Mr. Robot Arrives at Six

The man tied to the chair was bleeding onto Aria’s imported Persian rug.

Not enough to ruin it permanently, she hoped.

But definitely enough to irritate her.

Aria stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, one hand wrapped around a cup of black coffee, the other resting lazily against the table beside her. She had changed out of her evening clothes twenty minutes ago and was now wearing black fitted trousers, a dark silk shirt, and gloves that made it very clear she was not here for a polite conversation.

The warehouse office around her was silent except for the drip of blood onto concrete and the occasional hum of the old industrial lights above.

Across from her, the man in the chair trembled.

He was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, and foolish enough to have spent the last forty minutes pretending he didn’t know why he’d been dragged here.

A mistake.

Aria hated wasted time.

Leo stood at her right, expression blank as stone. Tall, disciplined, and dressed in black, he looked like the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid. He had worked for Aria for years, knew exactly when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut, and had long ago stopped reacting to the fact that his boss could sip espresso while deciding whether to destroy someone.

On Aria’s left, Mia would have fainted from stress if she ever saw this side of her.

Which was exactly why Mia never would.

Aria took another sip of coffee and looked at the man tied to the chair.

He looked back with wide, terrified eyes.

“Let’s try this again,” she said pleasantly. “Who sent the message?”

“I—I already told you, I don’t know—”

Aria sighed.

“Leo.”

Leo stepped forward, pulled a knife from the table, and casually drove it into the wood right beside the man’s hand.

The man screamed.

Aria blinked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “That was dramatic.”

“You’re insane!” he gasped.

“Yes,” Aria agreed. “But more importantly, I’m busy. So unless you want to spend the rest of the night discovering how little patience I have, I suggest you stop lying.”

The man’s chest heaved. Sweat slid down his temple.

Aria set her coffee down and crouched in front of him, elbows resting on her knees like they were old friends catching up.

“Here’s the thing,” she said softly. “I’m trying very hard to be nice tonight. I’ve had a long day. My grandfather hired me a bodyguard against my will, I’m running on caffeine and irritation, and someone threatened me in my own home.”

She tilted her head.

“So if you make me stay here longer than necessary, I’m going to become deeply unpleasant.”

The man swallowed.

Aria smiled.

It was the kind of smile that had made grown men confess things they’d sworn they’d die protecting.

Finally, his resolve cracked.

“I don’t know the name,” he stammered. “I swear. I only got instructions.”

“From whom?”

“A middleman. I’ve never met the real client.”

“What instructions?”

“To watch your building. Report who came and went. Send the message at midnight. Make sure you saw it.”

Aria’s expression cooled. “Why?”

“I don’t know!”

She held his gaze for a long, quiet moment, measuring the fear in it.

He wasn’t lying.

Not about that part.

Aria stood and slipped her gloves off finger by finger. “Did you see anyone else watching the building?”

He hesitated.

Leo moved.

The man yelped, “Yes! Yes—two men in a black sedan across the street. I swear, that’s all I know!”

Aria went still.

Then she turned slowly toward Leo.

“Find the sedan.”

Leo nodded once. “Already sent a team.”

Of course he had.

Aria liked competence. It saved so much time.

She reached for her coffee again. It was still warm. Good.

“Check his phone, his financial records, and every call he made in the last seventy-two hours,” she said. “If he’s lying, I want to know before sunrise.”

“And him?” Leo asked, glancing at the man in the chair.

Aria looked over.

The man visibly stopped breathing.

She considered him for a moment.

Then lifted her coffee and took a sip.

“Keep him alive,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to clean up blood before dawn.”

The man nearly cried with relief.

Aria, who had never once in her life mistaken mercy for weakness, turned and walked toward the office door.

“Boss,” Leo called.

She looked back.

He hesitated only a second. “It’s almost five.”

Aria glanced at the watch on her wrist.

Five.

Wonderful.

That meant she had just enough time to get home, shower, and prepare herself for the arrival of Adrian De Luca and his stupid survivability schedule.

A deep, ancient exhaustion touched her soul.

“I hate mornings,” she muttered.

Leo, wisely, said nothing.

---

At 5:42 a.m., Aria Rossi was standing in her penthouse kitchen glaring at a toaster.

She had showered in record time, changed into an oversized black T-shirt and silk sleep shorts, tied her damp hair into a messy knot, and attempted to make breakfast entirely out of spite.

