The car ride to Luciano De Luca's estate felt endless.
The blacked-out sedan cut through the city streets silently, rain streaking the windows in jagged lines. The outside world blurred into dark puddles of neon reflections. I sat stiffly in the backseat, hands folded in my lap, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the twisting in my stomach. Fear. Anger. A raw, unnameable tension that gnawed at my chest.
Luciano didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was enough to make the air in the car feel heavier, thicker, dangerous. Every so often, I caught glimpses of him in the rearview mirror: dark hair combed back, sharp jaw, impossibly controlled expression. He didn't glance at me. He didn't need to. I knew he was watching. Cataloging. Assessing. Measuring every twitch, every breath, every heartbeat.
I had spent my life trying to survive my father's mistakes. I had been small, careful, quiet. I had never sought attention or trouble. I had never imagined a man like Luciano De Luca would reach across my life and claim me as if I were property.
Now, I was that property.
The gates appeared suddenly, massive and unyielding, wrought iron crowned with spikes and the De Luca family crest. The guards at either side made no move to stop us. The driver slowed, and Luciano stepped out of the car before I could even open the door.
He was perfect. Terrifyingly perfect. Every movement was deliberate, every line of his body a study in control and command. He didn't glance at me. He didn't need to. But I knew. I could feel the weight of his gaze, pressing into me, measuring me, already asserting ownership without a word.
"This will be your home," he said, his voice low, smooth, and utterly inhuman in its authority. "For the foreseeable future."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. Words failed me. I was already exhausted by the suffocating reality of his presence, the absolute knowledge that resistance was meaningless.
"Do you have a bag?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.
"Yes," I murmured, fumbling with the strap across my shoulder.
"Good. Pack only what you need. You will not leave this estate without my permission. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will follow my rules. And you will remember this is temporary... for now."
The word temporary made me shiver. I knew it wasn't temporary. Not with him. Not in his world.
The mansion itself was breathtaking, and yet terrifying.
Marble floors gleamed under the dim lighting. Ceilings stretched impossibly high. Chandeliers hung like crystal constellations in the darkness, their light cold and distant. Every corner was clean, precise, and suffocatingly perfect. It was a palace of control, wealth, and danger.
Luciano led me through endless corridors in silence, his presence following me like a shadow I could never escape. I felt his gaze at all times, even when he looked elsewhere. It pressed into me, a constant reminder: I was his now. His possession. His collateral.
Finally, he stopped in front of a door heavier than any I had ever encountered. He opened it with effortless strength. Inside, the room was immaculate: dark wood furniture, a large bed, minimal decoration. Every object was carefully placed, controlled, precise. Just like him.
"You are to remain here unless I call for you," he said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"Good," he said, stepping back. "You will learn quickly what obedience means. You will learn quickly what happens to those who defy me."
Then he left.
And I was alone.
Alone with the silence, the grandeur, and the realization: I had no control. None. My carefully constructed life, my small routines, my quiet independence-all gone. Taken. Replaced by rules I could not negotiate, by a man whose power eclipsed my understanding.
The next few days blurred together. Meals were delivered silently. Instructions came through his men without explanation. Every moment reminded me: I belonged to him. And he was not a man to be bargained with.
Luciano appeared only when necessary. His footsteps on the marble hallway were enough to make me freeze. The rare moments he spoke to me were carefully measured-every word deliberate, every tone calculated. Yet even in his control, there was something more... dangerous.
One evening, as rain beat against the windows, I heard him before I saw him. His steps were silent but purposeful, cutting through the estate's quiet like a predator approaching its prey.
"Elena," he said.
I flinched, though I tried not to. I had learned early that fear betrayed weakness.
"You disobeyed," he said softly.
"I-I didn't-"
"Do not speak unless spoken to," he interrupted, calm, lethal.
I swallowed hard, nodding. My throat ached from holding back words I wanted to scream, plead, or argue.
Luciano leaned closer, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good. You have spirit. That will either save you... or destroy you."
The words sent a shiver down my spine. And for the first time, I glimpsed something human beneath the darkness. A flicker of curiosity? Obsession? I couldn't tell.
What I did know was this: I could never allow myself to be weak in front of him. Not if I wanted to survive.
Rules were enforced relentlessly. I could not leave my room without permission. I could not speak unless addressed. I could not touch anything that wasn't mine. I was reminded constantly that I was collateral. Property. Owned.
And yet, even in my captivity, I began to notice subtle nuances. The way his jaw tightened when I resisted. The way his dark eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second, when he noticed something personal-a note from my father, a keepsake from my past. The rare times he engaged with me directly carried an intensity that was suffocating, magnetic.
Fear became routine. But so did something else: an impossible pull, a dangerous awareness of his attention, his power, his control. Every glance, every calculated movement reminded me I was his-and I couldn't look away.
Nights were the hardest.
I lay on the bed, heart racing, listening to the mansion breathe around me. Shadows danced across the marble floors, but I felt them everywhere-Luciano's presence, even when he wasn't there, was a constant weight. I realized with chilling clarity: I would never escape him. Not truly. Not while he chose to watch.
And maybe, I didn't want to.
Because the fear, the dominance, the obsession-it was intoxicating.
In Luciano De Luca's world, survival meant submission. But even as I resisted, even as I hated that he owned me, even as I longed for freedom, I could feel a darker thrill building. A thrill born from danger, control, and the man who had claimed me.
I was trapped.
And he was the lock.
A golden cage, elegant, suffocating, and impossible to leave.
Yet, even as I lay awake, listening to the distant storm outside, one thought burned in my mind: the man who owned me... was not just ruthless. He was dangerous in ways I had never imagined.
And I had stepped into his world.
Now, I belonged to him.