FILTHY LITTLE ASSISTANT

Italy was beautiful. Like, stupid beautiful. The kind you see in movies and think can't be real, but here I was, walking down actual stone streets with designer shops everywhere and people who looked like they'd never had a bad hair day in their lives.

And then there was me.

My suitcase had a broken wheel that made noise with every step, my blouse was wrinkled from the plane, and my feet already hurt in these cheap shoes. I was just some girl from Texas who probably shouldn't be here.

But I needed this job.

The PA position seemed too good to be true when I found it online. Good pay, free room and board, a fresh start where nobody knew me. The description was kind of vague, just said "personal assistant to a prominent Italian businessman," but I wasn't in a position to be picky. I sent my resume and somehow they actually flew me out for an interview.

The address led me to this massive villa that made my stomach drop. This wasn't just a house. It was huge ,three stories with old stone walls covered in ivy and these big windows that looked almost black. The iron gates were already open, like they were waiting for me.

I checked my phone for the fifth time. This was definitely the place.

My heart was racing as I walked up the gravel drive. Each step felt like a mistake. I was going to be late. I was already out of place. This whole thing was going to fall apart before it even started, and I'd be back in Texas, back to nothing, back to proving everyone right who said I'd never make it on my own.

The front door was huge, made of dark wood with fancy carvings all over it. Before I could even knock, it opened.

A security guard stood there, and honestly, I forgot how to speak for a second. He was tall, like really tall, with broad shoulders that looked perfectly well with his suit. The goatee, the way his eyes traveled down my body slowly... damn. Even the security here was hot as hell.

"I'm here for the interview," I managed, my Texas accent suddenly feeling twice as thick. "I'm sorry, I know I'm cutting it close, I just"

They're expecting you." His voice was smooth, unimpressed. He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "I'll take your bag."

He grabbed my suitcase before I could protest.

The inside made me feel even worse about myself. Everything looked expensive, old paintings, marble floors. It smelled like leather and money. The furniture looked like museum pieces.

The security guard led me through a corridor, then stopped. "Upstairs. Someone will meet you in the waiting room."

He left me at the base of a staircase.

I climbed, my cheap shoes clicking against marble, and found myself in a hallway with two identical doors. Both were dark wood, both were closed. Neither had any indication of which