Chapter One

Alessia

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought hammers through my skull as I stand on this godforsaken Chicago Street, surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken dreams. Graffiti tags cover every surface like infected wounds, and the smell of piss and decay hits me like a physical blow, making my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood a Moretti wife should be caught dead in…

Which is exactly why I’m here.

I pause near a rusted fire escape, pretending to check my reflection in a shop window that’s completely cracked. The movement lets me scan the street behind me without being obvious about it. Old habits die hard, and paranoia has kept me alive this long. A black sedan idles at the corner, exhaust puffing gray clouds into the autumn air. The driver’s been there since I arrived twenty minutes ago. Too long for it to be a coincidence.

My phone buzzes against my ribs, the vibration sharp enough to make me flinch. Only three people have this number, and one of them is dead. Has been for forty-five days now.

The caller ID makes my stomach clench: Don Emilio Moretti.

My father-in-law. The man who owns half of Chicago’s politicians and all of its fear. I can’t ignore him—no one ignores Don Emilio and lives to regret it. But answering means lying, and I’m so fucking tired of lying.

“Papà,” I say, forcing warmth into my voice as I accept the call. The Italian rolls off my tongue like honey, sweet and practiced. “How are you feeling today?”

“Alessia.” His voice cuts through the phone line like broken glass—sharp, cold, unforgiving. Even through the speaker, it carries the weight of absolute authority. “Where are you?”

My free hand finds the small knife tucked inside my purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight. Lorenzo gave it to me on our wedding night, a pretty little thing with a pearl handle. For protection, he’d said, not knowing I’d learn to sleep with it under my pillow. Protection from him.

“At the doctor’s office,” I lie smoothly, my eyes never leaving the street. A man pretends to read a newspaper across the street, but the pages haven’t turned once since I’ve been watching. “Getting some routine tests done. Nothing to worry about.”

“Tests.” The word hangs in the air like smoke. “What kind of tests, daughter?”

Daughter. He only calls me that when he wants something, or when he’s about to deliver bad news. Sometimes both.

“Just follow-up care, Papà. You know how doctors are—they want to monitor everything, especially with…” I let my voice trail off, leaving the implication hanging. The pregnancy that doesn’t exist. The grandchild that will never be born. The lie that’s kept me alive for forty-five days.

“Sì, of course.” His tone softens fractionally, and I can picture him in his study, surrounded by the dark wood and darker secrets that define the Moretti legacy. “The memorial is in one hour, Alessia. You will be there.”

It’s not a request. Don Emilio doesn’t make requests—he issues commands, and smart people follow them. The forty-day memorial for Lorenzo. Catholic tradition demands it, and the Morettis bow to tradition when it suits them.

“Of course,” I say, checking my watch. The appointment inside will take ten minutes, fifteen at most. Plenty of time to get this done and make it home to play the grieving widow. Again. “I’ll be back within the hour.” “Good.” A pause, long enough for me to wonder what he’s thinking, what he knows. “And Alessia? Take care of yourself. That baby is precious to all of us.”

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the cracked window. Dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, golden-brown eyes that have learned to hide too much, skin that’s finally lost the sickly pallor it carried for months. I look like a respectable mafia wife. The perfect widow.

If only they knew the truth.

I turn away from the window and face the building that is the reason I am in this neighborhood. The Chicago Family Health Center squats between a check-cashing place and a store that definitely doesn’t sell the kind of merchandise advertised in its blacked-out windows. The clinic’s sign flickers on and off, the ‘H’ in ‘Health’ strobing like a dying heartbeat. Paint peels from the door frame, and the single window facing the street is covered with bars that have seen better years.

It’s perfect. No one from my world would ever set foot in a place like this, which makes it invisible. And invisibility, I’ve learned, is its own kind of power.

The door sticks when I push it, requiring actual effort to get inside. The waiting room is a study in despair—worn linoleum floors in a color that might have once been white, fluorescent lights that flicker and buzz like dying insects, and the kind of furniture that’s designed to be uncomfortable. The air tastes of antiseptic and something fouler underneath, something that speaks of too many desperate people passing through these doors.

A receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass, her eyes the color of old pennies and just as lifeless. She doesn’t look up when I enter, doesn’t acknowledge my existence until I tap my knuckles against her window.

“Name?” she asks, voice flat as roadkill.

“Smith,” I say. “I have an appointment with Dr. Carter.”

She consults a schedule that looks like it was typed on a machine from the Carter administration, running one chipped fingernail down the page. “Room three. He’ll be with you shortly.”

I take a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs, crossing my legs carefully and keeping my purse close. The knife inside feels heavier now, more necessary. Two other people wait in the small space—a teenager who can’t be more than sixteen, staring at her hands with the kind of desperation that makes my chest tight, and an older woman whose face tells stories I don’t want to read.

This is where hope comes to die, where desperate people make desperate choices. Where Mrs. Lorenzo Moretti can become just another woman with a problem that money can solve.

“Smith?” A voice calls from the hallway, and I stand smoothly, years of finishing school posture serving me well even here. Dr. Carter stands in the doorway to room three, and he’s exactly what I expected—sleazy smile, receding hairline, and gold teeth that catch the fluorescent light. His white coat has seen better days, and there’s a stain near the pocket that I choose not to identify.

“Doctor,” I say, extending my hand with the kind of cool politeness that comes naturally after years of charity galas and political dinners. He takes it, his palm soft and damp.

“Come in, come in,” he says, gesturing toward the examination room. It’s cleaner than the waiting area, but not by much. “Please, have a seat.”

I remain standing, my chin lifted in the way that used to make Lorenzo’s eyes go dark with rage. Power pose, my mother called it, back when she was alive to give advice. Back before the Morettis decided the Ricci family had outlived their usefulness.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “We both know why I’m here, Doctor.” The words taste bitter—I’d had to take an enormous risk calling him, speaking in careful euphemisms about ‘documentation’ and ‘discretion.’ “You know this isn’t a medical consultation.”

His smile falters for a moment, revealing something calculating underneath. “Of course, of course. Though I do usually recommend at least a brief examination, for authenticity’s sake—”

“No.” The word cuts through the air like a blade. I let my smile turn sharp, the kind that used to make servant girls scatter when I was still naive enough to think I had power. “I’m not here for your medical expertise. I’m here for your flexible morals.”

He actually laughs at that, a sound like gravel in a blender. “You’re certainly more direct than most of my… patients.”

“I find directness saves time,” I say, setting my purse on his desk and opening it with deliberate care. The knife catches the light, and his eyes track the movement. Good. Let him wonder if I’m desperate enough to use it. “Time I don’t have to waste on pretenses.”

