Chapter 3
M y head throbs with each pulse of my heart. I fight to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Something soft presses against my cheek. I'm lying down. Not in a car anymore.
Where am I?
The fog in my brain slowly clears and memory crashes back. The wedding. The escape plan. The kidnapping. The warehouse district. The cloth over my face.
I bolt upright, blood rushing—then immediately regret the sudden movement as nausea rolls through me. I press my palm to my mouth, willing myself not to vomit.
"Stay calm," I whisper to myself. "Assess the situation."
The room swims into focus. I'm on a bed—king-size, with dark gray linen. The walls are navy blue, minimally decorated with abstract art. A sleek dresser stands against one wall. No personal photos. No clutter. Impersonal, like a five-star hotel room.
One door—heavy-looking, probably locked. Two windows with blackout curtains partially drawn, revealing glimpses of night sky. How long was I unconscious?
I swing my legs off the bed, noticing I'm still in my black escape outfit. My shoes are gone but other than that I'm fully dressed. Small mercy.
I push myself to stand, steadying against the nightstand when dizziness threatens to topple me. Whatever they drugged me with hasn't fully cleared my system.
My bag is gone. The USB with evidence against Raymond and my father—gone. My carefully planned escape—destroyed.
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.
She stands defiant against the wall, amber eyes burning with indignation rather than fear. Most people cower when I get close. Not her.
I take a moment to really study her. The photos in her file didn't do her justice.
Melania Lombardi is all curves and fire—chestnut hair falling in waves past her shoulders, plump lips, body lithe as a cornered wildcat.
Even in her simple black clothes, she carries herself with the posture of someone who's never had to bow down to anyone.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, my voice deliberately neutral.
She blinks, clearly surprised by the change in topic. Her eyes narrow with suspicion.
"What exactly is there I can eat here?" she asks, her tone carefully controlled.
I allow myself a small smirk. "We don't usually stock princess food in warehouses."
A flash of something—irritation, amusement, I can't tell—crosses her face. "For sure you don't," she says, crossing her arms. "But you might have drugged the food too. Once was enough, thank you."
"If I wanted to drug you again, piccola , I wouldn't need to hide it in food," I say. "You'd already be unconscious."
"Seeing as you’ve magnanimously permitted me to go undrugged, I need my laptop and USB drive," she fires back, eyes flashing. "Now."
My eyebrows rise at her imperious tone. She's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. "You need?" I repeat, my voice lowering to a warning tone. "Let me make something clear, Lombardi. You don't make demands here."
She takes a step forward, chin raised. "That USB contains important files. I?—"
"You forget your place," I cut her off, closing the distance between us in two strides. "One more time and you'll find out exactly how unpleasant I can be."
Something flickers in her eyes—not apprehension, but shrewdness. She's measuring me, weighing options. Smart girl. But not smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
"My place ?" she challenges. "And where exactly is that in your little operation?"
I don't answer. Instead I turn and stride to the door, pausing only to look back at her. "Get comfortable in your room, Melania. You'll be here a while."
The lock clicks satisfyingly behind me. I hear her frustrated exhale through the door, followed by what sounds like a shoe hitting the wall. Spirited little thing.
In the kitchen I pull out my phone and dial Damiano's number. He answers on the second ring.
"She's awake," I tell him without preamble, leaning against the counter.
"And?" Damiano's voice is tense. I can hear traffic in the background.
"And she's demanding her belongings. Specifically her laptop and some USB drive."
"Interesting." There's a pause. "How do you think our friends are reacting?"
I know he means Raymond and Antonio. "Threatening everyone who breathes wrong in their direction. Any leads?"
"They're turning the city upside down," Damiano says. "Stone's men are questioning everyone at the church. Antonio's threatening his own staff."
"Timeline?" I inquire.
"Won't be long," Damiano's voice hardens. "I'm making my next move tonight. Time to show those bastards exactly who the fuck the Ferettis are. He's not just in debt to us up to his eyeballs," Damiano says with disgust. "The stronzo wanted to unite with fucking Raymond Stone."
"He chose this." I say.
"Keep her secure," Damiano orders. "I'll be in touch."
The line goes dead and I slip the phone back into my pocket, thinking about the girl locked in the bedroom. What exactly is on that USB and was it what made her risk everything to run?
The warehouse kitchen is bare bones—stainless steel counter, industrial fridge, and not much else. We stocked it with basics when we set it up as a safe house last week. I pull open the refrigerator, eyeing the limited options. There's some pre-packaged sandwiches, bottled water and energy drinks.
I grab a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water. Not exactly gourmet cuisine but it'll keep her alive. That's all that matters right now.
Walking back to her room, I roll my shoulders to release some tension. I unlock her door and step inside.
Melania sits cross-legged on the bed, her posture rigid and alert.
The moment I enter her eyes lock onto mine with pure venom.
Her fingers curl into the bedspread like she's physically restraining herself from attacking me.
The sight is oddly entertaining—this tiny, elegant woman looking ready to go for my jugular.
"Dinner," I say flatly, placing the sandwich and water on the small table near the bed.
She doesn't move, doesn't even glance at the food. Just keeps her eyes burning into me with silent malevolence.
"You should eat," I add, crossing my arms. "Hunger strikes won't work here."
"How thoughtful," she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you always treat your kidnap victims to such fine meals?"
I feel my lips twitch with something dangerously close to amusement. "Only the special ones."
Her eyes roll and I can practically see her counting to ten in her head.
"The bathroom has everything you need," I say, nodding toward the adjoining door. "Towels. Soap. Even a toothbrush."
"How civilized of you," she spits.
I leave the room without another word, letting her barbed comment hang in the air. Her anger doesn't bother me. I've dealt with far worse than a spoiled princess throwing a tantrum.
The security room is down the hall—a converted storage space with steel-reinforced walls. I punch in the code and step inside, locking the door behind me. The soft blue glow from six monitors illuminates the otherwise dark space.
I drop into the chair, eyes scanning each screen methodically.
The setup is simple but effective—high-definition cameras covering every angle of the property.
One shows Melania's room, where she's now pacing like a caged animal, ignoring the sandwich I left.
Another displays the empty hallway outside her door.
The remaining screens show the front entrance, back door, perimeter fence, and the small yard.
This place is a ghost property that doesn't exist on paper. Damiano made sure of that when we acquired it through seven different shell companies. No connection to the Feretti name anywhere. Even if Raymond and Antonio tear apart every Feretti holding in the city, they'll never find this place.
On the monitor, Melania finally approaches the food. She examines the sealed packaging carefully before reluctantly opening it. She takes a small bite, then another, hunger apparently winning over suspicion.
I lean back in the chair, watching her. Something doesn't add up. Antonio's precious daughter was already running when I intercepted her. Running from what? From who? The arranged marriage, obviously, but there's more to it. The way she demands that bag and USB—she's hiding something significant.
My phone vibrates with a text from Enzo: Lombardi offering reward for information. Five million.
I snort. Pocket change. If Antonio thinks that's enough to buy betrayal he's more desperate than I thought.