The toaster, unfortunately, had chosen rebellion.

One slice of sourdough was burned beyond recognition.

The second had somehow remained pale and insulting.

Aria stared at both.

Then at the machine.

Then back at the bread as if it had personally betrayed her.

“This is why I don’t trust appliances,” she informed the empty kitchen.

The kitchen, much like the rest of the world, did not care.

She threw both slices away, opened the refrigerator, and found exactly half a bottle of water, almond milk, two lemons, and a container of takeout tiramisu she had absolutely no memory of ordering.

A healthy and inspiring breakfast selection.

Perfect.

She grabbed the tiramisu, took a spoon, and was halfway through her second bite when the doorbell rang.

Aria froze.

Then slowly looked at the clock on the oven.

5:58.

The audacity.

The absolute, unholy audacity.

He was two minutes early.

Who arrived early for something no one wanted them at?

Psychopaths, that’s who.

Aria set the tiramisu down with the expression of a woman preparing for battle and stalked toward the door.

When she yanked it open, Adrian De Luca was standing there in a dark navy suit, white shirt, and tie, looking as calm and criminally well put together as he had the night before.

Aria looked at him.

Then at his watch.

Then back at him.

“It’s 5:58.”

“Yes.”

“I told you not to come.”

“Yes.”

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Do you have a hobby, Mr. De Luca?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Keeping difficult clients alive.”

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, to her horror, his gaze drifted past her shoulder into the penthouse.

More specifically—

toward the open tiramisu container on the kitchen island.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Adrian looked back at her face.

“Tiramisu for breakfast?”

Aria’s grip tightened on the door.

“It’s emotionally supportive tiramisu.”

His expression didn’t change.

But she saw it.

That tiny almost-smile again.

Aria pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Judge me in silence. If you’re going to be rude, at least do it out loud like a normal person.”

“I wasn’t judging.”

“You looked at the tiramisu.”

“I did.”

“You looked at it like it disappointed you.”

“I’ve never met your tiramisu.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Adrian’s gaze dropped briefly to her bare legs, oversized T-shirt, and messy hair.

Then lifted back to her face.

And for the first time since meeting him, something shifted in his expression.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough for Aria to catch it.

A pause.

A second too long.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Aria’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m assessing.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It should.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away from the door. “If you’re going to ruin my morning, at least come inside and do it efficiently.”

Adrian stepped into the penthouse.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But Aria felt it.

A stillness.

A recalibration.

Adrian’s eyes moved once across the apartment and she knew immediately that he wasn’t admiring the architecture. He was mapping it. Entrances, blind spots, camera angles, access points, weaknesses.

His attention landed on the windows.

Then the hallway.

Then the kitchen.

Then, annoyingly, back on the tiramisu.

“Coffee?” Aria asked, mostly because if she didn’t keep talking she might start throwing decorative objects.

“Yes.”

“You drink it black?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

She headed toward the kitchen while Adrian followed at a measured pace, quiet enough to be unsettling. Aria hated how much space he seemed to occupy without making any effort. Even in silence, he had presence—cold, controlled, impossible to ignore.

She handed him a mug.

He took it.

Their fingers brushed.

And for one ridiculous second, Aria felt the contact like a spark.

She pulled her hand back first.

Naturally, Adrian noticed.

Naturally, he said nothing.

Aria hated that too.

She took her own coffee, leaned against the counter, and watched him over the rim of the mug. “So. What exactly happens now? You hand me a twenty-page manual on how to breathe safely?”

“Close.”

Adrian set his coffee down and placed a black folder on the island.

Aria stared at it with immediate suspicion.

“What’s that?”

“Your updated security plan.”

“Burn it.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“I know.”

She opened the folder anyway, because she had inherited many things from the Rossi family but patience wasn’t one of them.

Inside was a printed schedule so aggressively organized it felt like a personal attack.

6:00 a.m. — Building sweep complete

6:15 a.m. — Route review

7:00 a.m. — Driver and vehicle rotation briefing

8:30 a.m. — Office arrival

12:00 p.m. — Lunch location secured in advance

6:00 p.m. — Evening escort

No solo travel. No unscheduled exits. No unverified guests. No last-minute venue changes without security clearance.

Aria looked up in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You scheduled my lunch.”

“Yes.”

“My lunch.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Frequently.”

