These recent days weighed heavily on me, my spirits sinking, and my patience wearing thin. My facade nearly crumbled as I resisted the urge to shout at Emilio and shoot a glare at Niko when she pounced on me. Damiano is undoubtedly the root cause, but I’m unwilling to admit that I might be envious of a woman named “Bittercandy.”

Until now, I never witnessed him with any woman, leading me to assume he had none. His protective gestures and the intensity in his eyes, which become more pronounced as I reflect on his recent expressions, shouldn’t be directed at me if he were involved with someone.

It’s frustrating that my heart seems to cling to him or, perhaps worse, has fallen for him, especially when he appears to prioritize another woman. The memory of his hand on my cheek that night and his gentle eyes still angers me, and it’s exasperating that he was seemingly more caring towards her. Theoretically, it was me, but in his eyes, it was Bittercandy.

Bittercandy, my ass!

I begrudgingly glance at myself in the mirror as I dress up. It’s a departure from the image I had before the ceremony when my leather jacket was my closest companion.

Now, working under Paolo’s guidance, I’m forced into a classic white shirt, elegantly wrapped, and a black suit. The pants fit me perfectly, and a smirk plays on my lips as I observe the reflection of my shapely figure in the mirror.

The suit does look good on me, as Paolo claimed, but there’s a reason for my discontent. He insisted on high heels, a challenge I hadn’t wished to face in my 17 years of life. I attempted walking in heels before during espionage missions with Terzo in high-class restaurants, only to regret the decision.

So, screw you, Paolo!

Despite my annoyance, I traverse the corridor with the bag Emilio brought for me and make my way to the living room. Everyone has already vacated our room.

“Morning,” I greet in a neutral voice, my lips curling at the sight of Emilio spreading jam on a piece of bread.

“Morning, Amy. Here, take this. Terry is already waiting for you downstairs.” I widen my eyes and accept the slice of bread he hands me.

“Thanks, Emi. Bye!” I hurry to the door.

“Go, go! Take care.”

The disparity in Emilo’s appearance – clad in black leather , a comfortable attire – leaves me feeling unjust as he escapes Paolo’s directives, somehow . This unfairness intensifies as I descend the stairs in high heels.

Terry, already munching on a piece of bread, waits in the car. I fling myself into the passenger seat, and he chuckles at my cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, filled with bread and jam.

I have to consume it quickly since the company is not far – only a 5-minute drive. I could have walked, but the car proves a better choice. Terry seems to have developed a newfound affection for his recently acquired BMW, apart from his usual love for motorcycles, which catches me off guard.

But I am glad he loves his car as much as his motorcycle .Why ? Because I can go with him in the car without messing up my suit on his motorcycle, or endure the discomfort of walking in heels all the way there.

I observe Terry as he drives, and I think that Paolo might have a valid point about appreciating the suits because they complement someone’s appearance. Terry looks incredibly attractive, exuding a more mature vibe in his black suit akin to mine. The absence of his tie amuses me.

“What?” Terry glances at me, and I smile.

“You couldn’t be less conventional in a suit. You had to intentionally forget the bowtie.” He checks himself in the rear mirror and smirks.

“Be honest, it looks just fine without that thing.” I nod in approval, and he launches into a discussion about his discomfort with bow ties. It’s a plausible excuse to maintain his wild look, and to be honest, it suits him well.

We arrive, and Paolo, though frowning, seems to withhold any comments about Terry’s appearance. I go about my duties, engaging with familiar clients, some of whom I personally summoned.

After a few hours, Marco emerges seemingly out of nowhere. I maintain my gentle smile towards a client as he glances at me with a smirk, heading towards Paolo’s office. Perhaps Paolo summoned him.

I glance at Marco, his attire nothing like Paolo’s. His open black-yellow blazer reveals a fitted black T-shirt, contrasting Paolo’s immaculate black suit and sharp bow tie. I mind my own business, but when my client leaves, Marco calls me.I follow his instructions, and Paolo leaves us alone in his office.

Maintaining my composure, I take a seat in front of the desk. He opts not to sit but rather strolls around, perusing the shelves in the office. It’s nerve-wracking to have the man I want to eliminate walking nonchalantly in front of me. Despite having a knife on my ankle, I suppress the urge to use it on him.

Eventually, he settles into Paolo’s chair. He gazes at me, and I return his look, maintaining my composed demeanor.

“You are beautiful, just like your mother, Bella de Rossi ,” he says. His words sink my heart, but I must not falter; I must stay strong.

“Did you know her?” I ask, masking my anger with curiosity.

“Of course. She was my first love. Thought she died…” His eyes break the eye contact and linger on my somewhat exposed chest.

“I know you’re scared of the gang finding out your parents were Russian spies. This could have prevented you from joining the gang. Though I find you perfect and more loyal than your parents. You are fit for this lifestyle.”

I listen frozen in time, and he adds, “So my mouth will be sealed as long as you follow my lead.” His eyes darken with desire, and I understand his intentions. Unlike Damiano, he doesn’t hold back, revealing himself as a jerk and a complete pervert.

I never thought my parents were Russian spies, but even if they were, I am determined to avenge them. I don’t care about what’s right in the perspective of the mafia world.

They were my parents, and they were killed by Marco. I’ve never aligned myself with any mafia; I simply want justice for the ones who took my parents away.

I don’t care if he had a reason; I have my reasons too.Isabella and Mattia were left so young when he killed mom and dad. I had no choice but to go to an orphanage, ensuring we didn’t die of hunger.

