The safe house wasn't a house at all. It was the penthouse of a sleek, ultra-modern tower in a part of the city Sophia rarely visited. The private elevator opened directly into a sprawling living area, all floor-to-ceiling windows, polished concrete floors, and minimalist furniture that looked more like art than something you could actually sit on. The view was a breathtaking, panoramic sweep of the city skyline, but it felt distant, cold, like watching the world from behind glass.
It was the most luxurious prison imaginable.
Leo did a swift, silent sweep of the rooms before giving Alex a curt nod and disappearing back into the elevator, leaving them alone. The sound of the doors closing behind him was as final as a cell door slamming shut.
Sophia stood frozen just inside the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The air was perfectly climate-controlled, smelling of lemon polish and emptiness. There were no personal touches. No photographs, no books, no stray coffee mugs. It was a place, not a home. A beautiful, sterile shell.
"Make yourself comfortable," Alex said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast, open space. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a stark white sofa, moving with the easy familiarity of someone who owned every square inch. "The kitchen is fully stocked. There are clothes in the bedroom that should fit you. Help yourself to anything."
Anything except my freedom, she thought bitterly.
He walked to a panel on the wall and pressed a few buttons. With a near-silent hum, metal shutters began descending over the enormous windows, plunging the room into an artificial twilight punctuated by soft, recessed lighting.
"What are you doing?" she asked, a fresh spike of alarm piercing her numbness.
"Standard protocol," he said, his back to her. "No sightlines. We can't be seen."
We. The word felt heavy, significant. He was including himself in this confinement. The realization was a small shock. She had assumed he would dump her here and leave.
"You're staying?" The question was out before she could stop it, laced with a confusing mix of dread and something else she refused to name.
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "The threat is active. This location is secure, but the safest place for me is also off the grid until the situation is resolved." He paused, his dark eyes scanning her face. "Does the idea of being alone with me frighten you more than the idea of the Volkovs finding you?"
Yes. The answer was a screaming yes in her mind. The Volkovs were a known monster, a threat from the outside. Alessandro Morano was a far more complex and dangerous mystery, and he was already inside the walls.
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. He could read the conflict on her face.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I'll take the guest room. You can have the primary suite. It has the best security."
He was being courteous. Accommodating. It was more unnerving than if he had been openly threatening. She didn't know how to navigate this version of him.
Feeling unmoored, she took a tentative step further into the room. Her shoes made no sound on the polished concrete. She felt like an intruder in a museum exhibit. She wandered toward the kitchen—a chef's dream of stainless steel and marble, utterly spotless and clearly never used.
"You must be hungry," he said. He moved to the massive refrigerator and opened it. It was, as promised, fully stocked with fresh produce, meats, and delicacies. "I can have something brought up. Or I can cook."
The image of Alessandro Morano, Mafia Don, standing at a stove was so absurd it almost made her laugh. Almost. "I'm not hungry,"she mumbled, which was true. Her stomach was a tangled knot of anxiety.
"Suit yourself."
He grabbed a bottle of water for himself and leaned against the kitchen island, watching her. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her, and it made her skin prickle. She was a specimen under glass.
"How long?" she asked, just to break the silence. "As long as it takes."
"Hours? Days?"
"Days," he said, and the word felt like a sentence.
Tears of frustration and helplessness welled in her eyes. She turned away, pretending to be fascinated by the view of the shuttered windows. "I have a business to run. My plants… they need water. I have orders…"
"Leo will see to it," he said, his voice calm, infuriatingly reasonable. "Your shop will be cared for. Your orders will be fulfilled. Your world will continue to turn. But you, for now, are here."
The sheer, absolute control he wielded was breathtaking. With a phone call, he could manage her entire life from a distance. She was completely, utterly dependent on him.
The reality of her situation crashed down on her fully. She was trapped. In a beautiful, multi-million dollar cage with a man who was both her warden and her only protection. The walls, however luxurious, were still walls.
A single tear escaped and traced a hot path down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping he hadn't seen.
He had. Of course he had.
He pushed off from the island and walked toward her. She stiffened, but he didn't touch her. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a warm, solid force at her back.
"I know this is… difficult," he said, his voice quieter now, losing some of its calculated edge. "This life, my world, it is not one I would have chosen for you. But the choice was taken from us the moment Igor Volkov decided to use you as a pawn." He paused. "The only choice left is how we survive it."
We. He said it again.
She turned to face him, her vision blurred with unshed tears. "There is no 'we'," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "There's you, and there's the mess you've made of my life."
For a long moment, he just looked at her, his gaze tracing the lines of her face, the tear on her cheek. His own mask seemed to slip, and she caught a glimpse of something raw beneath the surface. Not guilt, exactly. Something more like… regretful resolve.
"Perhaps," he conceded, the word surprising her. "But the mess is now ours to clean up. Together."
He reached out then, slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away. His thumb brushed the tear from her cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle, his skin warm against hers. It was a caregiver's gesture, at odds with everything he was.
Her breath hitched. She should flinch. She should slap his hand away. But she stood frozen, captivated by the contradiction of this brutal man offering a moment of softness.
The moment stretched, fragile and charged. The air between them crackled with unspoken things—fear, anger, and a powerful, undeniable attraction that had been simmering since the moment he walked into her shop.
He was the monster and the savior. The jailer and the protector. And she was his captive, in more ways than one.
Slowly, he dropped his hand, the moment breaking. "Get some rest,Sophia," he said, his voice back to its usual controlled tone, though a hint of roughness remained. "The bedroom is through that door. You'll be safe tonight."
He turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the vast, silent, shuttered room.
She was safe. But as she listened to his retreating footsteps, she had the terrifying feeling that the greatest danger wasn't outside at all.
It was in here with her.