"If the million dollars aren't in my hands before midnight, kiss your wife goodbye."
The words thundered through the phone, spat from the mouth of a hulking brute whose pistol rested arrogantly against Elena's temple. He cut the line without waiting for an answer, his grin a twisted parody of triumph. With heavy boots grinding against the floorboards, he leaned toward her, gripping her chin with a hand that reeked of smoke and iron.
"Don't tremble, sweetheart," he drawled, his eyes burning with cruel amusement. "Your knight will come galloping, and I shall deliver you back into his arms. But…"—his lips curled, wolfish—"what a shame it would be to let beauty like this slip away without… a taste."
He bent toward her, breath hot, mouth descending like a predator over prey. But Elena was not the delicate flower he imagined—nor a creature that would wilt beneath such menace. Fury, raw and primal, surged through her veins. Summoning every ounce of strength, she snapped forward and sank her teeth deep into the flesh of his nose.
The crunch was sickening, the taste of blood coppery and vile upon her tongue. She did not relent until she felt the cartilage tear. The man howled, a beast wounded, clutching his mangled face as a torrent of red spilled between his fingers.
"My nose! My nose, damn you! Call the doctor—now! You filthy whore, I'll kill you!" His roar rattled the walls as he flung a chair across the room in blind rage.
Elena, bound cruelly to the wooden frame with chains that bit into her skin, twisted in her restraints. Pain flared, but her spirit did not falter. She looked up at him—blood smeared across her lips, her teeth glinting crimson. And then, with a mocking smile, she spat.
The grotesque fragment of flesh—his flesh—splattered against his cheek.
The room froze in a grotesque tableau. His eyes widened, then narrowed with murderous intent. A scream erupted from him, guttural and unhinged, as he lunged at her, raining blows like a madman. Elena's body recoiled beneath the assault, yet her eyes never dimmed; defiance burned in them like a torch against the night.
It took two men—his own loyal hounds—to restrain him, dragging him back while he writhed and bled into the cloth pressed desperately against his ruined face.
"Sir, restrain yourself!" the henchman pleaded, voice strained as he clutched the arm of his furious master. "You know Luca will not stay silent over this. We agreed—take the money and leave. Don't make this harder on us, I beg you."
The brute snarled, fighting against the grip that held him back. His rage burned hotter than the blood dripping from his ruined nose. He twisted, spit flying as he hurled venom at the chained woman before him.
"Damn you, you little wretch! If you weren't the wife of that whoremonger, I'd have carved your grave into this floor with my own hands!"
The words lashed like a whip. Elena flinched as another blow landed, but the sound that escaped her lips was not quite a cry—more a ragged breath, a defiant exhalation. Pain she could endure. Pain was nothing compared to the loathsome heat of his touch. To be struck was cruel; to be touched was unbearable.
Her eyes flickered, desperate to seize some detail of her prison. Rusted metal, shattered beams, coils of wire: refuse piled in shadowy heaps, the relics of a place long abandoned. Dust clung to the air like ash from a funeral pyre. It was no palace of villains, only the carcass of a forgotten factory, cold and hollow, now baptized by blood.
The chains bit mercilessly at her wrists, leaving crescents of bruised flesh. She tugged, twisted, writhed—but they would not yield. With a hiss of frustration, she let herself slide to the floor, dragging her body inch by inch across grit and rust until her back pressed against the damp, unyielding wall.
Her breath came heavy, mingled with the acrid stench of oil. She raised her gaze to the ceiling, where cobwebs trembled in the draft. Her thoughts surged like broken glass.
Luca… who in God's name is Luca? What madness brought me here? What mistake did I make, so foolish, so irredeemable…
Her lips moved, soundless, as if whispering a prayer—or a curse.
---
Far from that ruin, in a room of leather and smoke, a phone clicked shut with a calmness that bordered on disdain. Luca Vitale leaned back, the glow of his dying cigarette briefly illuminating eyes that gleamed not with fear but with calculation. He crushed the ember into a crystal ashtray, exhaling one final curl of smoke as though dismissing death itself.
On his desk lay a document. A contract. Its lettering stark, its truth undeniable:
Marriage Certificate.
Parties: Luca Vitale and Elena Rossi.
Luca tilted his head, amusement breaking across his face. A sharp, derisive laugh escaped him as he dragged a hand across his brow.
"Good God," he muttered. "When the hell did I get married? And who in God's name is Elena Rossi?"
From across the desk, Enzo—his right hand, his shadow—stared in silence, dumbfounded. At last, he cleared his throat.
"For accuracy's sake, sir… Elena Vitale. She is your wife now. Legally, she bears your name."
Luca's eyes snapped up, a glare sharp as a blade. "Wonderful. That's just what I needed—sarcasm from you."
Enzo smothered a laugh, his lips twitching with the effort.
Luca rose, shrugging into his coat with an elegance that masked lethal intent. The movement was effortless, as though he had been born to stride into danger.
"Hey, wait," Enzo called, bewildered. "Where are you going now?"
A slow, mocking smile spread across Luca's face. "What? You think I'd leave Signora Vitale in the hands of that animal? No, Enzo. I'm going to bring my wife home." He paused, just long enough for his words to linger like smoke. "Ah—and by all means, prepare a million dollars."
Enzo's eyes widened, shock plain. "What? You're really going to pay him?"
The metallic click of a pistol answered him. Luca slid round after round into the chamber, the weapon singing in his hands like an old lover. His grin sharpened into steel.
"Pay him? Don't be ridiculous. Prepare the money, Enzo—because you're going to need it to bail me out of prison."