Inside my purse, beneath the knife and next to the compact mirror I never use, is a thick envelope. I remove it carefully, feeling the weight of necessity and desperation.

Fifteen thousand dollars in cash, money I’d scraped together from jewelry sales during my carefully orchestrated shopping trips, skimming from the household accounts, and a small emergency fund my mother had made me promise to keep hidden for exactly this kind of desperate moment.

I set the envelope on his desk, the bills making a soft sound against the scarred wood. “For this amount,” I say, meeting his eyes steadily, “you’ve never seen me. You never will again. And the documentation you provide will be flawless.”

Dr. Carter lifts the envelope, feeling its weight with the practiced touch of someone who’s made this trade before. He doesn’t count it, we both know I’m good for it, but he opens it enough to see the bills inside. Hundreds, mostly, because fifties and twenties would make the stack too thick.

“Understood,” he says, tucking the envelope into his desk drawer. From the same drawer, he produces a manila envelope, sealed and official-looking. The clinic’s letterhead is printed across the top, the kind of detail that makes forgeries convincing. “Your results, Mrs… Smith.”

I take the envelope, feeling the weight of my future inside. “Pregnancy test?”

“Positive.” He settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. “Lab work confirms high hormone levels that match about ten weeks of pregnancy.” He pauses, studying my face. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” I slip the envelope into my purse, next to the knife that’s kept me safe and the phone that connects me to my cage. “This transaction is complete.”

“Of course.” But he doesn’t look away, and something in his expression makes my skin crawl. “Though I do hope you’ll remember where to find me, should you need any… future services.”

I’m already moving toward the door, my heels clicking against the linoleum with sharp sounds. “Doctor, for both our sakes, I hope I never see you again.”

The waiting room feels smaller now. I nod once to the receptionist, who still doesn’t look up, and push through the sticky door.

The air outside tastes like freedom and fear in equal measure. I’ve done it—bought myself another month, maybe two, of protection under the Moretti umbrella. As long as they think I’m carrying Lorenzo’s child, I’m valuable. Untouchable. But the moment they discover the truth…

I don’t let myself finish that thought.

My car sits where I left it, a modest sedan that doesn’t attract attention. I chose it specifically for that reason, the Maserati would have marked me as clearly as a neon sign in this neighborhood. As I walk toward it, my heels clicking against broken concrete, I feel eyes on me. The same sensation I’ve lived with for forty-five days, the weight of being watched.

The black sedan is still there. The newspaper man has moved closer, his position shifting just enough to keep me in sight. My fingers find the knife again, and I adjust my grip on my purse, making sure I can reach it quickly if needed.

I’m almost to my car when it happens.

Footsteps behind me, moving too fast, too determined. I spin, my hand already reaching for the knife, but I’m not fast enough. A hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I jerk away with practiced desperation.

“Don’t…” I start to say, but the word dies as a black SUV screeches around the corner, tires screaming against asphalt. The door flies open before it even stops moving, and hands—multiple hands—grab for me.

I twist, my body moving on instincts learned through months of survival, but there are too many of them. My fingers close around the knife’s handle just as something sharp bites into my upper arm. A needle, I realize with crystal clarity, even as warmth spreads through my veins like honey.

“No,” I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, hollow. The knife falls from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete like a death knell. My legs give out, and I’m falling, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me.

The last thing I see before darkness swallows everything is the envelope from the clinic, scattered papers drifting across the dirty street like snow. Like the ashes of all my carefully laid plans.

Then nothing.

Chapter Two

Matteo

She’s beautiful, even like this.

The thought hits me as I watch the surveillance footage for the third time, my fingers drumming against the steel table in my Manhattan warehouse. On the screen, my men carry an unconscious woman from the SUV, her dark auburn hair spilling over strong arms like silk. Even drugged and limp, there’s something about her that commands attention. Something dangerous.

Alessia Moretti. Lorenzo’s widow. The woman who started a war.

I check my watch. She’s been out for a few hours. The sedative should be wearing off soon.

“Boss.” Marco appears at my elbow, young and eager, still trying to prove himself worthy of the Romano name. “She’s stirring.”

I push back from the table and straighten my suit jacket. Armani, black as my reputation, tailored to perfection. Details matter in this business. Power is in the presentation as much as the action.

“Time we had a conversation.”

The room where we’re holding her is exactly what it needs to be. Windowless, dark, with only the faintest light seeping in from under the door. No decoration, no comfort, nothing to distract from the reality of her situation. Just concrete walls, a single chair, and the kind of silence that makes people want to talk.

I position myself in the deepest shadows and wait, watching her slowly return to consciousness. There is a single, dim lightbulb shining over her. She’s already awake, though she’s trying to hide it. Her breathing is too controlled, too measured for someone truly unconscious. Smart, but I’ve seen enough people come around from drugs to know the difference.

I can see her testing her restraints carefully, the zip ties around her wrists, trying to piece together what happened. Her head must be pounding from the sedative—it always does—but she’s fighting through it, thinking, calculating.

After three minutes of this charade, I decide to end it.

“Awake at last.”

She jerks toward my voice, and I watch her strain her eyes trying to see me in the darkness. Her heart rate picks up—I can see it in the pulse jumping at her throat—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t beg. Interesting.

“What’s a woman like you doing in such a bad neighborhood?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. The kind of tone that makes smart people nervous.

“My business is none of your concern,” she snaps back, and I’m impressed that her voice barely shakes.

“Well-bred girls like you shouldn’t wander into neighborhoods like that, principessa. It invites trouble.”

“That still doesn’t give you the right to kidnap me,” she fires back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my name is not principessa. ”

I chuckle, genuinely amused. Most people in her position would be sobbing by now. “Bold words for someone tied up and alone.”

I start moving, circling her in the darkness, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. She tries to track the sound, turning her head to follow my voice, but in the complete blackness that surrounds her, she’s blind.

Her vision adjusts when I walk out of the darkest shadow, her golden-brown eyes find me immediately. I’m standing just outside the circle of light, but she can make out enough. I watch her catalog details with quick intelligence—my height, my build, the expensive cut of my suit.

To my surprise, she doesn’t cower. Instead, she lifts her chin in defiance, meeting my stare with more backbone than most men show me.

I step into the light, letting her see me clearly for the first time. The scar along my jaw catches the light, a reminder of the night my father died.

My tattoos are visible at my wrists, dark ink that speaks of a world she’s only glimpsed from the protected heights of Moretti society. I know I carry myself with the controlled presence that has made grown men piss themselves.

Yet she doesn’t look away.

I can see her mind working, trying to piece together what’s happening. “How long was I unconscious?” she asks, her voice steady despite her situation.

