Runaway With The Mafia

Sandro had no idea that mediating a couple's dispute fell under Mrs. Wilbert's responsibilities, and the realization sparked sudden irritation. The couple frequently argued inside their home, never outside and certainly not so close to the fence.

Why hadn't he moved to his villa as originally planned? Why had he chosen to stay here?

Everyone looked at him expectantly. David's expression radiated disapproval, while Diane appeared distressed or unwell. Frustrated, Sandro tossed the tablet onto the table and sighed. "Fine. I'll take a look. Continue, Matt."

As he walked across his yard, displeasure and anxiety coiled tightly within him. Sandro detested being told what to do-it was in his nature to be in control. Stepping beyond his own domain, vulnerability threatened, yet he worked to suppress it.

He maintained tight control over his schedule, environment, communications, and relationships. Visiting his neighbor's flat stripped him of that control, leaving him feeling nervous, anxious, and angry.

Clenching his fist, Sandro rapped the white gate twice. He resolved never to host a meeting at his apartment again. The house beyond the gate suddenly fell silent, the woman's screams overtaken by the howling wind. Minutes ticked by as Sandro gritted his teeth, counting down before raising his fist once more, rattling the gate harder.

No response.

He pulled out his cellphone, about to dial emergency services. Just before pressing call, the large black gate began to slide open, revealing a man with hard blue eyes attempting a forced smile. "Hey mate. What can I do for you?" he asked with a British accent, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening, and arms lined with scratches.

Sandro's gaze shifted to the house behind him as he stepped forward. "Everything alright back there?"

Predictably, the man blocked Sandro's path, a ragged breath escaping him, concealed poorly with laughter. "My wife and I were just playing around. Too noisy? I apologize."

Sandro noticed the cut across the man's broad forehead. "You're bleeding."

'Had she fought back? She never fought back.'

The man's jaw tightened. "Yes, yes." He flashed another insincere smile that did nothing to convince Sandro, as he was aware of the underlying truth. "Anastasia plays rough. You understand how these women are."

Just then, Anastasia emerged from the sliding door, rushing toward Sandro. Her left eye was swollen shut, her lips split in three places. Blood stained her bare arms, and she was completely naked. "Please," she pleaded. "Please help me. He'll kill me!"

Sandro's feet moved instinctively, his fingers itching to protect her. But before he could act, the man caught her around the waist, laughing and kissing her neck while whispering something that made her go limp in his arms.

He didn't attempt to shield her naked body from Sandro as he said, "It's a kind of hers." His blue eyes glanced toward the fence. "You... you live next door?"

Without diverting his gaze from her, Sandro replied, "Yes."

Anastasia's unbruised grey eye pleaded with him. 'Please.'

"I'm Jayson Harake. You are?"

'Jayson Harake?' If he was who Sandro thought, interfering was not an option. It wasn't fear that made him step back, but a promise to his wife on her deathbed that he would never return to that life-a life where he had been untouchable and invincible. Although he still retained some of that power, he was starting over. Not even the allure of the most stunning woman could deter him.

Sandro smiled. "Sandro." He deliberately avoided looking at the woman again. "Have a pleasant day."

Just as he began to leave, the woman quickly interjected, "Would you care to join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow?"

Sandro paused, turning back slowly. Her husband appeared displeased by the spontaneous invitation but tried to camouflage it with another insincere smile. Sandro, however, focused on Anastasia and the intense gaze of her grey eye. He understood her ploy. Accepting would mean Jayson wouldn't harm her tonight or until after Thanksgiving.

Or, as she feared, kill her.

However, Sandro was determined not to become entangled in their twisted game. He tilted his head slightly. "I must decline your offer, but thank you. I have plans." Plans or just a workload-it made no difference. She might have been the most captivating woman alive, but she wasn't his concern.

Her eye clouded, and the air between them grew tense as her injured lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. A proud creature with striking features, she was. While she may have followed her husband's every command, it was evident that she didn't take kindly to refusal.

A peculiar, small smile curved her lips. "Of course. I understand."

Sandro left her behind, uncertain if he'd made the right decision. Yet, one thought dominated his mind throughout the meeting: her name, Anastasia Harake.

...

Later, their intimate encounter was different-more aggressive. In the bedroom, she was bent over the arm of a luxurious green couch, her hair gripped tightly in his fist as he forcefully thrust into her, punishing her.

Yet her eyes were wide open, gazing out the window, and as she noticed Sandro standing by his window, his blood ran hot. Surprise flickered in her eyes, yet he anticipated a scream.

Instead, her lips parted, her eyelashes fluttered, and desire darkened her gaze. She smirked at him, biting her bottom lip as she reached her climax.

"Fuck," Sandro muttered, stepping back from the window, instinctively concealing his arousal. It was impossible for her to see him. His windows were one-way glass. There was no conceivable way she saw him.

With his heart on the verge of bursting, Sandro hurried into the bathroom, stepping into the shower fully clothed. Time lost its meaning as he stood under the relentless stream of water, emerging only when his teeth chattered and his lips turned a pale blue.

Nevertheless, he remained painfully aroused. This time, the water offered no solace, so he sought relief from the alcohol in his cellar.

It had been an agonizingly long three years since he had been with a woman, not since Priscilla's tragic passing. Sandro held himself responsible for her death, punishing himself with guilt ever since.

It was the driving force behind his decision to leave Milan and hand over the family business to his younger brother, Erwin, who had coveted everything Sandro possessed.

With a ragged sigh, Sandro ran a hand over his face and tousled his damp hair. He couldn't continue this way-lusting after a woman he scarcely knew like some depraved individual.

The compulsion made him yearn to kneel in a church pew, seeking divine forgiveness from Deo. It made him wish to purge his mind and eyes of everything he had witnessed and learned. This wasn't who he was; Nina hadn't raised him this way.

Reaching for his cellphone, he dialed one of the five contacts stored in it. He rarely kept numbers saved, relying instead on his photographic memory. Yet, that same memory made it impossible to forget her body, tormenting him with visions of her intimacy. He had reached his breaking point.

The call was answered on the first ring. "Mr. De Hesus."

"Neo Drake," Sandro replied, raising his wine glass and suppressing a groan as the liquid burned his throat. "Do we have a buyer yet?"

He could hear papers shuffling in the background. "Two offers, actually. Seventy million and-"

"Take it off the market, Jon. I've decided not to sell."

Silence stretched across the line as his agent processed the decision. After a pause, Neo spoke again, his voice hesitant. "You haven't heard the other offer for your Aqua. It's valued at over a hundred million dollars!"

Sandro's nose wrinkled at the thought of attaching a price to such a historic building. It was the only asset he hadn't handed over to Erwin when he stepped aside as the heir. He cherished it; Priscilla cherished it. He had planned to sell it when the memories and grief threatened his sanity. He saw Priscilla in every corner of that house, clear as daylight, which haunted him.

Perhaps he needed to return there. Better to face Priscilla's ghost than to be consumed by the intrusive thoughts sparked by the sight of that woman. "I don't care, Jon. Remove the covers from my furniture, or I'll use them to strangle you and ram your head through the 'For Sale' sign."

It was meant as a joke, a twisted form of humor wrapped in threats. Priscilla often teased him about being a soft-hearted man hiding behind harsh words he never intended to fulfill. Sandro had laughed at her insight, believing it wasn't true.

"S-sir," Neo stammered, his voice unsteady. "The house will be ready upon your arrival."

Sandro nodded, satisfied. "Very good."

However, the very next day, as Sandro loaded his bags into the car after work and drove down the street, his life took a dramatic turn when a woman suddenly stepped in front of his vehicle, altering his course irreversibly.