Aria dropped the folder onto the counter. “This is not a security plan. This is a hostage situation.”

Adrian folded his arms. “This is what happens when someone has six assassination attempts and continues behaving like a woman with a death wish.”

“I do not have a death wish.”

“You ride alone at midnight.”

“I like motorcycles.”

“You climb out of office windows.”

“Sometimes meetings deserve consequences.”

“You change plans without warning.”

“Because I’m spontaneous.”

“You bribe your guards.”

“They’re underpaid.”

Adrian was silent for a moment.

Then he said, very calmly, “You are exhausting.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “And yet you came back.”

“Professional obligation.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

His eyes met hers.

For one heartbeat, the air in the kitchen changed.

Then the intercom buzzed.

Aria jumped.

Adrian moved before the sound had fully registered.

One second he was across the kitchen.

The next he was between her and the front entrance, body angled protectively, one hand already inside his jacket.

Aria stared.

The intercom buzzed again.

Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the hallway. “Who’s expected?”

“No one,” Aria said automatically.

His gaze cut to her.

She lifted a brow. “I said expected. Not tolerated.”

He ignored that. “Stay here.”

Aria laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“Aria.”

It was the first time he’d used her first name.

Not Miss Rossi.

Not some clipped professional title.

Just Aria.

Low, firm, and edged with command.

It hit her in a place she refused to examine.

Unfortunately, this was not the time to unpack emotional damage.

She followed him anyway.

Adrian reached the intercom panel and pressed the security feed.

The screen lit up.

Mia’s face appeared.

She was holding a paper bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other, looking deeply offended by the existence of mornings.

“Oh, good,” she said through the speaker. “You’re alive. Open the door before I drop this and sue everyone.”

Aria snorted.

Adrian did not look amused.

“It’s Mia,” Aria said.

“I can see that.”

“She works for me.”

“That doesn’t exempt her from screening.”

Aria gave him a long look. “Do you tackle delivery drivers too, or is this level of intensity reserved for women in designer pajamas?”

Adrian ignored her and buzzed Mia in.

Mia arrived less than two minutes later, stepped into the penthouse, took one look at Adrian standing in the hallway like a luxury-trained assassin, and absolutely lit up.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Aria knew that tone.

She hated that tone.

“Mia,” Aria warned.

But Mia was already smiling like she had been handed front-row tickets to the greatest entertainment of her life.

“So this is the bodyguard.”

Adrian inclined his head politely. “Adrian De Luca.”

Mia shifted the coffee tray into one hand and stuck the other out. “Mia Chen. Assistant, emotional support system, and the only reason Aria has not accidentally burned down three companies and a penthouse.”

Aria grabbed the paper bag from her. “Traitor.”

Mia ignored her. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Adrian’s gaze slid, very briefly, toward Aria.

“Have you?”

Aria narrowed her eyes. “No one is allowed to bond in my kitchen.”

“Too late,” Mia said brightly. “We’re already united against your lifestyle choices.”

“Excuse me?”

Mia pointed at the open tiramisu container on the island. “Breakfast?”

“It’s a rough morning.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“Yes,” Aria said flatly. “That’s the rough part.”

Mia snorted and moved into the kitchen like she owned the place. “I brought croissants, fruit, and the meeting files for your ten o’clock. Also, your grandfather called.”

Aria paused mid-bite of croissant. “Why?”

“He wanted to know if Adrian had arrived.”

Adrian answered before Aria could. “I have.”

Mia’s eyes gleamed. “Do you want me to tell him she’s behaving?”

“No,” Adrian said.

Aria gasped. “Mia, if you betray me to my own grandfather, I’ll replace you with someone less annoying.”

“You can try,” Mia said, completely unbothered. “But no one else would willingly put up with you.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

Adrian, to Aria’s everlasting irritation, looked like he agreed.

She pointed at him with a croissant. “You are not allowed to silently side with her.”

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve known you for twelve hours,” Adrian said. “And in that time you’ve attempted to flee me on a motorcycle, eaten tiramisu for breakfast, and declared war on a toaster.”

Mia turned to Aria slowly. “Declared war on a toaster?”

Aria froze. “How did you know about the toaster?”

Adrian took a sip of coffee. “The kitchen smelled like burnt bread and hostility.”

Mia laughed so hard she had to put the coffee tray down.

Aria considered murder.

Not actual murder.

Just mild violence.