“Long enough,” I say simply.

Her eyes narrow as she processes this. “The Morettis will be looking for me. They’ll tear Chicago apart—”

“They’ll have to expand their search,” I tell her, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. “Welcome to New York. My territory.”

The color drains from her face as the implications sink in. The kind of operation this represents, the resources required to move someone across state lines without detection. Her breathing quickens slightly, but she fights to maintain composure. “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

She studies my face intently, looking for clues. “Should I?”

“Most people would say yes.”

We stare at each other, me patient as death, her trying to put pieces together. I can practically see the wheels turning—Chicago to New York, the kind of operation this represents, the casual way I talk about territory.

Then recognition clicks, and her face goes pale.

“Romano,” she breathes.

I smile, and it’s not a nice expression. “Getting warmer.”

“Matteo Romano.” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “Il Diavolo.”

“Clever girl.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, and I catch something breathless in her voice.

“You’re the reason the Morettis declared war,” I tell her, watching her face carefully for tells.

Her eyes widen with what looks like genuine shock. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“Sure you do.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing my words. “I told them Lorenzo was murdered by unknown attackers. If they declared war on you, that decision was theirs, not based on anything I said.” I study her with the patience of a predator, weighing her words, looking for the lies underneath. But there’s something in her denial that rings true. Or maybe she’s just a very good actress.

“Someone so small and gentle shouldn’t cause such problems,” I murmur, moving closer.

I reach out slowly, making sure she can see the movement coming. Her eyes track my hand but she doesn’t pull away when I trace one finger along her cheek. Her skin is soft, unmarked by the kind of violence that shapes people like me.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, jerking her head away from my touch.

But I don’t stop. I let my finger trail along her jawline, curious to see what she’ll do.

Quick as a snake, her teeth close on my finger—hard, sharp, aiming for bone. I pull back just in time, genuinely impressed by her speed and viciousness.

I laugh, I can’t help it. When was the last time someone tried to bite me? “There she is. I was wondering when the real Alessia Moretti would show up.”

The sound of my laughter makes fury blaze in her eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re far more interesting than I expected.”

“Interesting enough to let me go?” she shoots back.

“Interesting enough to keep you alive.”

Her jaw tightens. “How generous.”

“I can be.” I circle her chair slowly, and her head turns to follow my movement, cataloging every step. “Tell me about your husband’s enemies.”

“I wouldn’t know. Lorenzo didn’t discuss business with me.”

“Of course not. Good wives don’t ask questions.” I pause behind her chair, and her shoulders tense. “But smart wives listen.”

“Maybe I’m not that smart.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug, but her eyes cut away, lashes lowering as if to hide something she doesn’t want me to read. Her fingers curl tight against the armrest, betraying nerves her voice tries to disguise.

“Oh, but you are.” I move back into her line of sight. “Smart enough to survive four months of marriage to Lorenzo Moretti. That takes considerable skill.”

Something flickers across her face—too quick to read, but not quick enough to hide.

“You’re fishing,” she says.

“I’m conversing.”

A sound from the darkness makes her eyes dart toward the shadows where my men wait—shapes she can sense but not see. Her breathing changes, just slightly, as she counts the invisible presences surrounding us.

I see the moment it truly hits her. Her knuckles go white around the arms of the chair, her breath stutters, and her throat works in a hard swallow she can’t quite finish. Her pupils dilate, eyes darting to the shadowed corners, as if she’s counting threats she can’t see. Her composure slips in that fraction of a second, enough to show she’s realized the truth: this isn’t some street kidnapping — she’s sitting in the grip of power itself.

Before I can push further, the door opens. Light spills in from the hallway, and Enzo enters first, lean and deadly, his serpent tattoo visible in the dim light. Behind him comes my brother Luca, younger, softer-featured, but carrying the Romano name with quiet authority.

“Matteo,” Luca says, and something in his tone tells me we have a problem. I glance between my men and the woman tied to the chair. She’s watching this exchange with curious eyes; no doubt cataloging names and faces and power dynamics even in her helpless state.

I’m about to leave when she speaks up.

“Are you planning to keep me tied up forever?”

The question is pure defiance, thrown at me like a challenge. Not a plea from a broken woman but a demand from someone who refuses to accept defeat. Even now, even helpless, she’s trying to seize some small measure of control.

I turn back to her fully, and for a moment, I feel something almost like admiration for her unbreakable spirit.

“You belong to me now, principessa, ” I tell her, letting the Italian endearment carry both promise and threat. “What happens to you will be decided by me alone.”

I leave her in the chair. The door shuts behind me, the lock snapping into place.

Luca and Enzo are waiting in the hallway, faces tight.

“The head injury isn’t serious,” Enzo reports, rolling up his sleeves, serpent tattoo catching the light. “No fracture, no bleeding. She’ll have a headache, but nothing lasting.”

A hostage with a broken mind is useless and we both know that. Relief flickers through me, though I bury it.

Luca shifts uneasily, the way he always has before delivering bad news. “We searched her belongings. Purse, keys, phone. The usual. But there was also an envelope from the Chicago Family Health Center. Pregnancy test results. Positive. Ten weeks old.”

I take this in without surprise. Of course, she’s pregnant. It explains everything—their desperation, Emilio’s recklessness. A widow carrying the Moretti heir is worth starting a war over.

“Expected,” I say flatly. “Emilio wouldn’t spill blood over a barren widow. The child makes her invaluable.”

That should be the end of it. Yet something gnaws at me. That clinic—wrong part of town, the kind of place the Morettis would never send their women. And her denials during interrogation… not fearful.

“I want Dr. Reeves to confirm the pregnancy,” I decide. My tone leaves no room for argument. “If we’re going to use her as leverage, I need certainty. I don’t deal in assumptions.”

Both men nod, and I turn away, already thinking about my next move.

War isn’t won on luck. It’s won on information. And Alessia Moretti’s truth is about to become mine.

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Chapter One

Isabelle

I was in a terrible mood. I knew it, my friends knew it, hell, even the noisy kid who sat behind me on the flight knew it.

The moment the plane landed, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my family to let them know that my plane had landed safely in Italy.

“My valium didn’t kick in, can you believe that? I’m so stressed out that even Valium couldn’t calm me.” I texted my mom, who had been trying to get me to back out of this trip for the past two weeks.

Half a second later, my phone rang. “Hi mom.” I said.

“You know, it’s not too late to turn around and get on a plane back home.” She suggested, and that made me laugh.

“I can’t do that, and you know why.”

“I know, I know, you’re the maid of honor. Honestly, I don’t know why you accepted. If she’s going to have a destination wedding, the most she can do is provide for your transportation.” I sighed. It was a topic that mom had a lot to say about.

