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I cross to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. Manicured gardens stretch below, surrounded by high walls topped with security cameras. No landmarks I recognize. I could be anywhere in the city, or outside it entirely.

The doorknob turns with a soft click. I whirl around, heart hammering against my ribs, hands instinctively searching for a weapon and finding nothing but a decorative paperweight on the nightstand. I grasp it, the cold stone weighing down my palm like a promise.

A man enters—mid-forties, expensively dressed, with the kind of smile that never reaches his eyes.

“Ah, our sleeping beauty awakens,” he says, closing the door behind him. His voice carries a faint accent. “Please, put that down. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it already.”

I tighten my grip on the paperweight. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“You don’t recognize me? I’m wounded.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Though I suppose we’ve never been formally introduced. Your sister knows me quite well.”

Ice slides down my spine as realization dawns. “Fabrizio D’Angelo.”

His smile widens, showing teeth too white to be natural. “So she has mentioned me. How flattering.”

Marco’s warning echoes in my mind:He’s not powerful enough to challenge me directly, but he is dangerous nonetheless.

“Where am I?” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere your husband won’t find you.” Fabrizio moves deeper into the room, perching on the edge of an armchair as if we’re old friends catching up. “Such a tragedy about your marriage. The Bianchi boy marrying a DeLuca. It’s like Romeo and Juliet, only with more guns and family massacres.”

My stomach lurches. “How do you know who I am?”

“Information is my real business, sweet Aria. Money lending? That’s just a hobby.” He crosses his legs, studying me. “When people start whispering about bloodlines and betrayals,” he continues, “I pay attention.”

My stomach knots. All that time Chiara was searching for answers… she wasn’t just digging up history—she was painting a target on our backs. Marco warned us both, but we didn’t listen.

“Marco will find me,” I say with far more confidence than I feel. “If you hurt me?—”

“Hurt you?” Fabrizio laughs, the sound like glass breaking. “My dear, I saved you! Pulled you away from the son of the man who butchered your parents. You should be thanking me.”

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “I don’t need saving.”

“Don’t you?” He rises, moving toward me with a predator’s grace. I back up until my legs hit the windowsill. “Your husband lied to you. Kept you in the dark about the blood debt between your families.”

“That’s between me and Marco.”

“Is it?” Fabrizio stops mere inches from me, close enough that I can smell tobacco and mint on his breath. “His father is hunting for the DeLuca heirs as we speak. Did you know that? Salvatore Bianchi will finish what he started twenty-five years ago, and his son will help him do it.”

My chest tightens. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His hand reaches up, fingertips grazing my cheek in a touch that makes my skin crawl. “Marco Bianchi is his father’s son. A killer. A liar. But you don’t have to go back to him.”

I turn my face away, fighting the urge to flinch. “Don’t touch me.”

His fingers wrap around my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You could have more. With me. I could give you protection fromthe Bianchis. Resources to reclaim what was stolen from your family.”

“At what price?” I spit the words, knowing exactly what he’s suggesting.

His eyes darken as they roam over my body. “A mutually beneficial arrangement. I’ve always had a weakness for beautiful things.”

Revulsion rises like a tidal wave, but beneath it burns something hotter—rage. This man kidnapped me from the street, is using me as a pawn, and now thinks I’ll fall into his bed out of gratitude?

I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly. “I would rather die than be your whore.”

The slap explodes across my cheek—sharp, fast, humiliating. My head snaps sideways, cheek burning from the impact. The paperweight slips from my grasp, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

“Mind your manners,” Fabrizio says softly, all pretense of civility evaporating. “You’re not in a position to make threats or demands.”