The morning starts wrong.
I wake to silence—not the comfortable quiet of a house at rest, but something heavier. Emptier. Wrong in ways I can feel in my bones before I even open my eyes.
No brothers at breakfast. No Enzo with his quiet greetings and knowing glances.
The dining room sits empty, coffee growing cold in the pot, pastries untouched on their silver tray. Just tight-lipped staff who avoid my questions and won't meet my eyes no matter how many times I ask.
"Where is everyone?" I demand of the maid who brings fresh coffee.
"Busy, signorina." She sets the cup down without looking at me. "Very busy."
"Busy with what? Where are the brothers? Where's Enzo?"
But she's already gone, practically fleeing the room like I've asked about state secrets.
I notice the security next. Guards doubled at every entrance—men I've never seen before patrolling the grounds with weapons they're not bothering to conceal.
They move with military precision, speaking into radios, scanning the tree line like they're expecting an invasion.
The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.
I piece it together from fragments throughout the morning. Whispered conversations that stop the moment I approach.
A phone call I overhear through a cracked study door—something about a shipment intercepted, millions lost, retaliation being planned.
The Benedetti family.
I've heard the name whispered with venom since I arrived. A rival organization, old enemies, blood feuds stretching back generations.
Santo mentioned them once with hatred in his voice. Matteo spat the name like a curse. Even Luca's iron composure cracked when they came up in conversation.
And apparently, they've made their move.
The brothers have been in crisis meetings since before dawn. Locked in Luca's study with men I don't recognize, voices rising and falling behind closed doors.
No one will tell me anything else. No one will even acknowledge that something's happening.
By afternoon, the tension is suffocating. The walls of the mansion feel like they're closing in, every shadow threatening, every silence loaded with danger. I can't take another minute of pacing my room and wondering.
I escape to the garden for air.
My hidden corner with the overgrown roses. The stone bench where Santo almost kissed me, where I've cried and thought and slowly become someone new. The only place in this whole estate that feels like mine.
The sun is warm on my skin. The roses smell sweet, their petals soft under my fingers. I close my eyes and breathe, trying to calm the anxiety twisting in my chest.
I don't see the men until it's too late.
Three of them. Black masks covering their faces. Professional. Silent. They emerge from behind the crumbling wall like shadows given form—no warning, no sound, just suddenly there, surrounding me.
I ran before I could understand anything, sensing the danger from miles.
Footsteps pound behind me. A hand catches my arm, yanking me backward. I spin, driving my elbow into someone's face. I hear cartilage crunch, a muffled curse.
"Grab her legs!" one of them snarls.
I scream—loud, raw, praying someone will hear. My nails rake across an arm, tearing through fabric, drawing blood. I bite down on a gloved hand hard enough to feel bone.
"Fucking bitch!" The man backhands me across the face. Stars explode behind my eyes.
"Careful," another voice warns. "Benedetti wants her unmarked."
"She bit through my hand!"
I kick out blindly, connecting with something soft. Someone grunts in pain. But there are too many of them, too strong, and my arms are being wrenched behind my back.
"Let me go!" I thrash wildly. "Help! Someone help me!"
"No one's coming, signorina." The voice is calm, almost bored. "Your guard rotation has a gap. We've been watching for weeks."
A cloth clamps over my mouth and nose. Chemical sweetness floods my lungs.
"Nothing personal, signorina." the voice adds as darkness swallows me whole.
***
I wake to cold concrete against my cheek and pain throbbing through my skull.
My wrists burn where zip ties cut into the skin. My shoulders ache from being wrenched behind my back. Every breath feels like swallowing glass.
I force my eyes open.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh light over a room with no windows. No furniture except a metal chair bolted to the floor.
The walls are bare concrete, stained with things I don't want to identify. The air smells like rust and fear.
And sitting across from me, watching with the patience of a predator who knows his prey can't escape, is a man I've never seen before.
Older. Silver-haired, impeccably styled. Expensive suit that probably costs more than my parents' house.
He sits with legs crossed, cigarette smoldering between manicured fingers, looking utterly relaxed. Like he's waiting for a business meeting, not holding a woman hostage.
"Ah." He smiles—cold, calculating, utterly devoid of warmth. "You're awake. Good. I was beginning to worry my men had been too enthusiastic."
I try to speak, but my throat is raw, my mouth dry as sand.
"Allow me to introduce myself." He takes a drag of his cigarette, exhales toward the ceiling. "Vittorio Benedetti."
My blood runs cold.
"You're here as a leverage, signorina." He waves dismissively. "The Moretti brothers have something I need. Now I have something they want."
"They won't negotiate with you."
"No?" His smile sharpens. "They paid quite handsomely for you at the auction. Outbid every other family. Made quite the statement about your value." He taps ash onto the concrete. "Let's find out exactly how much you are worth."
He explains it clinically. A trade agreement that would cripple the Moretti empire. Ports, territories, shipping routes worth more than I can imagine—decades of power signed away, or I pay the price.
"They sign everything over to me, and you go home safely. Simple."
"That would destroy them."
"Yes." He sounds pleased that I understand. "But they'll have you back. Isn't love worth any price?"
The mockery in his voice makes my stomach turn.
"They'll kill you for this."
"Perhaps." Vittorio rises, smoothing his jacket. "But first, they'll have to find you. And by then, either they'll have signed my agreement, or..." He shrugs. "Let's not discuss unpleasant possibilities yet."
Hours pass. Maybe days. Time loses meaning in the windowless room.
Through the walls, I hear things that make my blood run cold. Muffled screams. Sounds of violence—fists hitting flesh, bodies hitting floors. Men speaking rapid Italian about shipments and bodies and messages sent.
This is the reality. The mafia world stripped of its silk sheets and wine-soaked dinners. Blood and concrete and ruthless calculation.
The brothers live in this world. Were born into it. Have done things I've deliberately avoided asking about.
But they came for me once before. At the auction. They outbid monsters to keep me safe.
Will they come again?
They said they weren't willing to lose me.
I wonder if they meant it. Wonder if I'm worth the cost of everything they'd have to sacrifice.
Wonder if I'll survive long enough to find out.