“Mom, I’m already here. I just want to make the best of it.” I responded in a tired tone, feeling resigned. Already, my mind was running through the checklist of things I had to do. As the maid of honor, I had some tasks and although I told them I would be late, I was still responsible for helping the bride.

Once the call ended, I considered switching my phone off. My attention was drawn to the carousel, where I spotted my bag. In one swift motion, I stepped forward and pulled it off. From the corner of my eyes, I could see a hand reach for my bag too, but I swiftly moved it out of the way. I didn’t bother looking at the person because I believed it was probably a mistake and I was in a hurry to take a shower and take a nap.

“Hey! Signorina!” I heard someone yell behind me alongside a pair of frenzied footsteps running in my direction. The voice was in a thick Italian accent, and although I hadn’t seen the speaker, I could practically feel the magnetism rolling off the low voice.

I looked around briefly, but the crush of the crowd made it hard for me to see anything, so I quickly put it out of my mind.

My arm felt weighed down a bit by my bag, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was tired and cranky, and no doubt that made my luggage feel heavier than it had when I had checked it in.

“I just need to get to the hotel and rest.” I mumbled to myself, feeling quite exhausted from both the trip and the crush of people all around me.

As I walked, I kept my head down, relying on spotting the feet before me to avoid bumping into anyone. It proved to be an efficient method until I spotted a pair of black leather shoes blocking my way. Without looking up, I moved to the left, intending to sidestep the person, but the person moved to the left too. When I moved to the right, the person did the same. Finally, I lost my temper and looked up so I could face whoever it was squarely.

At first glance, I was stunned. A man stood before me with tanned skin, broad shoulders, dark hair and even darker eyes. He had a sharp look in his eyes, like an eagle looking at its prey. He was wearing a dark suit that sat on his body so well that I had no doubt it was tailored. A had a gold watch on his wrist, and his hands were clenched into fists.

“Who sent you? Where are you going with my bag?” He asked, making me raise an eyebrow. I turned my gaze to the bag I was pulling behind me. It was black with a bright red tag dangling from its handle. It was a distinctive thing, so I knew that I was not mistaken. It felt like the interruption from the man before me was some kind of scam.

“This is my bag. You need to get lost and try your scam somewhere else.” His eyebrows raised at my words, and the look in his eyes grew even sharper, like an unsheathed blade.

“American?” He asked in a thick Italian accent.

“What’s it to you?” I asked.

“Lady, you have my bag and you’re refusing to give it back,” he said as in one swift motion, he stepped forward and grabbed the bag.

“Lady? Buddy, I’m saying you’re trying to scam the wrong girl. You think I don’t know what my bag looks like? I just had it on the carousel.” I felt like the unreasonable one as my voice grew louder, but I didn’t take kindly to being called lady.

Something about how loud I was being must have frightened him because he took a step back before looking around. However, he couldn’t move too far because we were both clutching the bag.

“Let’s be reasonable, why would I want your bag?” He asked after taking a deep breath.

“I could ask you the same thing, pal.” Him telling me to be reasonable just managed to piss me off even more.

“I’ve tried to be nice but I don’t have time for this, lady, let go of my bag now.” All traces of patience were gone as he spoke. Something about his aura shifted as he looked angry and dangerous. The shift scared me for one moment before I felt a quick rush of courage.

“This bag is mine, and since you’re not going to listen, I’m just going to prove it to you.” I finally snapped, tired of going back and forth with him.

I swiftly pinched the zipper before pulling it open so he could see the contents of the bag.

“All the stuff in here is mine…” My words trailed off as my gaze fell on the contents of the bag.

Money. Stacks of it. Clear bags of white powder. Maybe drugs. And worse, four black handguns. There was no mistaking them for anything else.

I could feel the blood drain out of my face. Immediately after I saw those things, I let go of the bag as fast as I could. My hands started trembling and I slowly lifted my gaze from the bag to the man holding it. I couldn’t see the expression on his face through the blur of the tears that were forming in my eyes.

“See? Definitely not my bag.” I managed to stammer. However, I didn’t need to see the look on his face to tell that I was in serious trouble.

Chapter Two

Vincenzo

I had just met this woman, but she was already getting on my nerves in ways that I couldn’t have imagined. I could see the fear in her hazel brown eyes and I couldn’t help but sigh. All of this could have been avoided if she had not been so stubborn. I had started to get suspicious when she had been so adamant to claim that the bag was hers. Who had sent her?

I looked into her eyes and I thought I saw a hint of a plea there, but I knew I couldn’t let her go. This woman might not have just been a random stranger. Who knows which one of my enemies may have sent her?

I zipped up the bag quickly, making sure not to take my eyes off of her. She had already seen its contents, who knew what she would do next?

With one hand I picked up the bag and slung it over my shoulder, with the other, I pulled her close to me, her brown curls coming loose from her updo and cascading down her back. Quickly, I brought out my gun from my jacket and held it firmly against her small waist. I could feel her whole body go stiff the moment she felt the cold metal against her side.

“Don’t make a scene,” I whispered, moving even closer to her. I took in a whiff of her scent. She smelled amazing. I could feel every hair on my body standing straight. Who the fuck was this strange woman, and why did she have such an effect on me’ I liked it and hated it at the same time.

“Focus,” I thought, snapping myself out of it. Now was not the time to bask in this strange woman’s scent, or even admire how beautiful her hair sat in soft curls on her shoulders.

Her eyes were now as wide as golf balls and looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. I could see that she was scared and it almost made me smile; what had happened to the confident woman from a minute ago? It was then that I noticed that her eyes were not just hazel brown, they also had emerald green specs in them.

“You’re coming with me,” I whispered, pulling her close and taking in more of her scent. She smelled like roses with a hint of chocolate, and it was slowly becoming addictive.

“One wrong move and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

I could tell that she understood the gravity of the situation then.

“Walk,” I said, holding her tighter. I made sure there was enough force in my voice that she would take me seriously.

I ignored the looks of people around me and continued to move towards the entrance. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but I knew that my face and my demeanor was keeping them at bay. They dared not approach. When we got there, I signaled to my driver to bring the car closer. He nodded and moved the car in front of us.

“Where…?” she started to ask, but a look from me shut her up immediately. She was practically shaking, but I didn’t care. If she was really my enemy, she deserved what was coming to her.

My driver stepped out and opened the back door for me to enter. I kept ignoring the inquisitive looks of those around me and shoved her into the back of the car.

“Get in,” I said. She seemed like she was about to resist, so I pushed her harder until she was fully seated. I couldn’t afford for her to make a scene in a place that was as crowded as the airport, it would not end well.

