My Little Baby | 18+

~Author~

The Bianchi mansion sat atop a hillside overlooking the Ligurian coast, a fortress of old stone and modern opulence that had been in the family for four generations.

Roman Sokolov stepped through the iron gates with two of his men at his back, his boots echoing against the cobblestone courtyard. The air smelled of salt and cypress, and somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled.

He hated these meetings. He hated the way Ivano Bianchi looked at him—like a wolf sizing up a younger predator. But business was business. The Russians needed the shipping routes through Genoa, and the Italians controlled them. A temporary truce, a sharing of profits. That was the story.

Inside, the mansion was a museum of old-world wealth. Marble floors, frescoed ceilings, a grand staircase that spiraled up into shadow. Ivano greeted him in the main hall, a heavyset man in his fifties with silver-streaked hair and eyes that had seen too much blood.

“Sokolov.” Ivano’s voice was a low rumble. “You’re early.”

“I value punctuality, Signor Bianchi,” Roman replied, his Russian accent cutting the Italian words with a sharp edge. “Time is money, no?”

Ivano grunted and led him into a study lined with leather-bound books. They discussed routes, percentages, the delicate balance of power. But ten minutes in, Ivano’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and muttered a curse.

“I have to take this. My youngest son—another mess at the warehouse. Stay here. Drink. I’ll be back.”

He left without waiting for a response, disappearing through a side door. Roman stood by the window, watching the garden below. The storm clouds were gathering over the sea, dark and heavy. He could feel it in his bones—the pressure change, the restlessness.

He wasn’t a man who liked being kept waiting.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. He heard the ticking of a grandfather clock, the distant murmur of servants. And then—something else. A soft rustling, like fabric brushing against skin.

He turned.

A door at the far end of the study was ajar. He hadn’t noticed it before. Beyond it, a narrow hallway led to what looked like a private wing of the house. Curiosity pricked at him. He knew he shouldn’t wander.

But Roman Sokolov had never been good at following rules.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. The walls were lined with photographs—family portraits, mostly. A stern-looking woman, presumably Ivano’s late wife. Three boys in various stages of adolescence, scowling at the camera. And then—

A girl.

She wasn’t in the photographs. She was there, at the end of the hallway, standing in front of an open doorway. She wore a simple white dress that fell to her knees, her long brown hair loose around her shoulders. She was barefoot, her small toes curling against the cold marble.

Roman stopped breathing.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Not in the polished, painted way of the women he usually fucked—models, actresses, wives of his rivals.

This was a different kind of beauty.

Pure. Untouched.

Her skin was like cream, her lips the pale pink of a seashell. Her eyes—God, her eyes. They were the color of honey and coffee, wide and luminous, and they were staring directly at him.

She didn’t look afraid. She looked… curious.

“Privet,” he said softly, testing the word. Then, in Italian: “Buongiorno.”

She tilted her head, a faint frown crossing her face. She didn’t respond.

He took a step closer. She didn’t flinch. Her gaze followed him, tracking his movements with an unnerving stillness. He noticed then that she was holding something—a small sketchbook, clutched against her chest.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice low.

Nothing.

He was close enough now to see the delicate curve of her collarbone, the way her pulse fluttered at her throat. Up close, it was even more striking—the perfect symmetry of her features, the way her lips parted slightly as she studied him.

“Can you not speak?” he murmured.

She blinked, then lifted one hand and pointed at her ear. She shook her head slowly.

Deaf.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. This exquisite creature, this angel in white—she couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear the storm brewing outside, the distant thunder, the pounding of his own heart.

He didn’t know sign language. He knew a dozen languages, but not that one. So he did the only thing he could think of. He placed his hand over his chest and said his name slowly, mouthing the syllables clearly.

“Ro-man.”

She watched his lips. Then, a miracle. A smile. Small, tentative, but real. She raised her own hand and pointed at herself, her fingers curling into a gesture he recognized as her name.

Lily. she signed.

“Lily,” he repeated aloud, for himself. “Like the flower.”

She couldn’t hear him, but she seemed to understand. She nodded, her smile widening just a fraction.

Footsteps echoed from the study. Ivano’s voice, sharp and impatient. “Sokolov? Where the hell did you go?”

Lily’s eyes darted past him, toward the sound. Her expression flickered—fear? Recognition? She stepped back into her room and closed the door, leaving Roman standing alone in the hallway, his chest tight.

When Ivano found him a moment later, Roman’s face was composed, his hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” Ivano said, his eyes narrowing. “That’s my daughter’s wing.”

“Apologies. I was looking for the bathroom.”

Ivano stared at him for a long moment, then grunted. “Come. We have more to discuss.”

***

The business concluded three hours later. Percentages were agreed upon. A shipment was scheduled. But Roman’s mind was elsewhere.

He saw her face every time he blinked. That honey-colored gaze, that fragile smile.

As he prepared to leave, the storm finally broke. Rain lashed against the windows, and thunder shook the walls. His driver called—the road to the coast was flooded. He wouldn’t make it back to his hotel.

Ivano’s expression soured. “Fine. You stay the night. One of the guest rooms. But stay out of my wing, Sokolov. That’s non-negotiable.”

Roman inclined his head. “I wasn’t really interested staying here unless necessary, Bianchi.”

But as the mansion settled into darkness, as the servants retired and the storm raged on, Roman found himself walking the quiet hallways. He told himself he was just exploring. That it was the building’s architecture that drew him. But his feet knew the truth.

He stopped outside her door.

It was ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the corridor. He pressed his palm against the wood and pushed it open without a sound.

Her room was a sanctuary of innocence. White curtains fluttered at the open window, letting in the cool night air. A canopy bed draped in lace dominated the center, and she was there, curled up on the mattress, her back to him.

She wore a thin nightgown, pale and clinging to the curves of her body. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.

She didn’t hear him enter. Of course she didn’t.

He stood in the doorway, watching. His cock hardened in his trousers, a primal response he couldn’t suppress. She was so vulnerable. So unaware. The power he held in this moment—he could do anything. Take her. Claim her. Make her his.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over the room. A bookshelf filled with picture books. A desk covered in sketches—fragile drawings of flowers, birds, a woman he assumed was her mother. And on the nightstand, a framed photograph of her as a child, laughing in a sunlit garden.

She was so young. Eighteen. Barely legal. But that didn’t matter to him. What mattered was the way she made him feel—like a man discovering religion for the first time.

He reached out, his fingers hovering over her hair, not quite touching. He could smell her. Vanilla. Clean soap. Something floral and sweet.

She shifted in her sleep, turning onto her back. Her lips parted. Her eyelids fluttered.

She was dreaming. He wondered what she dreamed about. Music she had never heard? Voices she would never know?

He should leave. He knew he should fucking leave.

Instead, he lowered himself into the chair beside her bed, settling in to watch her breathe. The storm howled outside, but inside, there was only silence.

And Roman Sokolov, the ruthless Russian, the cold-blooded killer, felt something crack open in his chest.

Something tender.

Something possessive.

Something that would never let her go.

So he watched her. All 8 hours of the night.

***

He stayed until the first gray light of dawn crept through the curtains. Then he slipped out, silent as a ghost, and returned to his guest room. When Ivano saw him at breakfast, Roman’s face was unreadable, his voice steady.

He left the Bianchi mansion that morning with a signed contract in his pocket.

And an obsession in his soul.

My little Lily. he thought, as his car wound down the hillside. I’ll be back.