Maybe with a throw pillow.

Before she could decide, Adrian’s phone buzzed.

The shift in him was immediate.

The humor—if he’d been feeling any at all—vanished.

He glanced at the screen and answered without hesitation.

“De Luca.”

Aria watched his expression sharpen.

Mia, to her credit, also noticed and went quiet.

“Yes,” Adrian said. “How long ago?”

A pause.

“No. Do not touch anything until I get there.”

He ended the call and looked at Aria.

“What?”

“Someone got into your office last night.”

The penthouse went silent.

Aria’s grip tightened around her coffee mug. “What?”

“Your office at Rossi headquarters. One of your private storage cabinets was forced open.”

Mia swore under her breath.

Aria’s mind moved instantly, cold and fast.

“What was taken?”

“We don’t know yet.”

She set the mug down. “We’re leaving.”

Adrian was already reaching for his keys. “No.”

Aria blinked. “No?”

“We’re not walking into a potentially compromised scene without preparation.”

“My office is the scene.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re doing this properly.”

“I’m the CEO.”

“And I’m the man trying to stop you from getting killed on company property.”

The words hit hard enough to silence the room.

Aria held his gaze.

There it was again—that cold certainty in him, that refusal to bend when it mattered. It should have irritated her.

It did irritate her.

But underneath the irritation was something else.

Trust.

Not much.

Not enough to be comfortable.

But enough to be dangerous.

Adrian turned to Mia. “Who has access to the executive floor this early?”

Mia switched gears instantly, all humor gone. “Night security, cleaning crew, Aria’s executive staff, and anyone with override clearance from building management.”

“Get me the list.”

Mia nodded and was already pulling out her phone.

Adrian looked back at Aria. “You’re changing.”

Aria folded her arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to a possible break-in scene in sleep shorts.”

Mia made a choking sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.

Aria stared at Adrian with the full force of offended royalty. “I was not planning to.”

“Good.”

The calm confidence in his tone nearly killed her.

She stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. “You know, Mr. De Luca, for someone technically employed to protect me, you spend a lot of time sounding like you’d enjoy arresting me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

Then lifted back to her eyes.

“If I wanted to arrest you,” he said quietly, “you’d know.”

Aria’s pulse did something deeply unhelpful.

Mia looked between them, visibly thrilled by the tension.

Aria hated everyone in her life.

“Ten minutes,” she snapped, turning on her heel before Adrian could say anything else. “And if either of you touch my tiramisu while I’m gone, I’ll become a villain.”

She disappeared into her bedroom, shut the door, and leaned against it for one long second.

Then she closed her eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And muttered to the ceiling, “This man is a disease.”

Unfortunately, a very well-dressed one.

---

Ten minutes later, Aria emerged in war paint.

Not literal war paint.

Though Adrian was beginning to suspect she might own some.

She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, pointed heels, gold earrings, and a long camel coat thrown over one arm. Her makeup was flawless. Her expression was cool. Her hair had been twisted into a sleek low knot that made her look every inch the billionaire empress New York thought it knew.

Only Adrian, who had seen her in oversized sleepwear glaring at dessert before sunrise, knew better.

He was still processing that when she walked past him and grabbed her handbag.

“Try not to stare,” Aria said without looking at him. “It’s unprofessional.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

Mia made a delighted choking sound into her coffee.

“I’m not staring,” Adrian said.

“Sure.”

“I’m assessing.”

Aria stopped, turned, and smiled with slow, wicked satisfaction. “That’s worse, remember?”

For one dangerous second, Adrian imagined crossing the room, backing her against the nearest wall, and showing her exactly how much worse he could be.

He dismissed the thought immediately.

Then disliked that it had appeared at all.

“Car’s downstairs,” he said.

Aria’s smile widened as if she had somehow heard every treacherous thing he hadn’t said. “Lead the way, Mr. Robot.”

Mia burst out laughing.

Adrian looked at Aria. “Mr. what?”

“Mr. Robot,” she repeated, perfectly serene. “You’re emotionally unavailable, aggressively organized, and you probably alphabetize your ammunition.”

“I don’t alphabetize ammunition.”

Aria stepped into the elevator and lifted a brow. “You see? That sounded offended.”

“It was inaccurate.”

“Sure it was.”

Mia slipped in beside Aria, still grinning. “I like it. Mr. Robot suits him.”