The world outside Aria's window had already dissolved into shadows when the first sound of tires crunching against gravel pierced the silence, and though every cell in her body screamed at her to run, her legs refused to move. She stood frozen against the wall, the letter still bleeding its venom from where it lay on the floor, the wax seal split in two as if her entire life had been cracked open with it. The headlights cut sharper through the thin curtains, turning the living room into a ghostly stage, and she realized with a violent twist in her stomach that she had run out of time to pretend this was a mistake, a prank, a dream. Whoever they were, whatever her father had owed them, the De Lucas had come to collect.
The first knock at the door wasn't a knock at all—it was a blow, deliberate and heavy, rattling the thin wood on its hinges. The second came harder, accompanied by a voice low enough to curdle blood. "Miss Moretti." A pause, calculated, like a predator enjoying the stillness before a strike. "Open the door."
Aria's hand clutched the back of the chair until her knuckles went white, but she didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't dare. Her pulse roared in her ears, louder than the wind. Then the door shuddered again, but this time the sound came not from a knock but from the lock itself turning, and panic flooded her veins in a hot rush. She hadn't even thought to secure the chain; this was the kind of town where people trusted each other, where neighbors left pies on porches and doors open during summer nights. But the men at her door weren't neighbors, and when the knob twisted, she felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
The door swung open, spilling the room with the cold scent of night air, and they stepped inside without hesitation—three men in suits so black they seemed to drink the light, their shoulders wide enough to eclipse the doorway. Their eyes scanned the room quickly, clinically, like they were cataloging her life's worth of secondhand furniture and unpaid bills, but none of them lingered on the surroundings for long. They locked on her.
"There she is," one of them said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of command.
Aria wanted to scream, but her throat constricted, the sound caught somewhere between terror and fury. Instead, her body finally reacted in a surge of instinct, and she bolted toward the back door. Her feet slapped against the floorboards as she ran, but another man was already there, stepping in from the kitchen like a shadow that had been waiting for her. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with a strength that made her bones ache.
"Let go of me!" she spat, twisting violently, nails digging into his skin. The fight erupted in her chest like wildfire, and though fear strangled her, anger burned hotter.
The man's expression didn't flicker. He tightened his grip and tugged her back toward the others, ignoring the way she kicked and clawed. Her breath came ragged, sharp bursts of air as she fought like a cornered animal.
Another man spoke, his tone colder. "The Don gave instructions not to damage her. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
The words hit her harder than the grip bruising her arm. Don. As in Don De Luca. This wasn't a scam. This wasn't some joke. This was real.
And then—through the chaos, a voice cut the night.
"Aria!"
The sound made her stumble. For a second she thought she'd imagined it, but when her gaze flicked toward the front porch, she saw him. Her father.
He was older, thinner than the memories she carried, his face lined with years of regret. His hair had grayed, his clothes were disheveled, but it was undeniably him—Matteo Moretti, the man who had vanished from her life without explanation, now standing in the doorway like a ghost summoned by her fear.
Her chest squeezed so tightly she could barely breathe. "Papa?"
His eyes found hers, glassy with tears he didn't bother to hide. "I'm sorry, tesoro," he said, his voice breaking on the Italian word that meant little treasure. "I tried—I thought I could keep you safe. I thought—" His voice cracked, strangled by a sob. "Forgive me."
The men didn't allow the reunion more than a heartbeat. One shoved him back against the wall with a force that made him stagger, and Aria screamed, lunging toward him, but the iron grip on her arm yanked her back. She kicked harder, fury flooding her veins, but she couldn't break free.
Her father's hand reached toward her, desperate, trembling. "Aria, listen to me—you have to be strong. Don't let them break you—"
A fist to his stomach silenced him. He doubled over, coughing, but his gaze never left hers. The men didn't strike again; they didn't need to. His body language already screamed defeat, but his eyes—those carried a lifetime of guilt and love twisted together, and it broke something inside her.
"Time to go," one of the suited men muttered, dragging her toward the waiting car outside.
"No! Papa!" she shouted, her voice hoarse as she struggled. "Don't let them take me!"
But Matteo Moretti only bowed his head, a broken man watching his sins reach for his daughter.
The night air hit her like a slap as they dragged her out the door, the gravel crunching under her shoes as they pulled her toward a black car parked at the curb. Sleek, polished, predatory—the kind of vehicle that didn't belong on her shabby little street. Its tinted windows reflected the weak glow of the streetlamp, hiding whoever sat inside.
They opened the back door and shoved her forward, though not roughly enough to bruise. She stumbled into the leather interior, the scent of expensive cologne and smoke clinging to it. The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her into darkness that felt heavier than the night outside.
Her chest heaved as she pressed herself into the corner, eyes darting wildly. The men sat opposite her, silent, their faces impassive as statues.
Finally, one of them spoke, his tone almost conversational. "You'll find it easier if you don't fight."
Aria's laugh was sharp, brittle, born of panic and rage. "Easier for who? You? Or the bastard you work for?"
The man arched an eyebrow, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. "For both."
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. "Do you do this often? Drag girls out of their homes like cattle? Does it make you feel like men?"
A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe respect—crossed the other man's face. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "You're braver than most. Or stupider."
"I'm not brave," she shot back, though her body trembled. "I'm furious. My father made his mistakes. That doesn't make me yours to claim like property."
The first man's smile was small, sharp. "Property? No. A payment, yes."
The words slammed into her like a physical blow. She bit back the sting of tears, refusing to let them see her break. "I'm not a coin you can shove across a table."
"No," the man agreed, folding his hands neatly. "You're far more valuable."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Every bump of the road, every hum of the engine seemed magnified. Aria pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching her neighborhood dissolve into darkness behind them. Her chest ached with the image of her father—his face pale, his voice hoarse with apology—and she hated him, loved him, wanted to scream at him and hold him all at once.
The car slowed, turning sharply. The men straightened, and one reached for the handle. Aria's pulse skyrocketed, her breath catching in her throat.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Lorenzo De Luca.
He stepped into the car with the calm authority of a man who owned the night itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slicked back, eyes like twin blades that cut through the shadows. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, but it was his presence that suffocated the air—the kind of presence that made every inch of space bend around him, that whispered danger and power and inevitability.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And in the silence that followed, Aria's world shifted again.