Lena Moretti, 21, learned early that peace, in her world, was an illusion carefully maintained.
It was the kind of peace built behind iron gates and bulletproof glass, guarded by men who never smiled and spoke into their wrists more than they spoke to people. It was the kind that smelled like polished marble, fresh flowers, and danger masked as luxury.
Still, Lena believed in it.
That evening, the city glowed softly as her car rolled through the quieter streets, far from the chaos of downtown. The sun had just dipped below the skyline, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds. Lena leaned her head against the window, watching the lights blur past, her thoughts pleasantly empty.
She had spent the afternoon at a children's clinic, reading stories, tying shoelaces, pretending the world was kinder than it really was. Those hours were her escape. The only place where she wasn't Victor Moretti's daughter.
"Home, Miss?" the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
"Yes," Lena replied softly. "Thank you."
The car slowed as it turned onto a less-traveled road, one that curved along a stretch of old buildings waiting to be redeveloped. Lena frowned slightly. This wasn't the usual route.
Before she could question it, the world exploded.
Tires screeched.
Headlights flared from every direction, blinding white light flooding the interior of the car. The driver cursed under his breath and slammed the brakes, but it was too late. Vehicles boxed them in with military precision, front, back, sides.
Too fast. Too clean.
Lena's heartbeat stuttered.
"What's happening?" she asked, her voice sharper now.
The driver reached instinctively for the gun beneath his seat.
That was when the windshield shattered.
Gunfire cracked through the air, deafening and close. The driver slumped forward, blood blooming across his white shirt. Lena screamed, the sound tearing from her chest as the car filled with smoke and chaos.
The door was yanked open.
Strong hands dragged her out before she could even unbuckle her seatbelt. The cold night air hit her like a slap. She struggled, nails digging into sleeves, heels scraping uselessly against the pavement.
"Let me go!" she cried. "Please!"
They didn't answer.
Black masks. Dark clothes. Efficient movements.
Professionals.
A hood was pulled over her head, plunging her into darkness. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back, plastic biting into her skin. Someone pressed a gun to her spine, not hard, but enough to make the threat unmistakable.
"Quiet," a voice warned. Calm. Male. Unemotional.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure they could hear it.
They shoved her into another vehicle. The door slammed shut. The engine roared to life.
And just like that, Lena Moretti disappeared.
Time lost its meaning beneath the hood.
Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe it was seconds stretched thin by terror. The car moved fast, then slow, then fast again. Lena tried to count turns, bumps, anything, but panic drowned logic.
Her thoughts raced wildly.
My father will find me.
He has to.
Victor Moretti was not a man people crossed lightly. He ruled his world with fear and blood, and everyone knew it. If this was a ransom attempt, whoever took her was making a fatal mistake.
But something felt wrong.
There had been no demands. No shouting. No chaos beyond the initial strike.
This was planned.
The car finally stopped.
Hands pulled her out again. Gravel crunched beneath her feet. Cool air brushed her face as the hood was yanked away.
Lena blinked, squinting against the sudden light.
They were in the middle of nowhere.
An estate loomed ahead, massive, dark, and isolated, its stone walls rising like a fortress against the night. Armed men stood watch at every entrance, their presence silent but absolute.
Fear curled tightly in her stomach.
She was escorted inside, through heavy doors and long corridors lit by soft, golden lamps. The place was elegant, expensive, yet cold, like beauty without warmth.
They stopped in front of a closed door.
"Wait here," one of the men said before stepping away.
Lena stood alone, her wrists still bound, heart hammering violently against her ribs. She inhaled shakily, forcing herself not to cry. Crying would only make her weak. And weakness, in her father's world, was punished.
The door opened.
He stood on the other side, framed by shadow.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black from head to toe, as if the darkness had tailored itself into a man. His hair was dark and slightly unkempt, his face sharp and unreadable. When his eyes met hers, something cold slid down her spine.
They weren't cruel eyes.
They were worse.
Controlled. Calculating. Empty of mercy.
Lena's breath caught.
This was not a man who acted on impulse. This was a man who decided fates.
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering with unsettling intensity, not on her body, but her face, as if committing her to memory.
Finally, he spoke.
"Lena Moretti."
Her name sounded different in his mouth. Heavier.
She lifted her chin, forcing courage into her spine. "Who are you?"
A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"Untie her," he said calmly.
One of the guards hesitated. "Boss…"
"Now."
The restraints were cut. Lena rubbed her wrists, wincing at the sting, but she didn't take her eyes off him.
"You shouldn't have done this," she said. "My father…."
"…is exactly why you're here," the man interrupted.
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Lena swallowed. "You want money?"
"No."
"Power?"
"No."
Her heart sank deeper with every answer.
"Then why?" she asked.
The man stepped closer. Not invading her space, but close enough that she could sense the danger coiled beneath his calm. He smelled faintly of smoke and something darker she couldn't place.
"For revenge," he said simply.
A chill crawled up her spine.
"My father has many enemies," Lena replied carefully.
His gaze hardened, something sharp flashing behind his eyes.
"Yes," he agreed. "But I'm the one who ends him."
She stared at him, fear mixing with something else, confusion, curiosity, dread.
"What's your name?" she asked.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Then one of the guards behind him spoke, his voice low, almost reverent.
"Dante Russo."
The name landed like a gunshot.
Lena's blood ran cold.
She had heard it before. Whispers. Half-finished warnings. A ghost story told in hushed tones among her father's men.
Dante Russo, the man Victor Moretti failed to kill.
The man whose family had been erased.
The man who vanished and returned stronger.
The man who was supposed to be dead.
Her fear deepened, but she refused to show it.
"If this is about my father," Lena said quietly, "then I have nothing to do with it."
Dante studied her again, his expression unreadable.
"I know," he said.
That answer unsettled her more than any threat could have.
"Then why take me?" she demanded.
He leaned down slightly, meeting her eyes fully now.
"Because you are his perfect weakness."
The words sank deep, heavy and final.
Lena's chest tightened.
"I won't beg," she said, surprising even herself.
Dante straightened, something unreadable flickering across his face.
"Good," he replied. "I hate begging."
He turned toward the door. "Prepare a room for her. Guarded. No harm comes to her."
The order was absolute.
As he walked away, Lena realized something terrifying.
This man hadn't taken her in a moment of rage.
He had taken her with intention.
And whatever game Dante Russo was playing, she was no longer a bystander.
She was the board.
And somewhere far away, her father was about to learn just how dangerous losing her would be.