My Sexy Sassy Boss

Six black Audi cars rolled into the private terminal of Rome's airport and stopped almost in sync, doors opening as men in dark suits stepped out with the quiet confidence of those who answered to no law but their own. They spread out instinctively, eyes sharp, hands relaxed but ready, and then the middle car opened.

He stepped out slowly, tall and broad, his presence immediately bending the air around him.

Blonde hair swept neatly back from a face carved with cold authority, eyes clear, unreadable, dangerous in their calm. Oliver De Luca did not rush, he never did. Men like him were not pressed by time, time bent around them. In the underworld, his name was currency, a warning, a promise of violence carried out without hesitation.

He preferred Luca.

As he moved forward, conversations died, shoulders stiffened, and even the security personnel straightened unconsciously. Power did not need to be loud. It announced itself.

A man fell into step beside him, matching his stride with practiced ease.

"Everything is in place."

"Talk," Luca replied, not looking at him.

"You'll land in Los Angeles by morning. Mickey will be waiting."

Luca's gaze shifted briefly. "Where."

"LAX. Private hangar, west side. Clean."

A single nod. "Good."

The man hesitated, just a fraction. "There's been movement...nothing obvious, but enough to notice."

"If anyone moves without my permission," Luca said calmly, "you already know what to do."

The man inclined his head. "Of course."

Matteo Russo had been with him long enough to survive loyalty, betrayal, and blood. He was the closest thing Luca had to a friend, which was precisely why he was still alive.

They reached the steps of the plane. Luca paused, turning his gaze back toward the city that belonged to him even when he was absent.

"Keep Italy quiet," he said.

"It will be," Matteo answered.

Luca boarded the plane without another word, and moments later, the jet lifted into the night.

Italy disappeared beneath the clouds.

*

Los Angeles was loud in a way May Boston found exhausting.

She moved through the airport with controlled elegance, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, posture straight, expression already bored. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, not that she needed them to intimidate anyone, confidence radiated from her naturally.

She spotted her subordinate immediately.

"You're late," she said, slipping off her glasses.

He smiled apologetically. "Traffic was terrible."

She scoffed. "Traffic is not an excuse in this city, it's a constant."

She took another step forward and collided with something solid, unmoving.

"Watch where you're going," she snapped, irritation flaring instantly.

The man muttered something sharp under his breath, his accent unmistakable.

"Vaffanculo."

She frowned. "What did you just say?"

He didn't repeat himself, didn't even look back, simply brushed past her like she was an inconvenience.

May stared after him, offended. "Unbelievable."

Her subordinate, Pete, cleared his throat. "May."

She waved it off dismissively. "Men with accents always think manners are optional."

They walked toward the exit, and once inside her car, she exhaled sharply. "That fashion show was painful, all noise, no originality, just designers begging to be noticed."

"You still stayed till the end," he said.

"Because leaving early would imply I cared," she replied coolly. "I did not."

They arrived at her agency shortly after.

The Boston Fashion Group towered above the street, glass and steel gleaming under the city lights, a structure that reflected exactly what it represented, power, precision, control. Inside, everything was intentional, muted colors, clean lines, silence that commanded respect.

May walked in without slowing.

"Clear my schedule tomorrow," she said. "Cancel anything that doesn't make money."

"Yes, Ms. Boston."

She disappeared into her office, door closing softly behind her.

*

Luca drove like he had no care and worry in the world.

The engine of the sports car roared as he cut through Los Angeles traffic, irritation simmering beneath his controlled exterior. The city was chaotic, careless, loud, a place where people mistook recklessness for freedom.

His mind drifted, uninvited, to the woman at the airport.

Sharp mouth, cold eyes, the audacity.

"Stupida," he muttered.

The road opened briefly, headlights flashing, and then everything happened at once.

A trailer slammed into his car without warning.

Metal screamed, glass shattered, the impact violent enough to spin him sideways as fire erupted, the explosion lighting up the night and swallowing steel in flames.

Then darkness.

*

Hours later, May sat behind her desk, silk robe draped loosely around her shoulders as she scrolled through her tablet, eyes scanning without real interest.

A breaking news alert flashed.

She tapped it.

"Luxury Sports Car Explodes on Highway, Driver Missing."

She skimmed the article, unimpressed. "Money without sense," she muttered, locking the screen.

She grabbed her keys and left.

The drive home was quiet, her thoughts already moving on to meetings, contracts, decisions that mattered. She turned onto her street, relaxed for the first time that night, and then slammed on the brakes.

A figure appeared in front of her car.

The impact jolted her hard.

"Oh my God..."

She stumbled out, heart racing, panic sharp and immediate. A man lay on the road, blood staining his clothes, breathing shallow, barely conscious. People rushed over, voices overlapping.

"He's alive."

"Call an ambulance."

"Put him in the car."

She didn't argue. They lifted him into the back seat, and she drove, hands tight on the steering wheel, pulse roaring in her ears.

From behind her, the man stirred.

"Luca..." he whispered.

The name settled heavily in her chest, unfamiliar and unsettling.

She didn't know why.

But she pressed harder on the accelerator.