The south wing of the Moretti estate was nothing like a prison.
It was worse.
No steel bars. No dirty walls. Just luxury—cold, gilded, and mocking.
The room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the cliffs, a walk-in closet bigger than her first apartment, and sheets that probably cost more than her tuition.
And yet… it still reeked of control.
Alina Hart stood at the glass, arms crossed, trying to figure out which direction she could escape from without being shot.
The silence was too clean.
She turned when the door opened.
"Wow," she muttered. "You actually knock. Color me shocked."
Luca leaned on the doorframe, dressed down this time—white shirt, sleeves rolled, the top buttons open to reveal a hint of tattoo ink near his collarbone. Casual, dangerous, and effortlessly in control.
He didn't smile. He never did.
"I figured you'd try to run by now."
"I'm weighing my options," Alina said, giving him her best bored heiress tone. "You know, how much a broken ankle is worth against the thrill of freedom."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked.
Her sarcasm faltered for a second.
"You don't have to do this," she said. "Whatever history you have with my father—"
"Is written in blood," Luca interrupted. "And you're part of the ink now."
She swallowed hard. "That's poetic. Did you practice it in front of a mirror?"
That earned her a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or restraint.
"I thought you were smarter than this," he said. "Faking your own kidnapping? Stirring the pot like a child playing queen of the boardroom?"
Her stomach dropped.
"You knew?" she whispered.
Luca nodded, slow and deliberate. "We intercepted your hired actors before they could make it to the hotel. They told us everything."
Heat rushed to her face—shame, anger, fear. "Then why the hell am I still here?"
He stepped closer, his voice low. "Because you made yourself a target. Because now every syndicate, every enemy of your father, thinks you're available for trade."
Alina's breath hitched.
"So you're what—protecting me?" she said bitterly. "Is this your twisted version of a rescue mission?"
"No," Luca said. "This is leverage. You don't have to like it."
She laughed, but it cracked. "God, you're just like him. You talk about blood and war and family like it means something, but all of you—my father, your kind—you're just using people. Like weapons."
Something shifted in his jaw.
"Maybe," Luca said. "But weapons can choose who they cut."
She didn't see it coming—the flick of emotion in his eyes, or the way he stepped into her space without warning. He wasn't touching her. But he was close.
Too close.
Alina hated how her heart stuttered.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," he said quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to understand me."
She tilted her chin up. "And you shouldn't look at me like I'm yours."
Their eyes locked.
The air thickened.
And then—his phone buzzed.
Luca swore under his breath, breaking the stare.
He looked down at the screen. His expression darkened.
"What is it?" Alina asked before she could stop herself.
He hesitated. "Your brother."
"Elijah?"
Luca nodded. "He's moving pieces on the board. Quietly. Fast."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Luca said, turning to leave, "that you're not the only Hart I might need to put in a cage."
The door closed behind him.
This time, he didn't lock it.
Which somehow scared her more.