I didn’t need to tell my driver what to do, because as soon as the door closed, he sped off, away from the airport, leaving the bustling terminal behind. I didn’t take my eyes off her for a second. I had a feeling that if I let my guard down, she would do something stupid. I watched her, waiting for her to make a move, but she didn’t; she just sat there, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I kept the gun trained on her still, unwilling to give her any chance; who knew what she was capable of. I no longer had to hide it, so I lifted it a little bit higher, directly above her chest.

All of a sudden, she started breathing heavily, casing the gun to move up and down. She was looking around frantically, as if she suddenly realized how much danger she was in.

“Keep quiet and behave,” I said, lifting the gun so that it was now pointed at her head. She calmed down instantly, raising her hands a little as if trying to tell me that she was up to nothing. I let my grip on the gun relax, not because I trusted her, but because I knew that I could overpower her if she tried anything. The car was now very silent, the tension so thick that it was palpable. I cleared my throat and began to speak.

“We are heading to my estate. There, we will have a little chat about your involvement in all of this.”

She said nothing, she just continued to stare into the distance. She was now gripping her thighs. I could tell that she was scared. Even though she was scared, she clenched her jaw, staring stubbornly ahead.

I suddenly became curious about her. Who exactly was she? If she had been sent to spy on me, at this point she probably would have started begging for her life and spilling the secrets of the master that sent her, but instead she was quiet. She said nothing, she didn’t even look at me. She looked scared and stubborn at the same time. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

She then turned to look out the window, gazing at the sights around us. It was like she was looking at everything except me. I shrugged, thinking that it was probably because I was her captor.

I looked outside and saw that the sun was already setting over Palermo. Though it was beautiful, it meant I had to hurry and get to the bottom of the situation that I found myself in.

Her eyes were now darting nervously around, I just watched her. It was good that she was nervous, that was more of a normal reaction than her staring straight ahead. She was probably reacting that way because of the opulent gate we were driving into.

The estate, a sprawling villa nestled among the trees sat ominously at the top of a hill. I glanced at her and I could see that she was still looking around nervously. Her face was now pale, and her knuckles white as she gripped her seat.

The tall gates were open, revealing meticulously maintained gardens and

the imposing mansion that served as the Caruso family’s stronghold.

“Out,” I ordered, as soon as the car came to a stop.

She hesitated for a moment before she finally stepped out. She took one hesitant step after the other before she stood, looking around her in awe and a little bit of apprehensiveness.

I quickly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the entrance. She got the message and started to move, matching my steps. Soon we passed the foyer and went up the staircase. I could tell that she was trying to hide her emotions, I could tell that the house was very impressive to her. I had lived there all my life so I was no longer moved by the grandeur of the mansion.

Soon, we reached the guest room and I dragged her to the bed, waiting for her to snap out of whatever she was feeling.

“You will stay here,” I said, in a calm tone. I wanted her to understand that I was serious, “Don’t even try to escape,” I said, looking straight at her.

I could see a flash of defiance in her eyes, but I ignored it. She would realize soon enough that there was no escape. Even if she tried to run, she wouldn’t get far. The room was far too high for her to use the window, and if she ran, one of my staff members would shoot her before even letting me know, because that was just standard practice, and they were always watching.

I closed the door behind me and locked it. I waited a moment, knowing I would hear her try to open it. When she did, I almost laughed, then I shook my head and left. She just doesn’t listen.

“Pietro!” I called, putting as much volume behind my voice as I could. I knew he was around the house, and I needed him now.

He appeared soon enough, with an eyebrow raised, as if asking me what I needed. Pietro and I had always been different. He was a calmer, more relaxed version of me, but that didn’t mean that he was any less dangerous. We had received the same training, we had had to, for our survival. Even now, he was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt with sunglasses while I was in a dress shirt, pants and dress shoes. He was my second in command, the one I asked to do almost everything when I wasn’t available. I trusted my brother with my life.

“Take the suitcase to the buyer,” I said, giving him the box, “make sure everything goes smoothly.” Pietro already knew about the suitcase so I didn’t need to explain too much. He also understood how important the suitcase was and why it had to get to the buyer. Pietro nodded, not needing an explanation.

After he left, I went back to the guest room and unlocked the door, taking a moment to prepare myself for the interrogation ahead.

When I entered the room, she was pacing nervously. She was moving so fast that it was almost dizzying. She also didn’t notice that I had entered the room until I stood in front of her. She stopped immediately, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. I stood on the tips of my toes like a cheetah about to pounce. I didn’t know what to expect from her.

“What is your name?” I asked.

She looked confused and then shocked.

“I said what is your name, do you not speak English?”

“Isabelle,” she said. She looked both confused and shocked that she had spoken..

“Sit, Isabelle,” I commanded, pointing to a chair by the window.

She looked like she had something to say, but she moved quietly to the chair, albeit reluctantly.

“Why are you in Palermo?” I asked, standing directly in front of her. I made sure to sound as serious as possible, so that she knew I wasn’t playing.

Isabelle took a deep breath then started talking. She was talking about a lot of things but at the same time she wasn’t saying much. I realized that she had started rambling out of nervousness. I let her speak, perhaps I could find something useful if I listened well.

“I’m here for my best friend’s wedding. I didn’t even want to come, but she insisted. My ex-boyfriend is the groom, and it’s just… it’s a nightmare, honestly. I thought your suitcase was mine. It was an honest mistake!”

I raised an eyebrow, watching her speak. For someone who seemed so quiet, she certainly talked a lot. It was a bit comical, the speed at which she was talking. If not for the seriousness of the situation, I might have laughed.

“You really expect me to believe everything you just said?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.

“Yes!” She answered immediately. I just continued to stare at her, really studying her. I searched her eyes and saw that there was nothing but earnestness there. In my line of business, you had to be very good at reading people, and I was not sensing a single bit of deceit from her.

“Do you understand what you saw in that suitcase?”

I was leaning down now, making sure that my eyes were on the same level as hers.

She nodded, swallowing hard, so hard that I could see the lump go down her throat.

“Ye-yes, I’m not stupid,” she was stuttering now, just like that, her confidence has evaporated, “I know what it is, I also know that it’s illegal.” She paused, searching my eyes. She was trying to figure out if she had said something wrong.

“Oh really?” I asked, raising a brow, “do you understand what happens to people who get involved in things like this?”

She froze. Leaning back a little, I could tell that I had scared her. Good. I maintained my stance, making sure not to look away from her eyes. I saw see fear in them for a second, then it faded away, she now looked defiant.

