"He's here."
The words came like thunder.
Lorenzo Ferrari didn't look up from his espresso. He sat in the grand dining room of the old villa — golden light from the chandelier casting shadows on the marble floors. The walls still bore bullet holes from past wars. It was poetic, in a way.
"Bring him in," Lorenzo said, voice like smooth steel.
The guards obeyed, and moments later, Elio De Luca stood at the threshold — hands bound, chin high, refusing to flinch despite the line of guns behind him. His coat was dusted with road dirt. There was a bruise blooming beneath his cheekbone.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
"So this is what they sent me. An omega child. A peace offering… or a trap?"
Elio didn't speak.
Lorenzo stood, his tall frame radiating dominance, scent sharp and cold like winter storms. He approached slowly, eyes fixed on Elio's — trying to find fear, or pride, or weakness.
What he found instead… was scent.
Faint. Delicate.
Sweet.
Like crushed violets under moonlight.
Lorenzo froze.
It couldn't be. Not him.
Not this boy.
His voice was low, dangerous. "What's your name?"
"Elio," the boy whispered.
And the room tilted.
A growl rose in Lorenzo's throat — unbidden, raw, instinctive.
His inner alpha stirred like fire under skin. He wanted to hate him. Tear him apart. Remind him that enemies don't get mercy.
But his body said something else.
His wolf whispered a curse:
Mate.
No.
Not now.
Not him.
Lorenzo turned sharply. "Unbind him. And get out."
"But sir—"
"I said out."
As the room cleared, Elio rubbed his sore wrists. He didn't dare speak. But Lorenzo could feel the tension in the air — as if the walls themselves held their breath.
Lorenzo walked past him.
Then paused.
And said over his shoulder:
"You're my prisoner, Elio De Luca.
But let's get one thing straight—
This villa might become your home.
But you'll never be safe here."
.
.
.
Elio stood there alone, scanning the room.
Elio wandered the villa like a ghost.
The guards watched him with narrowed eyes. The maids avoided his gaze. Even the walls, carved with old family crests and dusted with the scent of war, seemed to whisper one word:
"Enemy"
He was not welcome here.
He wasn't even wanted.
Except, maybe… by one man.
Elio's fingers trailed along the edge of a mahogany table. His heart still raced from earlier—from the moment Lorenzo had stood so close he could feel the heat rolling off his body, scent thick and intoxicating.
Lorenzo's voice echoed in his head:
"You're my prisoner, Elio De Luca. But you'll never be safe here."
The omega paused near the edge of a long hallway. One door at the end was slightly open. Light spilled from inside. He walked inside the room and nobody was there. Books lined the walls — crime theory, politics, philosophy, law. Papers were scattered across the desk, but one thing caught his eye: a small sketchbook, bound in black leather.
He shouldn't touch it.
But he did.
And as he flipped it open, his breath caught.
It was his. His sketchbook.
He hadn't seen it since the night of the meeting — when his father shoved him toward the Ferraris and said, "Do something useful for once."
Inside were drawings he'd done in secret — the caged birds on his balcony, the view from his window, his mother's ring. Pages he never showed anyone. What his sketchbook is doing here ?Many questions crossed his brain.
"You're bold for a prisoner.", a voice came from his behind and Elio turned back to see Lorenzo.