Camila Rodrigo:
Aaron had left, and I found myself wandering through the park, trying to untangle the chaos in my head. Mom still didn't know who Aaron really was — the son of a mafia king, heir apparent to a legacy of violence and madness.
She'd lose her mind if she found out I was fake-dating the son… and had almost slept with the father.
And then there was Jennifer — off gambling in Texas again. Great.
You'd think being a psychologist would make dealing with my own issues easier, right? Piece of cake. But trust me, nothing could be further from the truth. That old saying echoes in my mind: "A doctor cannot treat himself." I can get close to the truth, but just as easily miss it when it's right in front of me.
So who can understand the mess I'm in? Caught between father and son, playing both sides in a dangerous game. I made a deal: intel on the father, in exchange for money to cover Mom's medical bills and Jennifer's never-ending debts.
Which — surprise — she's probably racked up again. Or never even cleared.
Back at the car, the driver gave me a nod before slipping behind the wheel.
"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, eyes meeting mine through the rearview mirror.
"To the mansion," I said, watching the city blur past my window.
I figured I'd change, grab a few things, and head out to stay with Mom for the night.
At some point, I must've dozed off. I didn't even realize we'd arrived until the driver's voice cut through my haze.
"Ma'am, we're at the mansion."
I blinked awake, the familiar sight of the estate coming into view. "Thanks," I murmured, hopping out of the car.
All that screaming, running, and fake-laughing had drained me. I headed straight for the kitchen, craving nothing more than cold bottled water.
But what I saw froze me mid-step.
There he was — standing in the middle of the kitchen, shirtless, water dripping from his hair like he'd just rushed out of the shower. Carving through a carrot like it owed him money. His tattoos were on full display, each one telling a story I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.
Then he turned to rinse the vegetables, revealing the lion head inked across his broad, muscular back.
God. He was way too built for a man his age.
Here's a smoother, more vivid rewrite that enhances flow, sharpens dialogue, and keeps the emotional and sensual tension intact, while improving grammar and structure:
He was completely absorbed in what he was doing—I'd never seen him so focused.
"You could take a picture. Might last longer," he said without looking up, his voice laced with mockery. The sound jolted me out of my daze.
"I… I just came to get some water," I stammered, quickly heading toward the refrigerator.
My heart was pounding. I could feel every thud echo in my chest, my breath tight, fingers trembling. All because Mr. Alessandro's eyes were on me. I could feel them—heavy, intense, electric.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
I snatched a bottle of water and shut the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning back toward him with a forced grin.
"Got it," I said, giving a nervous laugh, ready to make a fast exit.
But of course, he stopped me.
"Running away, Doctor?" His voice was deep, calm, and far too knowing.
I turned to face him, clutching the bottle with both hands like it could protect me.
"Of course not. I just have something to take care of," I replied quickly. "I'll let you… get back to your thing."
I needed to get out of that kitchen. Seeing him like that—shirtless, soaked, confident—was doing things to me. Things I shouldn't be feeling.
"Hang around a bit," he said smoothly, "we have a lot to talk about."
Hell. No.
"Maybe some other time… I really have to go." I turned to leave, but before I could take another step, he pulled me back—my body colliding with his bare chest.
"Stay," he murmured, turning me around so my back pressed against his groin.
I hated the control he had. Over people. Over my body. Over me.
He took the water from my hands and set it on the counter, then effortlessly lifted me onto it like I weighed nothing. Like I was something his to move.
He cracked open the bottle, poured some water into a glass, and offered it to me.
I reached for the cup, but he batted my hand away.
Control.
He held the cup to my lips and I drank, heat crawling up my neck.
"Thirst handled," he said, setting the glass down. "Now, let's talk about last night."
"I'd rather not," I shot back, quickly sliding off the counter, desperate for space.
"But I want to. So we will." He smiled, cocky. "Let's call it another session. This time, you get to ask me any question you want. And I'll ask about last night."
"No," I said flatly, unimpressed by his games.
"Pass me that tomato, Doctor," he requested casually.
I handed it to him without thinking. Mistake.
"You know," he began, rolling the tomato in his hand, "tomatoes are one of the juiciest fruits. Soft. Innocent-looking." His tone dropped, dark and suggestive.
Yeah. We definitely weren't talking about tomatoes anymore.
"They've got this fresh, tangy taste that lingers," he added.
I swallowed hard. "Fine! Let's talk about last night."
Congratulations, you just dug your own grave.
"Good thinking." He smirked and dropped the tomato far from the other vegetables.
I moved beside him, pretending to help, though my hands were useless.
"Would you want to be in that moment again?" he asked, slicing through a pepper. "Assuming I agreed, of course."
I scoffed. Arrogant bastard.
"No. It was a mistake. And it won't happen again," I said firmly.
"Wasn't to your liking… or are you just afraid of how easily I control your body?" he whispered, low and dangerous.
I rolled my eyes. "Like I said—it was a mistake."
"You haven't even seen the best of me, Doctor," he said with a sly grin. "That was just the tip of the iceberg. And I told you—I'll only fuck you when you beg me to. And I meant it."
Obnoxious. Full of himself. Infuriating.
I ignored his swagger and changed the subject. "When did you learn to cook?"
He glanced at me, surprised. "That's what you want to talk about? My cooking skills?"
