Antonio laid her down with a gentleness that felt foreign, his large hands lingering for a heartbeat too long on the silk sheets.
He didn't speak as the maids entered, their footsteps muffled as they placed a heavy tray of food on the mahogany desk.
The room was thick with the scent of roasted meat and savory broth, but to Melissa, it smelled like ash.
Antonio moved the tray to the nightstand, the clink of silverware sounding like a gavel in the silence.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, his thumb reaching out to brush a stray tear from her cheek.
"You have to eat something," he said, his voice dropping into a low, velvet register.
"I'm not hungry," she whispered, her voice like dry parchment.
"Do it for Sofia. She needs you whole, Melissa."
She turned her face into the pillow, a bitter laugh dying in her throat.
"Just leave me to my misery, Antonio. I don't have anything left."
The silence that followed was taut, stretched to the breaking point.
Antonio picked up a glass of water, the ice rattling.
"Take a sip."
She didn't move. She wouldn't even look at him.
Frustration flared in his eyes—a sudden, sharp heat.
Without a word, Antonio took a long sip of the water himself.
Before Melissa could process the movement, his hand clamped firmly onto her chin, forcing her gaze upward.
He leaned down, his mouth crashing against hers, forcing the water into her throat.
Melissa's eyes flew wide. She tried to thrash, to push against his chest, but her body was a shell of its former self, and his grip was iron.
He held her until she swallowed, his warmth seeping into her cold skin.
When he pulled away, Melissa scrambled back, gasping for air and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" she hissed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Antonio didn't flinch. His gaze was predatory, focused entirely on her mouth.
He reached out, his fingertips tracing the shape of her lips where the water still glistened.
Melissa felt the world spin. Antonio Castello—the man who ruled with a shadow and a blade—had just touched her with an intimacy that felt like a fever dream.
This was a nightmare. It had to be.
She tried to bolt from the bed, but his palm moved with lightning speed, pinning her by the base of her neck against the headboard.
They were inches apart, their breaths mingling.
"Antonio—"
He didn't let her finish. He leaned in, his lips meeting hers again, but this time there was no water, no force.
The kiss was slow, agonizingly gentle, as if he were handling a piece of ancient glass that might shatter under the slightest pressure.
He cradled her face, his touch a silent plea.
Melissa hit his chest weakly, her fists uncurling as the strength left her.
When he finally broke the kiss, she scrambled to the far corner of the bed, her eyes wide with horror.
"No... no, no. We can't do this."
"Why not?" Antonio's voice was steady, though his eyes burned.
"You're engaged!" she cried, her voice cracking.
"You're my boss. I'm your employee. This is... it's wrong."
"I don't care about her," Antonio said, stepping toward her.
"You're the only one I care about."
"You can't say that! You have a fiancée. You have Chloe."
"Relax," he murmured, his voice a low growl of reassurance.
"If I cared about Chloe, she would be the one in this room right now. Not you. It has always been you."
Melissa swung her legs over the side of the bed, desperate to flee, but the moment her feet hit the floor, her knees buckled.
She waited for the impact of the floor, but it never came.
Antonio caught her, pulling her flush against his chest.
She tried to push him away, but he held her tighter, anchoring her.
"I won't hurt you," he whispered into her hair. "Just breathe. Just take a deep breath."
A sob escaped her. "You're just like Davin... you just want to take advantage of me."
Antonio stiffened, his face burying into the crook of her neck.
"Don't say that. I would never hurt you. Never." He pulled back just enough to look at her.
"You have no idea how it broke me to see you suffer these past few days. I wished we had stayed in Japan. I would give anything to see you smile again."
"Your fiance doesn't deserve this," Melissa argued, her mind racing.
"And I... I'm just a worker. You can't just kiss me and think it's okay."
"Tell me you never noticed," he challenged, his frustration finally breaking through.
"Tell me you didn't see how you drive me insane every single day."
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"Kenji suspected it, but I didn't believe him. Why would a man like you—a mafia boss—have feelings for someone like me?"
Antonio ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation.
"How is that even a surprise to you?"
"I'm calling my friends," she said, her voice shaking. "I need to go home."
"Melissa..." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a vulnerable depth.
"I have never felt this for a woman. This urge to protect, to provide, to treasure a single smile. You make me want to do the impossible. I even tattooed.... Fuck!"
"I need to go," she insisted, refusing to meet his eyes.
Antonio sighed, the fight leaving him.
"Wait. You don't have to leave. I'll go. I'll be in the guest room. Just... promise me you'll try to eat."
He walked toward the door, but paused with his hand on the frame.
He looked back at her, his silhouette tall and imposing against the light of the hallway.
"Know this: no matter how much you want to hate me, I will always protect you."
Melissa kept her gaze fixed on the floor.
"And Melissa?" he added, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
"I regret nothing. I'm glad I did it. I'd rather have that moment than spend the rest of my life wondering what your lips tasted like."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Melissa sank slowly to the floor, her back against the bed.
Her head was a whirlwind of dark thoughts. How can he claim to care?
She looked at her hands, seeing only the blood and the shadows of her past.
She had been used, discarded, and broken.
She was a killer who called it protection. She was trash—a doll that had been played with until the stuffing came out.
And the cruelest joke of all? Her stepsister was his fiancée.
If he knew the truth of who she was—the reality of the girl behind the "Papa Bear" mask—would he still look at her with that burning devotion?
Or would he see the monster she knew herself to be?
Her eyes drifted to the food on the nightstand. The hunger was a dull ache, but the unease was worse.
Slowly, she reached up, pulled the tray toward her, and began to eat in the suffocating silence of the room.