Chapter 2- This Is War
ARIA'S POV
I stared at him, the so-called Alessandro Vittorio, like he was the disease I hadn’t asked for. Tall, brooding, and dripping with a coldness that could freeze the sun. My father’s precious solution. His weapon in black.
He didn’t flinch under my scrutiny. Didn’t blink. Just stood there like some emotionless statue with blood on his hands and apathy in his veins.
I hated him already.
"You’ll be fine," my father said, patting him on the shoulder like he was proud of the devil he’d summoned. "I’ve got a meeting with the Russians. Behave, Aria."
He didn’t wait for a response. Typical. He was already halfway out the door, his expensive shoes echoing against the marble floor. Leaving me in a room with a man who looked like he’d rather gut me than guard me.
The silence stretched.
I turned to him slowly, stepping forward with deliberate grace, the heels of my Louboutins clicking with purpose. We were the same breed—dangerous, coiled, always on edge. Only difference was, I came wrapped in designer clothes and a killer smile.
He was all darkness. Shadows made flesh.
I circled him, slow and calculated. My head tilted as I studied each tattoo, each scar that peeked from under his shirt. He was a roadmap of violence.
“So,” I said, stopping in front of him, my chin tilted up. "You decided to take the job. Worst mistake of your fucking life."
Still nothing.
“You’re going to wish you were guarding the gates of hell instead of me. In fact, you’ll probably beg for it."
Nothing. His face didn’t so much as twitch. His icy eyes stared past me, like I wasn’t even worth acknowledging.
I blinked. “Oh, great. My father hired me a mute.”
Silence.
I let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "This is going to be so much fun."
I turned on my heel and walked away. I needed space. I needed air. I needed to scream into a fucking pillow.
And he followed.
I heard his boots behind me, that quiet, steady rhythm that scraped at my nerves. I spun around.
“Stop following me, you son of a bitch!”
He didn’t even blink.
When I moved, he moved. When I stopped, so did he.
My blood boiled. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my fists tightening at my sides. I had half a mind to reach for the gun strapped under my blazer and shoot him right between those glacier eyes.
I took a sharp turn into the hallway, stomping like an infuriated storm cloud. “I don’t need any fucking protection!” I shouted. “I don’t need anyone! Least of all you!"
Still, nothing. Not a word. Not a glance. Just that ever-present, haunting presence behind me. Like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
I reached the double doors to my room, shoved them open, and turned around just as he was about to step inside.
“No fucking way,” I snarled, slamming the doors in his face so hard the walls trembled.
The lock clicked with satisfying finality.
I leaned against the door, chest heaving.
“No fucking way,” I whispered again, mostly to myself. This was insanity. My father knew what he was doing—punishing me. Caging me. Using this walking, silent death machine to clip my wings.
But I wouldn’t go quietly.
Oh no. I would set fire to every inch of this plan until he begged me to go back to being reckless.
I stormed across my room, throwing my bag on the bed and pacing like a tiger. My mind was a swirling storm, fury mixing with something else I refused to name. That man... Alessandro. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Like he’d seen hell and decided to make it his home.
Fine. He wanted to guard me? Let him try.
Let him try to keep up.
Let him try to control me.
Let him try to survive me.
I yanked my phone from the nightstand and dropped onto the velvet chaise lounge. My fingers danced across the screen as a wicked idea curled its way into my head like smoke.
This wouldn’t be protection.
This would be war.
I smirked as the plan took shape, clear and sharp and deliciously cruel.
Let the games begin.
Two hours later, I was dressed in skin-tight black leather pants and a corset-style top that left very little to the imagination. My hair was in loose, voluminous waves, and my lips were painted a sinful red. I looked like the kind of woman men killed for. Or died trying to touch.
I sauntered out of my room, tossing my hair over one shoulder, and there he was. Still standing guard by the door, like a statue made of ice and secrets.
His eyes flicked to me. Just once.
I smiled sweetly. "We’re going out."
He said nothing.
I didn’t care.
I descended the staircase like a queen heading to war, my heels clicking against the marble. I heard his boots behind me. Of course he followed.
By the time I reached the garage, my driver was already waiting. I slid into the back of the sleek black Maserati and crossed my legs, watching as Alessandro took the front passenger seat without a word.
I leaned forward, speaking just loud enough for him to hear.
"Hope you brought your leash, bodyguard. Because I bite."
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Cold. Empty.
Good.
Let him stare.
I was going to break him.
Or drive him mad.
Maybe both.
The car pulled out of the estate gates. I pulled out my phone again and sent the text that would light the first match.
To: Camila Get the girls. Tell them it’s time.
Incoming hell, served in stilettos.
And as the city lights blurred past the window, I felt something in me settle.
This wasn’t about being protected.
This was about power.
And I was done playing by anyone else’s rules.
Excitement bubbled inside me and I smirked. This is going to be so much fun.