“You can’t kill me,” she said, her voice firm at first, then trembling. “I’m supposed to be at the wedding. If I don’t show up, people will notice. Authorities will be alerted. I’m the maid of honor. It’s the wedding of the year.”

I leaned back, looking at her, trying to figure out if she was lying. She never once looked away from my gaze. She was telling the truth.

If she was right, then I really couldn’t get rid of her. I couldn’t afford to draw attention from the American police right now. It could jeopardize my position in the election for the Cupola, I needed to be careful.

“Fine,” I said, with a long sigh. I was going to play along, for now, “if your story checks out, you can go to the wedding.”

I rolled my eyes when she mumbled a weak “Thank you.” She must’ve thought she’d be free to go.

She didn’t know I had a condition.

“But, I’m coming with you. And I won’t let you leave my sight, not even for a second.”

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Chapter 1

Virgilio

This devil is out to bargain.

After being cleared by some bodyguards just outside the door, I step into the VIP section of this Bratva-owned club.

I stop at the entrance and scan the room. It is not my turf, and while I do not feel uncomfortable in any way, I know it’s better to study the environment you are entering, just in case.

That is why I also brought along four bodyguards.

I finally spot Mikhail, the Bratva Pakhan I’m here to see, sprawled on a semi-circle French rose lounge couch, with fairy lights in the same color hanging down from its headrest to the floor.

This will be a simple and quick negotiation.

I take a step in Mikhail’s direction. At the same time, a girl in a glimmering, deep-colored, very skimpy bikini with fairy-like feathers strapped to her, saunters elegantly on strappy heels to his table with a champagne bucket and bottle, and flutes.

She is an exotic dancer, and I’m fully aware that after this meeting, this place will be crowded with men who come here to have their pick for the night.

I know these are girls who no longer own their lives. They have been kidnapped and reduced to nothing but objects. This bar is exclusive for a reason. The girls have nowhere to go and are at the mercy of the Bratva until they outlive their use.

“Ettore Russo,” Mikhail calls to me. “Welcome.” The man has always blended perfectly with all the trends.

I already hate more than half the human population, so my hatred for him is just a grain of sand on the beach.

I strut to him. No rush.

“Champagne?” Mikhail asks as I approach him, hand pointing for me to take the seat beside him. It is another semi-circle lounge couch with a better view of the cubicles.

“Water,” I sit. “Thank you.” I ignore his drawn-together eyebrows at my request for water, and after contemplating it for a while, he snaps his fingers at the girl who brought the champagne.

She tips her head, and then with the same grace, she saunters to the large, stretched bar under the hanging cubicles to a bartender dressed in the same slutty fairy costume.

“The bartender makes a good mix with eh…” he circles his forefinger, trying to remember, and then snaps his finger when it comes to him, “bourbon, scotch, or whiskey,” he smiles, leaning into his seat with satisfaction for remembering and thinking he sounds classy.

Never seen a man with so much access to class and yet no class of his own.

It is not how he dresses; he pays to look good and he mostly does look put together. He is buffed, tall, and very lousy.

Other than his appearance, though, every single thing that comes out of his mouth that isn’t business-related is classless. It speaks of the rottenness inside the man.

The girl returns with a tray holding a glass of water with a slice of cucumber. She stops by the table beside my seat, and without meeting my eyes, she drops the tray.

“She is beautiful,” Mikhail swells. “All my fairies are.” He taps his lap, and the girl goes over to him, but instead of sitting on it, she kneels beside him and drops her head on his lap, tilting her head in a way that one side of her cheek is on him, making her look like a loyal dog.

I’m bored. “Business?”

“Sure,” he clears his throat, “you never hover, Ettore. Always business, business, business,” he sways, like he is making music with the word, thickening his accent, “All work and no play…” I scowl at him, and he grunts, “Fine, business.”

I’m here to discuss an anti-trust agreement concerning our mutual supplier—the Colombian Cartel. There’s enough cake for both clans; we only have to figure out how to slice it.

“Good enough?” Mikhail asks after stating the conditions of our agreement that he thinks will be favorable to both parties.

“Good enough,” I will give it to him when it comes to business. He knows just how to handle things. He is practical, and I admire that.

“Good,” he claps his hands and pours himself some champagne. “We should do this more often,” he lifts his glass. Life shouldn’t be about business alone; men need to have fun,” he strokes the ponytail of the girl, who is still kneeling on the floor. “Too many toys for a grown man,” he chuckles. “Am I right?”

I won’t dignify his words with an answer. Because if I do, I might just undo whatever truce this meeting has done for both clans.

“I was told you are no fun,” he leans forward, bringing his stoned dark eyes to a snit.

“I have no time for fun while dealing with business matters, and I’m here for work, Mikhail,” I haven’t touched my glass of only the fucking devil knows what, so I pick it up for the sake of courtesy, and stroke the cold glass, enjoying the condensation. “But thank you for…”

My following line of words drowns as I catch a shocking sight in my peripheral vision.

I snap my head in the direction of what feels like a hallucination.

But it is not.

Zoe.

Hell, it is her. Unmistakably her. The light and heavy glitter makeup has done enough to mask her, but I would recognize her anywhere.

The exotic dancers in the cubicles retire, and Zoe, along with another lady dressed in the same fairy costumes, saunters elegantly up the stairs to the cubicles. I watch, unable to tear my eyes off her as she climbs in, waits for the song to cue her, and then starts to dance around the pole like a diva.

She is alive.

I sit straight but then remember where I am and regain my composure.

Zoe is alive. After fifteen fucking years, she is alive and has been under my nose all this while. A slave, stripping at the Bratva club for men who will buy her for the night and use her as a toy.

“See something you like?” Mikhail sips from his champagne.

“How much is she?” I cut to the chase, “The one on the left.”

“For the night or the weekend?” Mikhail leans forward, eager to sponsor this new side of me he sees for the first time, “I can let you have her for a night for free.”

“I want to keep her,” I lean back on my seat, masking my eagerness. I would raze down the club to get her out of here with me if possible. “Forever.”

“No,” Mikhail tuts and shakes his head, “She makes the costumes for the fairies, and people love that shit,” he sips his champagne and then shakes his head again as if he is still thinking about it, “Too valuable.”

“Everyone has a price, Mikhail,” I keep calm, but I want to rip him apart thinking of the inhuman ways Zoe must have been forced to survive, “Name it.”

She has been declared dead for fifteen years now. Was it he who took her and declared her dead to the press?

Fifteen fucking years of being a fucking sex slave.

I grit my teeth harder as I realize she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t meddled. She wouldn’t have had to fucking live this life if I hadn’t fucking intruded.

I brought this on her.

I can’t fucking leave here without her.

