The week after her courtroom win was chaos. Ishani barely had time to breathe between media interviews, client calls, and angry threats flooding her inbox. None of it shook her. She had faced intimidation before—corrupt cops, spoiled tycoons, even ministers. But the name that lingered at the back of her mind was Dante Moretti.
He hadn't contacted her since that night in the parking lot. No mysterious bouquets, no veiled threats. Nothing. And that silence unnerved her more than the danger itself.
By Friday evening, exhaustion dragged at her shoulders. She left her office late, heels clicking against the quiet corridors of the nearly deserted building. Outside, the city of Mumbai roared as always—honking cars, neon lights, vendors shouting. She stepped into the humid night air, tugging her robe tighter around her.
That's when the black SUV pulled up beside her.
The doors opened before she could react. Two men in suits—foreigners, tall, broad-shouldered—stepped out. Before Ishani's brain could connect the dots, one grabbed her wrist, the other pressed something cold against her back.
"Don't scream," the taller one said in accented Hindi. "Just walk."
Her heart raced, but fear only sharpened her stubbornness. She opened her mouth to argue—but then she saw him.
Dante Moretti.
Sitting inside the SUV like a king on his throne, his suit immaculate, his blue eyes cold fire. He didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just tilted his head, and the men shoved her inside.
The car door slammed shut. Silence wrapped around her, broken only by the low hum of the engine. Ishani's breathing was fast, ragged, but she forced her chin high.
"Kidnapping now? How very original, Mr. Moretti." Her voice was steady, but her hands clenched into fists.
His gaze slid over her—unhurried, deliberate. "Call it… relocation. You've been a thorn in my side for too long, avvocato. I warned you."
"You threatened me," she shot back. "And here I am. Still alive. Still winning."
For the first time, his lips curved into something like a smile. Dangerous. Mocking. "Alive, yes. Winning?" He leaned closer, his cologne intoxicating, his voice a low growl. "Not anymore."
The SUV drove for what felt like hours, past the chaos of the city, into the silence of the outskirts. Finally, they stopped at an old villa by the sea—isolated, grand, and suffocating in its beauty.
The guards pushed her inside, but Dante dismissed them with a flick of his hand. The heavy doors shut, leaving them alone in the vast hall. Marble floors gleamed under the chandelier's dim light.
"Why am I here?" she demanded, her voice sharp, though her pulse thundered in her throat.
Dante poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. "Because you don't seem to understand limits. You think the law protects you. It doesn't." He turned, glass in hand, eyes piercing hers. "Now, you play by my rules."
Ishani laughed bitterly, her fear laced with defiance. "You think locking me in your gilded cage will break me? You don't know me at all."
He stepped forward, closing the distance until she could feel the heat of his body. He tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"No," he murmured, voice like silk over steel. "But I will."
For a moment, the world held its breath. She wanted to slap him, to scream, to fight—but her body betrayed her, every nerve alive under his touch.
And that terrified her more than the kidnapping itself.