Alina Hart wasn't supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be sipping overpriced champagne in the penthouse of the Hart Industries tower, not blindfolded, handcuffed, and thrown into the backseat of a bulletproof SUV that smelled suspiciously like gunpowder and expensive cologne.
"This is kidnapping," she snapped, yanking at the cuffs cutting into her wrists.
A deep, amused voice answered from the front. "Technically, it's relocation. You're being moved. Temporarily detained."
"I swear to God, when my father finds out—"
"Oh, we're counting on that, princess."
Alina froze. The blindfold was tight, but she could feel the smirk in his voice. It was the kind of voice that didn't just command a room — it owned the building. Smooth. Calculated. Dangerous.
Definitely not the amateur idiots she'd overheard arguing in her suite before things went south.
Something had gone wrong.
Her plan had been simple: fake a low-scale kidnapping using a few hired actors, pin it on her father's political rivals, and return dramatically once negotiations were over. It was supposed to be easy. Controlled.
But now, she was dealing with someone real.
Someone armed.
And definitely not on her payroll.
"Okay," she said, forcing her voice calm. "Let's talk. Maybe we can—"
"No talking," the voice said, coolly. "You'll get a chance when he decides you're worth the time."
He?
Who the hell was he?
Thirty minutes and one terrifyingly silent ride later, the car stopped.
Hands grabbed her shoulders—not roughly, but with that firm, no-arguments grip that said she wasn't going anywhere. She was marched forward, her heels clicking against marble. Even blindfolded, Alina could tell they were no longer on some backroad. This was... a mansion.
No. A fortress.
The blindfold came off with a sharp tug.
She blinked, her vision adjusting to soft gold lighting and crystal chandeliers dripping over black marble floors. The place was beautiful in a cold, intimidating way—like a museum you weren't rich enough to breathe in.
And in front of her stood him.
The man behind the voice.
Jet-black hair, rolled-up sleeves, hands in his pockets like he had nowhere better to be. And eyes—God, those eyes—silver-gray, like steel before it cuts skin.
He looked… bored. But deadly.
"You're not the idiots I hired," Alina said, narrowing her eyes.
He arched an eyebrow. "And you're not as smart as you think you are."
"So this is a real kidnapping?" she asked dryly. "Should I scream now or wait till after dinner?"
One corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something... darker.
"My name is Luca Moretti," he said, stepping forward. "Your father owes me blood. I figured you'd do."
Alina stared at him, stunned for half a second. Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
"You think kidnapping me is going to make Richard Hart nervous? My father would sell my kidneys for a decent stock rise."
Luca didn't blink. "Then maybe I'll send him a reminder."
Her heart skipped.
She didn't like her father, but the idea of becoming collateral between two powerful monsters suddenly didn't feel so funny.
"Look, you're making a mistake," she said. "Whatever vendetta you've got, you don't need me for it. Take a yacht or something."
"I already own six."
"Then take a therapist."
That earned her a real smile. It was brief, sharp, and made her skin crawl for reasons she didn't want to unpack.
"You're feisty," Luca said. "That's good. The quiet ones bore me."
He turned, motioning to the guards. "Take her to the south wing. Lock it."
Alina's jaw dropped. "You can't just—!"
"I can," he said over his shoulder. "And I will."
As she was dragged away, she threw a final insult: "Your suit's ugly!"
It wasn't.
But she needed the last word.