Does the mafia have anything to do with it? No. Therefore, I will act based on my own principles, indifferent to a mafia that didn’t care or wasn’t involved with us.

“I will, as long as I can live here in this world without my secret exposed. What do you want?” I smile, and he seems surprised. Some of my recklessness escapes, revealing the cracks in my facade.

“I will tell you soon. For now, give me your phone number.” He leans back, and I comply, reciting my number. He inputs it into his phone, and my face remains serious as I rise when he does.

The audacity he possesses to threaten me so nonchalantly without any guilt! He believes I’m oblivious to the fact that he killed my parents. Well, he is mistaken on multiple levels about me. I’ll ensure that, in the end, he feels the weight of regret for daring to even appear in front of my face.

He puts his hand on my waist, kisses my cheek slightly, and I try not to look disgusted, wearing a fake smile. He opens the door for me, and as I step out, Paolo comes through the front door, frowning at me, probably sensing my discomfort.

Marco leaves, and I maintain my silence, welcoming the client waiting for me on the couch.

As if Marco’s visit weren’t enough to put me on edge, Damiano exits Paolo’s office and approaches Terry and me.Terry talks about a client complimenting his looks, and, of course, it’s an attractive woman.

As Damiano asks us whether he should order food or take us to a restaurant, Terry and I have different opinions.

“Order,” my voice intersects with Terry’s “Restaurant.”

I attempt to convey through my expression that he should join me for lunch, but he appears engrossed in his sushi, oblivious to my concern about having lunch alone with Damiano.

Anyway, they leave, and I feel that today everything is out of place. Damiano’s presence brings back memories of Bittercandy, fueling my anger. Marco has already cracked my facade, and I’m not sure if I can keep it intact with Damiano. If I recall correctly, he’s a master at making me reveal my true self.

He hands me his phone, and I wish to throw it back at him. Does he forget that just a few days ago, I didn’t even know how to text? How am I supposed to know how to order food when I can’t even remember the icon of the app Terzo used a few times?

Besides, with Emilio around, I don’t even care about leaving the house to eat out. Sometimes he orders, but usually, it’s homemade food prepared by him. I love his cooking.

Anyway …..

I glance at Damiano, restraining my anger. But when he says, “You don’t know how to order,” and sighs, my frown deepens. Was it really necessary to know?

“Stop frowning. I will teach you.” His words annoy me even more than they should. I don’t need his help; I don’t want it. He should go and eat with his Bittercandy!

Though internally, my heart races, knowing that he wants to eat together with me. His voice wasn’t just irritating; it was raspy and hot.

“You don’t have to.” Despite my efforts to calm down, he turns towards me more, staring into my eyes.

“You don’t want to?” Why are those eyes of his so damn captivating? It’s just maddening to know he looks at Bittercandy with that smitten expression. Unfair as hell.

“Maybe I don’t.”I try to suppress my anger, but I’m sure I’m almost glaring at him for no apparent reason.

“Why are you getting mad?” He doesn’t need to be smart to sense my anger blooming. His small frown and confused eyes make me feel sorry for making him the target of my frustrations. Though he plays a part in making me feel this way, I shouldn’t feel sorry; he somewhat deserves it.

“I am not. Order what you want. I will eat it.” I try to calm down, but he turns towards me more and stares at me. My anger still boils, and my mouth is almost ready to burst.I cross my arms just glancing at him .

“Yes, you are. Now tell me what’s wrong with you.” His hair intertwines with his hair as he leans on the backrest of the couch, his tilted head trying to figure me out with a patience I rarely witnessed.

Tell him what’s wrong with me? I should ask him what’s wrong with him. He should leave me in peace and go to his Bittercandy!

“I am fine,” I respond, as if he has to know. I caught him red-handed; it’s not like I can tell him. Screw him! I cross my arms, giving him a brief glances.

“Tell me… think of it as a report to your boss,” he says with a smirk I wish I didn’t find so attractive.

Thinking about my conversation with Marco, my mouth slips without realizing, “Marco will be my boss.” It’s true that Marco is the one who will handle me from now on, but the question nagging me now is: Do I try to make him jealous? Nah…

Damiano seems to hold his anger back easily, gazing with interest at my lips, which unconsciously I bite.

“He won’t. Let me tell you something: stay away from him.” I didn’t expect his voice to sound so loud and clear. I feel an urgency to heed his words, sensing that he knows something I don’t.

My mouth slips again, “Why?”

I nibble on my lower lip, and he shoots me a scrutinizing look, his eyes reflecting a blend of annoyance and desire.

“Because I said so.” I observe him, and he takes a quick look at my body and face, almost as if he’s checking for any contradictory reactions to his words.

My heart beats fast, and I feel that he is genuinely trying to protect me again. My heart just can’t get angry at him. I just can’t, even though I still feel frustrated with him.

I feel ready to maintain my composure, and I bite my lips again, trying to pull myself together. Maybe I should just ignore him. Maybe ignore my feelings towards him. This way, I’ll be able to keep my mask on and not give him any hint of what I know about him.

He mutters a “Damn…” and adds in a gentle tone, “Tell me what you want to eat.”

I glance at him and try to reconcile all my emotions. “Pizza.”

My voice seems so neutral that it surprises me. I guess I might be able to keep all these feelings concealed in the end. I feel a little better after my little outburst.

He scowls at the sound of my voice, and I’m left perplexed by his reaction. Well, moving forward, I shouldn’t let his actions affect me. After all, he has Bittercandy.

The pizza, for me, carried a dreadful taste—it was laced with bitterness.