Sure, I wanted to change the subject—anything but revisiting the hot mess I'd been the night before. But I genuinely couldn't help my curiosity.
Why the hell was a mafia king standing in a kitchen, wearing an apron, cooking his own food?
"Yeah… why are you so surprised?" I half-grinned at him, trying to play it cool.
He gave a small smirk. "You must know how the Giovanni wealth came to be. How my father, and the men before him, ran this city with an iron grip. Back in their time, infiltration was easy—one cook, one housemaid, and a few drops of arsenic… boom. End of story."
He let out a deep sigh, and something flickered in his eyes.
"My mother didn't want that fate for me. So, she taught me the basics. I let my chef, Freddo, handle most things—he's been with me the longest—but on his days off, I cook."
"Huh. That actually makes a lot of sense," I murmured, impressed.
But just as I was starting to relax, he circled back to the topic I was desperately avoiding.
"Now, tell me—what exactly didn't you like about yesterday?"
Seriously? This again?
I gave a nervous laugh. "I love painting… and junk food. You should see me around chips. I devour them like a beast."
He raised an eyebrow. "Sweet tooth, huh? Maybe that's why devouring your juice felt so fitting last night."
I stared at him, jaw dropping. "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY DOES EVERYTHING I SAY OR DO HAVE TO COME BACK TO LAST NIGHT?!"
I was panting now—part fury, part embarrassment, part... whatever the hell this man stirred in me. Why was he tormenting me like this?
Unbothered, he shrugged. "Let's talk likes and dislikes instead. And for the record, I never want to hear you screaming like that—unless I'm inside you."
I shot him a glare so sharp it could cut through steel. A silent warning. Back off.
"I don't care much for sugar," he continued smoothly, ignoring the dagger eyes. "Sugar's for kids. One cookie a day—max."
"Ice cream?" I asked, arching a brow.
He shook his head. "Nope."
"Cake?"
"Not even on my birthday."
I narrowed my eyes. "Let me guess—you don't celebrate your birthday because it's too childish for a mafia king?" I mimicked his deep, smug tone.
"That's not—" he started, but I cut him off.
"Right, your sugar-hating self wouldn't dare put candles on a cake, huh?"
He exhaled slowly and turned toward me like he was about to get serious.
But I wasn't in the mood.
"Whatever your reason is, it's a dumb one. Not celebrating your birthday? Please. That's the kind of logic that comes with being… old."
He blinked. "You think so?"
"Oh, totally. A man like you can't risk having grandbabies one day call him Grandpa at sixty," I teased, bursting into laughter.
"I hate to disappoint you, Doctor," he said smoothly, "but as amusing as that is, I'm twenty years away from sixty."
Twenty years from sixty… Forty.
So he was forty. Not as old as I'd assumed. Mature, experienced, confident—no wonder he always tried to steer our sessions, like he had the monopoly on wisdom.
"Well, being forty doesn't make celebrating a birthday a crime," I teased.
His eyes flickered, and his tone dropped low. "Still doesn't mean I want to celebrate it."
I grinned. "You really have no excuse. When's your birthday? I'll buy you a cake."
"No thanks," he said curtly.
"Half a cake, then," I bargained, undeterred.
"Nope." He turned back to stir whatever broth was simmering on the stove.
"A quarter cake?" I said with a hopeful smile.
"Not even a teaspoon of cake," he deadpanned.
Challenge accepted.
I marched to the fridge, grabbed a plate and spoon, cut a small quarter slice of cake, and returned to where he stood, determined.
"Try just one bite," I said sweetly, offering him a spoonful.
"Cakes aren't my thing, Doctor. I've said it a million times." His voice carried the weight of exasperation.
Too bad. He should've let me go when he had the chance. Now, I was in the mood to push buttons.
"Half of it, then I'll leave you alone. I promise." I nudged the spoon closer.
He looked at me with half a smirk. "Are you always this difficult? I've never seen this side of you."
"Just one bite, please. I really need to make you eat this cake.
He finally set down the ladle and turned to face me. "Alright, tell me—what fruit do you hate?"
I blinked. "Uh… I'm not sure. Maybe tomatoes? I seriously can't stand them."
"What if I kept forcing you to eat one right now?" he asked, crossing his arms.
"I'd never do it! I'm practically allergic," I lied.
He raised a brow. "That's a lie, and you know it. Just like I truly don't like cake. End of discussion."
I sighed in mock defeat and turned to walk back to the fridge with the plate—until, out of nowhere, he grabbed the spoon, shoved the cake into his mouth, and ate the whole thing.
I stood there, stunned.
Could. You. Believe. That?
We finished cooking not long after, and instead of heading to the dining room, Alessandro decided we should eat right there in the kitchen. The food? Phenomenal. I kept moaning with every bite.
"This is the best meal I've ever had," I praised between mouthfuls.
He didn't respond. Just kept eating in silence.
"You don't like it?" I asked, watching him closely.
Still no answer.
I moved on to dessert, nibbling quietly, then noticed he pulled out his phone and began watching something. His face was unreadable, his body language cold.
Did I offend him with the cake? But… he ate it on his own.
"Thanks," I offered softly, unsure of what else to say.
Silence.
The mood had shifted. The warmth was gone, replaced by a strange tension. Feeling awkward and suddenly unwelcome, I quietly gathered myself and stood.
"I should go," I said under my breath.
No response.