“A price, Mikhail,” fucking damn it, just say your fucking price, for fuck’s sake.

“Still no,” he says as he chugs his champagne, some of the liquid spilling on his beard and suit jacket. “Save your money. I can give you any other girl, but she is too valuable.”

I observe him, “Would six figures be a good start?” I lean forward, resting one elbow on my knee, and in this position, I can see him breaking. Ultimately, they got these girls to make money off them, “On top of it, I will allow you an open request for personal business in the future.”

Now, that one piques his interest, and he sets his champagne flute down on the table. He unbuttons his suit jacket and then harrumphs lousily.

He knows I’m quite influential in our world and very beneficial to anyone who has me on their side. I can give him access to the people he has spent all his bitter years trying to access.

“Five million dollars,” he thinks the amount will make me back away.

“Two million dollars,” I’m determined to bargain. But I’m all too aware that I’m willing to give him whatever he wants if he refuses. I want her. And I’m not leaving this club without her, “Two million and my influence, starting from getting you an invitation to the underground gala next month.”

“There is an underground gala happening next month?” He taps the cheek of the girl kneeling beside him, and she stands, taking that as a dismissal. She saunters away.

“Yes,” I know no one would invite him, especially not the host, but the host owes me a favor, and he can stand Mikhail for a few hours if I tell him to.

“And that’s just one thing I will be getting out of this?” He asks curiously, and I nod.

“Two more invitations and you can tell by the first that they will be completely worth it,” I wait for him to break.

It’s simple.

Being accepted means something to him. He has a wounded ego from being stereotyped. He wants to be accepted because, in truth, we are all made from the same soil. The men who won’t accept him are no lesser evil than he is.

“Three million,” he doesn’t mean it. He can take the two million. It’s an outrageous amount, but I know she is worth it.

I try not to look at her as I make my bargain so he doesn’t see my desperation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants this deal more than anything.

“Two million, but if you want three, I take back the invitation…”

“Two million is fine,” he shrugs, “I can let her go for two million,” he makes a sad face, putting up a caricature show as if he is losing something of irreplaceable value. To me, she is that and more. To him, he can cut the bullshit.

“So?” I lean back in my seat.

“I will get the paperwork ready; let her entertain you while I do that,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit and bringing out his phone. “I didn’t know you were into slaves.” He smiles as if he has just found a buddy in me.

“I’m not,” I set the glass of shit down on the table, then turn my eyes to stare at her as she spins around the pole, then slides down to do a split.

I’m not into slaves.

I’m into her.

Chapter 2

Virgilio

I try not to touch Zoe as I open the door of my car outside the VIP parking lot for her to go in.

I can’t help staring down at her. The same blue eyes that remind me of the glistening ocean on a sunny day. The same mousy brown hair, chin-length, a little duller than I used to remember, but still the same.

She stands by the door. Her hesitation is like a slingshot aimed at the door of my mind’s dungeon, where I locked up the memories that now make up all of my nightmares.

The last time I saw her, she hesitated. And maybe I should have listened.

She didn’t want to follow through with it, even though a part of her knew it was for her own good.

“Are you sure?” Zoe stuffs her mouth with peanuts like she always does whenever she is anxious, and right now, she is a wreck of nervousness.

“Yes,” I answer again. It doesn’t matter that she has been asking the same question since we got here; I will keep giving the same answer until we get out of here and for good. “You will love Milan,” I add because I have seen pictures, but it’s not that we are leaving just for the love of Milan.

Zoe is pursuing her dream of becoming a fashion designer, and I am pursuing my dream of watching her succeed.

We are so close to putting everything and everyone behind us, and each step we take, hands interlocked, leading to the airport terminal feels like a step into the promise of a new beginning for both of us.

She is leaving her abusive father behind, and so am I.

All the hard work she has put into designing and having me model for her became fruitful when she got picked to be part of the breaking-out designers to showcase their collection in this season’s Milan Fashion Week.

“We are never coming back,” she smiles, and then more peanuts get poured into her mouth directly from the pack.

No more covering up her bruises with makeup. No more masking her pain, pretending to be happy. Now, she can truly live and live freely. She has been given a shot and I’m grateful just to be a part of it.

We breeze through the crowd, and I can feel the excitement inside her just by glancing at her face from the corner of my eyes.

“Did you remember to get the toothbrush?” She asks, not stopping like she normally does when she remembers something she has forgotten.

“Yes,” I chuckle, “But I told you we don’t need to fly across countries with toothbrushes,” I resist the pinch to suck my teeth, “No one does that.”

“It’s better to be safe, to be prepared,” she ruffles through the pocket of her faded copper hoodie, my hoodie that she is never giving back. With her hand holding the pack of peanuts, she brings out a rumpled paper that is our to-do list: “You get rashes when you don’t use your soap. Did you bring a bar at least?”

I laugh now, loving that she remembers so much for both of us, “I will take a rash anytime in Milan with you…”

“Did you bring it, Virgilio?” She frowns, and I come in front of her, walking backward to give her my best reassuring smile that everything will be fine, but then, in the distance, I see him.

Cold skates through my veins and goosebumps rise on my skin, visible through the parts of my lower arms that aren’t covered by the folded sleeves of my ivory sweater.

Officer Joseph Gray.

Her father and, what’s worse, he is in his cop uniform, meaning he will be unstoppable. All he has to do is flash a badge and alert airport security that Zoe is his daughter.

I can’t let him win. We are so close to freedom. Maybe not we, but she is. She can go to Milan. I can always catch up with her. But if he gets her now, I doubt he will let her out of his sight ever again.

“I need to use the restroom,” I shrug out of my backpack and shove it to her, making her halt from the weight and force, “Zoe,” I keep my cool as best as I can, observing that Officer Gray is now standing and talking to airport security, “You go and never look back.”

She snorts, “You want to use the restroom, why would I not wait for you?”

I smile at her, then tenderly brush her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “Board the plane,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the lips. I savor the moment, knowing it will never be like I dreamed it to be. I wanted our first kiss to be in Milan.

She follows my gaze to see her father behind me, and her blue eyes go wide in panic, “No, I’m not leaving you behind, Virgilio, we are doing this together, please,” she grips my sweater, my backpack smothering between us, “You can’t be here alone with him. He will kill you.” 

“Listen, he must not see you. If he does, all of this will go to waste,” I drop my hands on her shoulders. “Get to Milan, and I will be right behind you, I promise.” I know I might never be able to keep my promise, but I make it anyway. “Go, now,” I bark.

She clasps my backpack to her chest, the one with all our savings, hesitation waving in her now teary eyes. She nods and then dashes past me to slip into the crowd.

