Page 17 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

I stare at him, unblinking. “Are you calling me grumpy? Because I’m not grumpy. I’m furious. There's a difference.”

He chuckles, cocky and unbothered. “Sure there is. And I’m just here to moisturize and bring positive vibes.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You wound me,dolcezza.” He presses a hand to his chest. His bare, sculpted, obscenely defined chest. As if I’ve actually injured him.

I roll my eyes and turn back to my laptop. “Right. Like you need anyone else to feed your giant ego.”

He turns to head back to his room. “I’ll show you what else is giant... in bed.”

I freeze, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

He doesn’t wait for my comeback. Just a flash of his grin, and he's gone.

The bastard.

I yank open my laptop again and dive back into the madness.

Crisis PR isn’t about spin. It’s about survival. And right now, I’m not just managing Alessio’s reputation, I’m trying to keep a billion-dollar merger from crumbling into ashes.

Tabs pile across my screen. Media contacts, Mafia-related crisis case files, curated campaigns dressed up as charity work that barely concealed the violence beneath.

I’m building a narrative from scratch. Alessio Marchetti: misunderstood heir turned responsible citizen. A redemption arc wrapped in Armani.

Charity events, strategic photo ops, faux-humbled statements drafted with surgical precision.

I even sketch out a potential alliance angle with the Bratva, subtle gestures of unity without ever admitting guilt. Perception is everything.

My phone buzzes with multiple texts. I can already see a couple of notifications.

Dad:

“ETA on investor-facing press release?”

Valentino:

“Need updates. Damage window shrinking.”

I ignore them. I need five goddamn minutes to think.

I scroll through my drafted bullet points again, pulse climbing.

Alessio’s face flashes in my mind. Cocky, careless, shirtless, with that infuriatingly muscled chest, sculpted biceps, those veiny forearms and rippled abs that should be illegal. And for a split second, my strategy wavers.

Focus, Sophie.

Because if I don’t control this narrative, someone else will. And it won’t end with bad press. It’ll end in blood.

He walks out of the bathroom, still damp from the shower, water sliding down his sculpted chest and carving paths along the ridges of his abs. A pair of low-hanging gray sweats clings to his hips, showcasing the dangerous dip of his V-line like it was stitched by the devil himself.

Every muscle on display seems carved to tempt, and I’m acutely aware I’ve just lost the thread of my thoughts.

No shirt. No shame. His hair is wet, dark strands curling slightly over his forehead, giving him that tousled, post-shower model look. Careless, cocky, and far too tempting for confined spaces.

I snap my laptop shut again, maybe for the third time today, and march into the living room.

“That’s it,” I announce, hands on hips. “We’re re-establishing house rules.”

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