mutter of curses under her breath, words no maid would dare say in my presence, and a smirk tugged at my lips. Most people cowered under my gaze—men twice her size begged for mercy but not her. She was a spark in a world of ash, and it was driving me to distraction.

“You missed a spot,” I said, my voice cutting through the room, low and deliberate. Her head snapped up, hazel eyes blazing, her cheeks flushed from effort or anger or both. She sat back on her heels, the brush still in her hand, water dripping onto the floor. For a moment, I thought she’d throw it at me, and part of me wanted her to try.

“If you’re so particular, scrub it yourself,” she shot back, her voice sharp, no trace of the fear I was used to hearing. The other maids froze, their eyes darting between us, but I didn’t look away from her. Her defiance was a blade, and I was too damn tempted to let it cut me.

I stepped closer, my boots heavy on the polished wood, stopping just short of her bucket. “Careful, Isabella,” I said, leaning down slightly, my shadow falling over her. “You’re not in a bar anymore. You don’t get to talk to me like that.” My words were a warning, but my blood was heating, my mind snagging on the way she looked—kneeling, her hips raised just enough to send my thoughts spiraling. Images flashed, uninvited: taking her right there, her body pressed against the floor, my hands full of her curves, her breasts heavy in my palms. I could almost feel her, warm and yielding, her defiance melting under me.

She stood, slow and deliberate, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes never leaving mine. “And you don’t get to treat me like a slave,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less fierce. “I’m not your dog, Lorenzo.” My name on her lips hit like a shot of whiskey, sharp and burning, and I clenched my jaw to keep from reacting. She was too much—too bold, too breakable, too everything.

I straightened, forcing my mind back to the present, but then she did something I didn’t expect. She grabbed the bucket, her movements swift, and before I could blink, a wave of soapy water hit me square in the face. The cold shock of it stung, water dripping down my jaw, soaking my shirt, and the room went silent, the maids’ gasps like a collective held breath. My vision cleared, and there she was, standing with the empty bucket, her chest heaving, her eyes wide but unrepentant.

“What the hell?” I roared, wiping my face with my sleeve, my voice shaking the air. “How dare you?” My hands curled into fists, not to hit her—never that—but to keep from grabbing her, shaking her, doing something to stop the chaos she was unleashing inside me. The maids scattered, their footsteps quick, leaving us alone in the study, the air thick with tension.

She didn’t back down, didn’t flinch, just set the bucket down with a clatter and crossed her arms. “You deserved it,” she said, her voice steady despite the slight tremble in her hands. “You can’t just stand there, barking orders, acting like you own me. I’m not your property.” Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slipping free from its tie, and damn it, she was beautiful, even now, soaked in her own rebellion.

I laughed, a harsh sound that surprised me, water still dripping from my hair. “You think this is a game?” I asked, stepping closer, my boots leaving wet prints on the floor. “You’re in my world, Isabella. You don’t get to throw water at me and walk away.” My voice was low, dangerous, but my body was betraying me again, my eyes snagging on her lips, the way her dress clung to her from the splash. I wanted to punish her, to kiss her, to make her understand who I was, but all I could do was stare, caught in her orbit.

“Then let me go,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a plea, but her eyes were still fire, still daring me to push her further. “If you hate me so much, why keep me here? Why make me scrub your floors?” She gestured at the bucket, her hands red and raw, and for a second, I saw it—the toll this was taking, the weight of her captivity. It hit me harder than the water, a pang I didn’t want to feel.

I ran a hand through my wet hair, my jacket creaking as I turned away, needing distance to think straight. “You’re here because I say so,” I said, my voice colder than I meant, trying to regain control. “And you’ll do what I tell you, or you’ll find out what happens when you push me too far.” But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. She was pushing me, all right, but not toward anger—toward something messier, something I couldn’t name.

“Gloria!” I called, my voice sharp, and the maid appeared almost instantly, her stout frame filling the doorway, her eyes careful but calm. “Get her back to the quarters. She’s done here.” I didn’t look at Isabella, couldn’t, not with my shirt clinging to my skin and my thoughts still tangled in her. Gloria nodded, her face unreadable, and gestured for Isabella to follow.

Isabella didn’t move right away, her gaze burning into my back. “This isn’t over,” she said, her voice low, a promise or a threat, I couldn’t tell. Her footsteps followed Gloria’s, slow and deliberate, and I heard the door close behind them, leaving me alone with the wet floor and the echo of her words.

I sank into a chair, my hands gripping the arms, water still dripping from my jaw. She was a problem, a wildfire I couldn’t control, and every time I thought I had her figured out, she did something like this—threw water in my face, stood her ground, made me want her more. My world was built on power, on fear, but Isabella didn’t bend, didn’t break, and it was unraveling me. I needed to keep her close, to figure out what she was to me, but I also needed her gone, out of my sight, before she burned everything I’d built to the ground. For now, she’d scrub floors, wear that damn dress, but I knew it wouldn’t last. She wasn’t made for cages, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what she’d do when she broke free. How dare she!!!