CHAPTER 3

VINCENZO

I hate morning silence.

Not because it’s quiet—but because it reminds me I’m still breathing.

That damn kid.

He should’ve said no.

Not like I could’ve.

I should’ve sent the boy to one of the estates. Let one of the guards babysit him like a stray dog. But the Godfather insisted I take care of him—and he didn’t sound like he was offering options. It was a command.

The kid’s already awake. Again.

Sitting cross-legged at the end of the hallway, scribbling into a notebook. Drawing. Writing. Who knows.

He’s five.

Five.

And he acts like he’s been alive for fifty.

I scoff.

He wasn’t even blood. Just another orphan. Another mistake the world spat out and left behind. Another mystery the Godfather picked up like a broken relic.

Six months, and I still don’t know why he’s here. Why he’s mine to deal with.

He doesn’t speak to anyone. Not the staff. Not Mariana.

Doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t cry.

He just exists. Quietly.

Like a ghost with perfect posture.

Calls me “Boss.”

Not Uncle. Not Vincenzo. Just Boss.

Like we’re in some mob movie and he’s trying to climb ranks early.

He memorized the rhythm of the house better than I have.

Knows when the lights flicker, when the gardeners leave, when the staff clock in.

I sip my espresso, unmoved.

He’s already in uniform, waiting for his morning tutor. Of course he is.

[FLASHBACK]

He didn’t cry when he arrived. Didn’t flinch.

Just stood in the entryway like the mansion meant nothing.

Thin arms. Hollow eyes. Satchel clutched in one fist like it carried a life he didn’t care to open.

He walked in and sat at the edge of the couch like it was a waiting room.

> “Do you want me to call you Sir or Vincenzo?”

I blinked.

What kind of five-year-old talks like that?

I stared at him.

“You don’t need to call me anything.”

> “Okay.”

He didn’t speak for three days after that.

[PRESENT]

Now he calls me “Boss.”

I let him.

Maybe it makes this all feel less personal.

I left him at home with Mariana, my head of staff.

She said he refused breakfast again. I didn’t respond.

He’ll eat when he’s hungry.

When I pulled up to the main building, Felix—my assistant—was already waiting like a good soldier.

“Your schedule today is packed, Boss. You’ve got the board meeting at—”

“Let the new PA handle it,” I cut in, already bored.

He hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

Ashley Roberts. The new PA.

Highly recommended.

Let’s see if she breaks.

---

ASHLEY

The alarm didn’t just ring.

It attacked me.

Buzzing like it was possessed by the devil himself.

“Shut up, you local alarm!” I groaned, slapping at my nightstand and knocking my phone to the floor for the third time this week.

I rolled off the bed like a crime scene victim.

My room looked like chaos and smelled like coffee and old dreams.

I loved it… but today it felt like a trap. A beautiful, broke-person prison.

I whispered to myself, “Ashley, you are strong, you are capable, doors are opening even if you don’t see them yet—”

A billionaire wouldn’t live like this.

But a billionaire me? She’s coming. She’s just late.

---

I dragged myself into the bathroom, pulled on my all-black power dress—tight but not too tight—and gave myself a once-over. The curls survived the bonnet. The brows were decent. The winged liner? Magic. The red lipstick? War paint.

My makeup was light but lethal. I was going into corporate battle.

By 6:40 a.m., I was already at the bus stop, sweating out my foundation and trying not to cry.

I boarded, clutching my knockoff bag and praying that my lip combo held up.

Black dress. Black heels. Red lips.

Milan, we’re faking luxury today.

I mumbled to myself, “Ashley, it’s fine. So what if these are the only heels you own? They’re doing the job. You’re doing the job.”

Some people on the bus looked at me like I was crazy.

Maybe I am.

But at least I’m self-aware.

---

And then I saw it.

My car.

Jet-black Maserati Levante. Chrome. Leather. Grace on four wheels.

Parked right in front of Vaitherium Technologies like fate was taunting me.

I paused mid-step.

“God? Is this a sign? Or is this just emotional torture?”

I didn’t even care who saw.

I reached out and gently touched the hood like it might bless me back.

> “One day,” I whispered. “You and I… we’re gonna be something.”

---

I walked into the building like I hadn’t just confessed my love to a car.

And guess what?

I beat Vincenzo Sanchez to the office.

Our office—well, his—is gorgeous. All glass and silence.

Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Black oak desk for him.

And a clean, modern workstation for me just behind a clear glass partition.

Close enough to hear him breathe.

It’s serene and cold. Like him.

I barely had time to breathe in the expensive office air before the door swung open again.

A man walked in — clean suit, crisp walk, holding an iPad like it was a weapon.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t greet. Just spoke.

“You're Ashley Roberts?”

“Yes,” I said, standing a little straighter.

“I’m Liam. Mr. Sanchez’s executive assistant. I handle everything that matters. You’ll be reporting to him directly, but when he’s not around, I’m your next chain of command.”

Wow. Okay.

Not even a “Nice to meet you”?

He tapped the iPad a few times. “These are your tasks for the day. You'll start by familiarizing yourself with the schedule and prepping his morning briefing. Meetings are back-to-back. Efficiency is non-negotiable."

I took the iPad like a soldier receiving a mission file.

“Got it.”

He glanced at me one last time like he was sizing me up.

Then he nodded once and left.

I exhaled.

So that’s Liam.

He really came in like he ran the place.

Honestly? Maybe he did.

Some minutes after Liam left, I was still scrolling through the schedule, when he walked in.

The man. The myth.

The corporate stressor.

Wearing a charcoal Armani suit that looked illegal.

Hair slicked back. Watch gleaming.

Smelled expensive, dark, and masculine.

He walked like he owned the oxygen.

And he didn’t even glance my way.

I stared. A little too long.

Caught myself. Looked away.

“Good morning,” I said, because manners still matter.

“Morning,” he replied without eye contact.

My brain whispered: Does he ever smile?

My mouth wisely said nothing.

---

He handed me a folder. I opened it.

His full schedule for the day—meetings, appointments, names, locations.

I started working immediately. Sorted everything. Took notes. Prepped files.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t offer me water.

Didn’t check if I could handle it.

By 3PM, I realized I hadn’t eaten.

By 5PM, I couldn’t feel my feet.

By 7PM, I was officially walking like a polite zombie.

He came back from meetings and barely acknowledged me.

Didn’t say well done.

Didn’t say leave.

Didn’t say anything.

Until he finally said, “You can go.”

I grabbed my bag like it was freedom.

Nodded.

Walked out like a good girl.

---

On the bus home, my stomach growled like it was ready to riot.

My makeup was war-torn. My feet? Betrayers.

I whispered, “Is this what selling your soul for a paycheck feels like?”

Then I laughed.

Because it was either that or cry.

---

I stepped off at my stop, wrapped my arms around myself as the evening breeze bit through my blazer.

And then...

I felt it.

That feeling.

That watched feeling.

I froze.

The scent hit me.

Woodsy. Expensive. Dangerous.

That cologne.

My blood turned cold.

Not this.

Not again.

I turned quickly.

A man walking his dog. A streetlamp flickering. A quiet car.

No threat.

But my body didn’t get the memo.

My heart sprinted.

“You’re fine,” I whispered.

But I wasn’t.

Because I hadn’t healed.

Not really.

And if I had…

The smell of a stranger’s cologne wouldn’t have made my bones shake.

---

I rushed into my apartment. Locked the door. Slid the bolt.

Stood there, back against the wood.

Eyes closed.

Heart running like it wanted out of me.

What if it wasn’t a stranger?

What if my past just caught up?