The Columbia University library has several floors, which seems excessive for an institution where half the student body thinks "research" means asking ChatGPT.
But I'm grateful for the excess right now, because the third floor—restricted archives, old periodicals, the kind of dusty academic wasteland where dreams of tenure go to die—is completely empty.
Perfect for secret meetings with your older brother who you're supposed to pretend doesn't exist. Just normal university things.
Dante is already waiting when I slip between the shelves, and before I can say anything, he pulls me into a hug that makes my throat tight.
"Hey," he says quietly. "How are you holding up?"
I pull back, adjusting my regular university uniform—modest skirt, button-down shirt, the kind of thing that doesn't make me feel like animated japanese pornography.
"Oh, you know. Living the dream in an outfit so skimpy, I’d feel better naked. This morning I discovered all my actual clothes at the brownstone are gone. Like, vanished. He left my university uniform and my underwear, thank god, but everything else? Poof."
Dante's jaw tightens. "Sophie—"
"I'm fine." I'm not fine. At the brownstone, I'm wearing a skirt that could double as a napkin and my boss has stupid rules with a lot of sexual undertones, but sure. Fine is a word I can use. "It's just harder than I expected. The uniform, the rules, the constant surveillance… He's always watching. Always testing."
"Don't rush it," Dante says, and his voice has that edge that means he's worried. "Vittore is tightening security right now. The whole organization is more dangerous than usual. You need to focus on building real trust with Alex first. Make him believe you're truly his loyal, obedient maid."
"I am being convincing—"
"Sophie." He grabs my shoulders, forces me to look at him. "Everything else comes later. Don't push for information yet. Just survive."
I want to argue. I want to tell him I'm ready, that I can handle this.
That I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting.
But then Dante pulls out his phone and shows me a photo—our parents, young and smiling, taken maybe a year before the massacre. Mom is laughing at something off-camera, and Dad's arm is around her shoulders.
They look so alive, so certain they had time.
I trace my mother's face with one finger, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. And suddenly I remember exactly why I'm doing this.
Why I'm wearing that humiliating uniform at the brownstone and kneeling on kitchen floors and calling Alessandro De Luca "Master" with my teeth clenched.
"I'll get you a new phone soon," Dante promises. "Just hang in there."
We separate carefully, leaving at different intervals so no one sees us together. Because that's my life now: secret meetings in abandoned library sections with my own brother.
Fantastic.
* * *
That evening, back at the brownstone, I'm in the living room doing the world's most unnecessary dusting. And yes, I'm wearing the uniform—the one that makes me look like I'm auditioning for an orange YouTube.
Everything in this house is already immaculate—Mrs. Bianchi runs a tight ship—but Alessandro wants me visible, wants me present. Wants me playing my role.
So here I am, dusting shelves that probably have less bacteria than a surgical suite, wearing a uniform that violates several laws of physics and possibly a few actual laws.
All while Alessandro sits on the couch with his laptop, supposedly working on something important. Except I can feel his eyes on me. Constantly. Like a physical weight tracking my every movement.
It's unnerving in a way that makes my skin prickle and my pulse do complicated things I refuse to analyze.
"You missed a spot there," he says and gesturing without looking up from his screen.
I glance at the coffee table. It's perfectly clean. I cleaned it twenty minutes ago.
I could perform surgery on that coffee table. I could eat off it, though given my current employment situation, I probably shouldn't give him ideas. "Where exactly, sir?"
"There." He gestures vaguely at the entire table.
Oh, we're playing this game. Fantastic.
I love games where I'm the entertainment and he's the audience.
I move to the coffee table, hyperaware of how short this skirt is, how every movement feels calculated to expose me. I bend down to wipe the already-spotless surface, when Alessandro's pen rolls off the couch like it's been launched from a tiny catapult.
It comes to rest directly under the coffee table, in the spot that would require maximum bending to retrieve.
"Get that for me," he says.
Of course. Of course he did that deliberately. I know exactly what he's doing. And he knows I know. And we're both just going to pretend this is normal boss-employee interaction.
I lower myself carefully, retrieve the pen with my eyes down and my expression perfectly neutral. Inside, I'm a complicated mess of rage and something else—something hot and unwanted that I refuse to examine too closely.
Alessandro takes the pen from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. He studies my face with that assessing look I've learned to recognize. Like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve or a horse he's considering buying.
Then he says something unexpected: "You're doing well. Better than I expected, actually."
I blink. "Sir?"
"The uniform. The rules. The submission." He leans back, and there's something almost approving in his expression. "You're playing your part perfectly. Your family's debt decreased this week. Just a couple of thousand dollars, but it's a start."
A couple of thousand dollars. On a debt that Sofia Russo's family supposedly owes, which—thank god—is already paid off by Dante and not my actual problem.
"Thank you, sir," I say softly, injecting careful gratitude into my voice. "That means a lot." And because I apparently have a death wish, I add, "How does the debt system work exactly? Like, how is it tracked?"
Alessandro is silent at first but then explains the basics—ledgers, records, percentages that would make a loan shark blush. He's surprisingly forthcoming, talking about it the way someone might discuss a complicated but boring hobby.
So naturally, I push my luck to investigate a bit further. "And your father's involved in these arrangements? Like, does he make the final decisions on—"
Alessandro goes very still. Shit, I pushed too far. Clearly.
Because in the next second his hand shoots out, grabs my arm—not painfully, but firmly enough that I gasp—and pulls me closer until his face is inches from mine.
"Be very, very careful," he says, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous, "about where your curiosity leads. Some questions are the kind that get people hurt."
My heart is hammering and I'm certain he can feel it from the pulse point where he’s holding me. His grip on my arm is warm, solid, completely in control.
I can feel his breath on my lips. I’m practically on his lap and I can’t tell if I want to jump away or finally land. Shit…
"You're my maid, Sofia. Not my confidante. Remember the difference."
But then something shifts in his expression.
His grip loosens slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost gentle.
"The debt system is cruel. I know that. My father designed it that way—to trap people, to own them completely." He pauses, something complicated flickering across his face. "I don't particularly like it. But it's the world we live in."
For just a moment, I see something human behind those gray-green eyes. Something that doesn't quite fit the monster I need him to be. Then his walls slam back up.
He releases my arm and his expression goes cold. "Get back to work."
My arm is still tingling where he touched me, while my mind is spinning with the realization that Alessandro De Luca might not be entirely the monster I need him to be.
And that terrifies me more than anything.