My Sexy Sassy Boss

There's a popular saying in Italy that men might be born equal, but power chooses it's own.

This was confirmed when 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.

King Oliver de Luca

He preferred to be called Luca, just like his father.

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

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."

"At LAX, a Private hangar at the west side." The man replied.

Luca gave 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 amd second to power.

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 with a smile.

Luca gave a slight smile, more like a smirk and 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 personal assistant immediately.

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

He smiled apologetically. "You should have seen how bad and terrible the traffic was"

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

She took another step forward as she kept talking and collided with something solid, unmoving.

Ouch! She winced and scowled.

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

The man she had bumped into 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 assistant, 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.

May did not sleep.

Not for a minute, not even when exhaustion pressed heavily behind her eyes. She sat stiffly in one of the hard plastic chairs outside the operating theatre, fingers laced together in her lap, heels abandoned somewhere under the seat. The hospital lights were too bright, too white, and the smell of antiseptic clung to her skin like an accusation.

This was ridiculous, she told herself repeatedly.

She did not wait for strangers. She did not sit in hospitals at ungodly hours worrying about men she had run into...literally. Yet there she was, eyes fixed on the red light above the surgery door, heart beating far too fast for someone who claimed indifference.

Time dragged, stretching painfully. Nurses passed. Doctors spoke in low voices. Morning crept in quietly, light slipping through the windows as if afraid to disturb the tension hanging in the air.

When the doors finally opened, May stood so quickly the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"He's stable," the doctor said calmly, adjusting his glasses. "We managed to stop the internal bleeding. He's lucky."

Lucky. The word felt strange.

She followed them into the room, arms crossed tightly as if holding herself together. The man lay still on the bed, pale, bruised, bandaged, yet unmistakably the same irritating stranger from the airport. His lashes fluttered faintly as consciousness returned.

The doctor leaned forward. "Can you hear me?"

Slowly, the man's eyes opened.

They were sharp even now, unsettlingly clear despite the confusion swimming within them. He looked around the room like someone waking in the wrong life.

"Do you remember your name?" the doctor asked.

A pause. His brows furrowed slightly, jaw tightening as though he were digging through something just out of reach.

"Luca," he said hoarsely.

May's breath caught before she could stop it.

"Your full name?" the doctor pressed.

He shook his head faintly. "Just...Luca."

"Do you remember anything else?" the doctor asked gently. "Family, where you live, what happened?"

Silence stretched. Luca's fingers curled against the sheets.

"No," he said finally. "Nothing."

The doctor straightened. "You have retrograde amnesia, likely caused by trauma from the accident. Memories may return gradually...or not at all."

May's jaw tightened.

She stayed.

Through the morning. Through the slow drip of IV fluids, the nurses checking vitals, Luca drifting in and out of sleep. She stayed even when the sun climbed higher, when her phone buzzed endlessly with notifications she ignored.

By afternoon, the doctor returned. "Physically, he's strong enough to be discharged. He'll need rest, supervision, and follow-up visits."

May nodded absently.

She stepped outside and dialed her phone. "Pete...clear my schedule today and tomorrow. Bring clothes...comfortable ones. Men's. Hospital."

There was a pause. "May, what..."

"Please," she said sharply. "Now."

Pete arrived and Luca went in to change. He was dressed in clothes that didn't belong to him yet fit well enough. He stood awkwardly near the bed, watching her with curiosity that made her uncomfortable.

She handed him some cash. "This should get you home...wherever that is."

He stared at the money, then at her, brows lifting slightly. "You're leaving me?"

"I've done more than enough," she replied coolly. "The hospital will help you find shelter."

Luca stepped closer suddenly, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw.

"Did you forget something?" he asked.

She frowned. "What exactly would that be?"

He tilted his head slightly. "I have amnesia."

She laughed, the sound sharp, incredulous. "You can't be serious."

"You caused it," he said calmly. "You hit me with your car. That makes you responsible...until the end."

Her eyes widened. "The audacity."

"You're welcome," he replied mildly.

She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "You are incredibly lucky," she said tightly, turning on her heel.

And yet...she didn't walk away.

Her house was silent when they arrived.

Large, elegant, gated, everything anyone would expect from May Boston, except the inside told a different story. Shoes by the door. A jacket draped carelessly over a chair. Papers stacked where they didn't belong. The kind of mess no one ever saw because no one was ever invited in.

She lived alone...and it showed.

Luca looked around slowly, taking everything in with quiet interest. "Nice place."

"Don't get comfortable," she replied. "This is temporary."

He walked to the living room and sat, crossing his leg casually, like a man entirely at ease in a stranger's home.

"I'm thirsty," he said. "Get me water."

She snapped. "Are you insane?"

He looked at her, genuinely puzzled. "You brought me here."

"That does not make me your assistant."

"But you are responsible," he said, unbothered.

Her glare could have melted steel.

She turned sharply toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath, already regretting every decision she had made since the night before.

And somehow, she knew...this was only the beginning.

By morning, May was already exhausted.

Not physically...emotionally.

Luca had spent the night reminding her, subtly and not so subtly, that he was still injured. Anytime she snapped at him, anytime irritation sharpened her tone, he would tilt his head slightly and say, "I'm still sick," in a calm voice that somehow made her feel like the villain. It was infuriating. She was used to control, to authority, to people bending, not to a stranger with amnesia using his condition like leverage.

