Page 9

My fingers move to twist my mother's ring, forcing myself to breathe. Panic won't help me now. I need information. I need leverage. I need control.
"Think like a hacker," I whisper, approaching the window on unsteady legs. "Find the system's vulnerability."
I part the curtains wider. The window overlooks a manicured garden, surrounded by high walls topped with what look like security sensors. Beyond that, trees. No visible neighbors. No street signs or landmarks I recognize.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass—pale face, disheveled hair, eyes wide with fear I'm trying desperately to suppress.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. This isn't the end. I've spent my entire life navigating dangerous men and impossible situations. I survived my father's house. I'll survive this too.
I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders as I turn to face the room again. Whoever brought me here will come eventually. And when they do, they'll find I'm not the helpless princess they expect.
The door swings open without warning. I freeze, my body tensing like a cornered animal.
It's him—the driver. But he looks different now. Gone is the nondescript suit and cap that partially obscured his face during the abduction. Now he stands before me in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscular build beneath.
My breath catches as I take in his full appearance for the first time. He's tall—towering really—with powerful shoulders that fill the doorframe. His dark hair is short on the sides but longer on top. Heavy stubble shadows his jaw, giving him a dangerous edge that matches the intensity in his eyes. Those eyes—dark brown, nearly black—watch me with calculated rigor, missing nothing.
Everything about him screams predator. From the way he holds himself—coiled power, ready to strike—to the stringent way he moves into the room. No wasted motion. Nothing impulsive.
He's beautiful in the way dangerous things often are—like admiring a knife's edge before it cuts you.
I twist my mother's ring frantically, hating how my heart races. Not from attraction—from fear, I tell myself. From anger.
"Who the hell are you?" I demand, proud that my voice doesn't shake despite the panic clawing at my throat. "And what do you want with me?"
He studies me for a moment, his thumb tracing slowly along his full bottom lip as he considers his response. The gesture is strangely intimate, thoughtful—at odds with the man who drugged and kidnapped me hours ago.
"Alessio," he finally says, his voice deep with a hint of an Italian accent. Not the fake American one he used in the car. "Alessio Gallo."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Gallo. I know that name from my father's files. Right-hand man to Damiano Feretti.
I take a step back, my mind racing to process this information. Gallo. Feretti. It doesn't make sense.
"Wait—" I shake my head in confusion. "My father has been working with the Ferettis for years. Why would you kidnap me? What's the point of this?"
Alessio's expression remains impassive, giving nothing away. His eyes drift from my face, trailing down my body in a slow, deliberate assessment. Heat floods my cheeks—not from embarrassment but from outrage.
"My bag," I demand, changing tactics. "Where is it? I need it."
"Your belongings are safe," he says, his voice maddeningly calm. "For now, you'll have to wait."
His gaze continues its journey, lingering on my curves in a way that makes my skin crawl. I recognize that look—I've seen it on countless men who see me as nothing but a prize to be won. A body to be possessed.
Something inside me snaps.
"Stop looking at me like that!" I shout, my voice echoing off the walls. "I am not some object for you to ogle. I am not merchandise to be traded between crime families!"
Alessio moves so fast I barely register it. Suddenly he's looming over me, backing me against the wall. His hand captures my chin, fingers firm but not painful, forcing me to look up at him. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin.
"If you yell at me one more time," he says, a dangerous whisper, "this beautiful mouth of yours will be shut. Understand?"
His eyes hold mine, dark and unreadable.
I swallow hard and force myself to hold his gaze, refusing to show weakness.
"Perfectly," I reply, my voice cold despite the heat rushing through my veins.
I release her chin, stepping back. Fuck. I shouldn't have reacted like that. Touching her was a mistake. Her scent—something seductively floral—clings to my fingers and I ball my fist to dispel it.