I take a detour in case Joseph sees me so he doesn’t look straight behind me and find her. I aim towards him, and he lifts his eyes from the airport security to me.

“Where is she?” He thunders, his brows weaving in a straight line, his forehead beaded with sweat. Brown eyes like his hair, the same color as hers. Aside from that, they have nothing else in common. I have seen pictures of her mother and thank heavens she took after her.   

He closes the distance and tries to move past me, but I tackle him to the ground with all the strength I can muster.

Right now, the best form of defense is to attack him.

He is a big man, and I’m a tall kid, but I do not stand a chance with his build and height.

He switches, turning me over, and then the punches come down like a gush of wind. Everywhere he hits hurt like shit, and I’m screaming my guts out, spurting blood. He keeps hitting.

The pain is not unfamiliar thanks to my father but this feels different because, with every blow, I think of how she has had to endure this.

Even when someone tries to get him off me, he still manages to get them off to continue with his assault.

I’m fighting back as much as I can. Crowds gather, chaos breaks out, and it’s the perfect mix to keep buying her time. Just a little bit more and…

The announcement for our flight comes on, and I cave in, allowing my bruised body to rest before I push it too far and get dragged out of this airport as a dead body.

It would have been worth it to die for her, but she needs me alive.

I drop to the floor, but it’s fine.

The sound of the boarding call for her flight makes me smile as my body and mind fold into numbness.

She is on her way. She made it. And that means we made it.

Chapter 3

Zoe

Mine?

Why?

I stare at the bedroom I have been given in my new owner’s estate, tugging at his shirt—the one he took off to give to me when he noticed I was cold in his car.

Why would he give me his shirt?

I also wondered why he wasn’t saying anything or asking to sample his purchase.

I thought about the fact that I had never been owned for more than a few nights, and then, somehow, he bought me for himself. For life.

I flip my eyes from the queen-size bed covered in black sheets to the window behind it. A glass wall gives a view into the expanse of New York, one I have never been privileged enough to see.

Except for the whiskey-gold lights arranged around the floor and ceiling, my bedroom is completely black. The color scheme is the same as the charcoal-dipped exterior, with more whiskey-gold lights lining the rails of the staircase.

He cannot be handing this bedroom to me. I’m a slave. The only time I’m glamorized is when I have to perform on stage. It’s the only time I’m worthy of anything flashy or fancy. Not expensive, just eye-catching so I can make more money for my owner. Former owner.

This is not for me. I shake my head, taking a step back, refusing to accept this space as mine. It’s new and clean. It’s not a place for me.

I cringe at the neatness of it.

I can sleep in the garage or somewhere else. If he is giving me this, what would I have to do to earn it?

My former owner made me work and owned my body because it was a way to pay for the food I ate, the water I had access to, the mattress, and the four walls I was given. Still, I could never pay off their kindness.

What would I have to do to earn this?

I can feel his eyes on me as I step back again. His breathing on my neck spikes the hairs on my skin.

I gulp down nervous knots in my throat and take a step forward.

I turn to him, clasping my hands in front of me, feeling out of place since I’m still in my costume and this is not a stage. Or could it be what he wants me to be? A stripper. I can be that. I have been trained to be that.

I take cautious steps towards him, hearing the sound of my clattering heart and berserk pulse. He hasn’t said anything to me. He has been quiet. I don’t like quiet. It forces me to think. It forces me to remember. It forces me to accept reality.

I stop in front of him, not sure what to do with myself or what to do for him.

I do want him to say something. I want him to give me something to work with. Tell me what to do. Give me an order. State the rules. Lay out the punishments.

Tell me how many times I will be allowed to eat in a week or how many times I will be allowed to bathe with warm water. I want him to tell me something.

I lift my eyes from his black dress shoes, trace the seam of his black slacks, the loop of his black leathered belt, the black-stoned cufflinks hooking the collared sleeve of his black dress shirt, the rings on his fingers, the traces of tattoos that disappear into the sleeves of his shirt, back to the black-stoned buttons, and then I pause when I get to the small opening around his neck.

It is not that I find his scars scary, but I wonder if he wants me staring at them.

I want to throw my head back down and keep my eyes on the floor, fearing that I will get punished for this, but again, I should frame his face, even if for the last time.

I suck in air charged by the poignancy of his scent. It’s strong. It’s black. Bold. Daring. Evoking. Provocative. Like him.

I lift my eyes from the slashes of burn marks on one side of his neck, watching the division on his full, perky pastel-pink lips, with one side shrinking from the scars, stretched in a glossy slash.

I keep going, tracing the swipe of the burns until I meet his eyes—dark eyes, black as the color of his hair and aura.

But in them is a pull of familiarity like I have looked into those eyes before. I would remember him if I had seen him somewhere. It would be hard to miss remembering someone who makes something that is supposed to be bizarre and hideous so divine.

It’s like an eclipse on his face. It’s like war in his eyes.

He wears his scars in a way that makes me unashamed to have mine. He wears them beautifully. And he is beautiful.

I drop my eyes, then flutter my lashes to send the thought back to wherever it came from.

More silence.

Deafening. Brain-screeching. Mind-chugging.

We stay breathing, and with each breath I draw, I feel like clawing at my skin because of how the silence crawls on me.

“Food will come,” his voice is the same as everything about him. Black. Only this time it feels the same as molten, still retaining the heat but clogged already from the absence of fire.

It makes me shiver. He makes me shiver.

“Eat and go to bed, it’s been a long night,” he turns to leave, but I catch up quickly.

“Please, music,” I shrink as I feel his eyes on me, and I don’t wait for him to ask why, “I can’t sleep without noise, please,” I explain anyway. “Master?” It’s a question because I don’t know what he would want to be addressed as yet.

“Alexa,” he thrums, the timbre ricocheting in my clattering bones, “Play something… classical.”

A sound booms through invisible speakers, and I shudder, darting around searching for it. Then the music comes. Classical is my favorite.

Tears swell in my chest and mound my eyes as the song fills the room.

“Tell Alexa whatever you want to listen to,” he spins and struts with glacial steps out of the bedroom that is supposed to be mine.

I sit on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as the soft harmony forms a bubble wrap around my worn-thin frame. I feel like a fabric that has been overworn and patched too many times, and at any point, I will turn chafed between the hard crush of fingers.

I drop my head on my knees and hug myself, marking this position as mine because I’m not leaving this spot. Everything else feels too good to be real.

He feels too good to be real.

But more than that, he feels familiar. Like the missing piece from the center of a puzzle. Like something I’m missing. Like someone I’m missing.

He might be a good thing—the first in fifteen years.

He might be the worst thing to happen to me yet.

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