She barely slept again.

When she finally stepped out of her bedroom the next morning, hair loose, robe tied carelessly around her waist, she stopped short.

Luca stood by the entrance.

Not slouched. Not weak. Standing straight, arms loosely crossed, body relaxed like he belonged there. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows behind him, outlining his frame, catching in his hair, revealing angles she hadn't noticed before.

She stared.

For the first time since the accident, she really looked at him.

Unbelievably handsome wasn't even adequate. His features were sharp, deliberate, like they had been designed rather than inherited. His eyes, calm and piercing, watched her with an intensity that made her oddly aware of herself, of her bare feet on the floor, of the thin fabric clinging to her skin.

He looked...dangerous.

"You're awake," he said.

She cleared her throat. "What are you doing standing there like that?"

"Waiting," he replied easily.

"For what."

"For you."

Her irritation returned immediately. "Why."

"I need a bath," he said, tone flat. "And food."

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he continued, unbothered. "Prepare my bath, then find something for me to eat."

Her jaw tightened. "You are in my house."

"And I am injured," he said calmly. "Or did you forget."

She scoffed, turning away. "You're unbelievable."

Yet...she did it.

She ran the bath, hands moving sharply, muttering under her breath the entire time. No one had spoken to her like that in years. She was May Boston, CEO, feared and respected, not a personal assistant to an amnesiac stranger. And yet here she was, doing exactly what he asked, irritation burning hot beneath her skin.

She handed him a towel without looking at him. "Don't take long."

He took it from her fingers slowly, eyes never leaving her face. "Thank you."

The words shouldn't have unsettled her, but they did.

When she returned to the kitchen, reality hit her harder than expected.

She stopped in the doorway.

The kitchen was...empty.

Not stylishly minimalist, not intentionally sparse...just empty. A fridge with little more than bottled water and half-used condiments, cabinets holding plates she barely touched, a life built entirely around eating out and working late.

For the first time in years, she felt something close to embarrassment.

She searched anyway, opening drawers, cupboards, the fridge again as if food might magically appear. Eventually, she found a single pack of instant noodles, crushed at the edges.

Expired.

She stared at the date, sighed sharply, and tossed it into a pot.

It was the best she could do.

When Luca returned, freshly bathed, hair damp, shirt clinging slightly to his torso, she placed the bowl in front of him with more force than necessary. "Eat."

He sat, posture relaxed, and lifted the fork.

One bite.

That was all it took.

He spat it out instantly.

Her breath caught.

He lifted his gaze slowly, cold and piercing, eyes locking onto hers with a look so sharp it sent a chill straight down her spine. For a moment, she forgot he was injured, forgot he had amnesia, forgot everything except the instinctive warning screaming in her chest.

This man was not harmless.

"What is this," he asked quietly.

She swallowed. "Food."

"It's inedible."

"I don't cook," she snapped, trying to reclaim her ground. "Be grateful."

He leaned back slightly, studying her, expression unreadable. "You live like this."

"That's none of your business."

His gaze lingered a second longer, then he stood. "We're going out."

Her brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I'm hungry," he said. "And I refuse to eat that."

She hesitated, then grabbed her keys sharply. "Fine."

The eatery was nearby, small but decent, the kind of place she never noticed until now. They sat, and immediately Luca took control, scanning the menu with quiet authority.

"I'll have the premium steak meal," he said. "Medium rare. Add the imported wine."

May blinked. "You know premium meals."

He looked at her. "Apparently."

"You have amnesia," she reminded him. "How do you know that."

He paused, genuinely thoughtful. "I don't know," he said slowly. "The words just came."

That unsettled her more than anything else.

Pete's call came while Luca was still eating.

May barely glanced at her phone before answering, irritation already simmering beneath her calm exterior. "What?"

There was a brief pause on the other end, the kind that warned her something had gone wrong. "I tried to clear your schedule like you asked," Pete said carefully, "but there's a situation."

May closed her eyes for a second. "Pete...define situation?"

"The top model," he replied. "The one we fought for months to sign."

Her jaw tightened instantly. "Serena Vale?"

"Yes," Pete said. "She just landed in Los Angeles and she's already at the agency. She's demanding to see you...now."

May exhaled slowly, irritation sharpening into something close to fury. Serena Vale was not someone you postponed, not someone you rescheduled, not someone you annoyed.

"I'm not dressed," May said flatly.

"I noticed," Pete replied. "She says if you don't show up, she walks."

May ended the call without another word.

She lifted her gaze...and froze.

Luca sat across from her, completely unbothered, eating like a man born into privilege, posture relaxed, movements precise, calm in a way that irritated her beyond reason. He hadn't heard the conversation, but his eyes met hers with quiet curiosity.

"Problem?" he asked.

She glared at him. "You."

He continued eating. "That's unfortunate."

She pushed her chair back sharply. "I have an emergency meeting."

He nodded once. "Good."

"You are the reason I'm not prepared," she snapped. "I stayed back because of you."

"And yet," he said mildly, "you don't look displeased."

She stood abruptly. "Finish eating. We're leaving."

"Where?" he asked.

She grabbed her bag, irritation written plainly on her face. "We're going to my company."