The hum of the car seemed to grow louder once Lorenzo De Luca settled into the seat across from her, as though even the machinery recognized his presence and bent to his rhythm. Aria sat stiffly against the leather, her fingers digging into the seat cushion, every nerve on fire. She hadn't seen him in years, hadn't even allowed herself to think about him, but the moment her eyes locked on his face she knew. Memory didn't fade when it was carved by humiliation.
Lorenzo.
The boy who had once looked at her like she was nothing. The boy who had cornered her at her father's summer party, when she was thirteen and awkward and desperate to be invisible, and called her "the maid's daughter" in front of a circle of polished heirs and heiresses. She had run from that garden with tears burning her face, vowing she would never let him see her break again.
Now, the boy was gone.
In his place sat a man.
Tall, broad, sculpted in edges too sharp to be softened by time. His jaw was clean-shaven, his cheekbones cut like marble, his dark eyes the same shade of onyx that had once mocked her but now gleamed with something far more dangerous. He wore power like a second skin—black suit tailored to perfection, tie knotted so precisely it felt like a blade across his throat. Even his silence was commanding, thickening the air in the car until it pressed against her lungs.
"Aria Moretti," he said finally, her name a weapon in his mouth. His voice had deepened since boyhood, smooth but threaded with steel, the kind of voice that could order life or death without rising above a whisper. "I wondered how long it would take before our paths crossed again."
Her throat constricted, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, to keep her chin high even though fear curled hot in her stomach. "I didn't wonder," she spat. "I hoped never."
A flicker of amusement touched his mouth, the barest curve that wasn't warmth but mockery. "And yet, here you are. Fate has a cruel sense of humor."
The men flanking him shifted slightly, but remained silent. Lorenzo leaned back, crossing one leg casually, as though this were a reunion over champagne rather than an abduction. His calm made her blood boil more than any threat could have.
"You're enjoying this," she said bitterly, words sharp enough to cover the tremor in her voice.
He tilted his head, studying her like one might a puzzle. "Enjoying?" His tone was maddeningly mild. "No. But I do find it... satisfying."
Her stomach twisted, memories of that party clawing back up. "You humiliated me once. Isn't that enough?"
His gaze sharpened, though his expression didn't change. "Childish games. You were collateral even then, though neither of us knew it."
The word made her flinch. Collateral. Payment. Object.
Her voice cracked with fury. "I'm not collateral. I'm a person."
"And yet," he said softly, leaning forward now, elbows resting lightly on his knees, "your father signed away the right to call you anything else. His debt is mine to collect. You..." His eyes raked over her slowly, deliberately, "...are the repayment."
The words echoed the letter's cruel decree, slicing deeper from his lips than from the page. Her chest tightened, breath coming sharp.
"I didn't sign anything," she snapped. "I owe you nothing."
His chuckle was low, dangerous, the kind that crawled down her spine like a touch she didn't want to acknowledge. "In my world, blood writes the contracts. And your father's blood runs in you."
For a moment, silence consumed the car. The leather creaked under her shifting weight, her pulse loud in her ears. She hated him—hated his calm, his control, his certainty. And yet her eyes betrayed her, skimming over the line of his suit, the glint of his cufflinks, the way the shadows sculpted the hard edges of his jaw. He was danger, but danger dressed like temptation, and she despised herself for noticing.
She wrenched her gaze away, nails biting into her palms. "So what now? You keep me locked up until the debt feels paid? Is that what you do—collect people like trophies?"
Lorenzo's smile was razor-thin. "Not trophies. Assets. Investments. And some debts," he added, voice lowering until it was nearly intimate, "are worth more than money could ever buy."
Her skin prickled. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." He didn't deny it, didn't flinch. His calm was worse than rage—it was unshakable, carved from years of being obeyed. "But I am also inevitable. And you will learn that soon enough."
Aria's chest heaved. "I'll never belong to you."
His eyes darkened, the glint of amusement fading to something sharper, hungrier. He leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath, close enough for her pulse to leap wildly against her throat. His gaze dropped to her lips before sliding back to her eyes, and in that suspended moment she hated that her body betrayed her, hated that the air seemed charged with something more than fear.
"You don't have to belong," he murmured. "You only have to obey."
Her breath caught, fury and panic colliding in her chest. She opened her mouth to retort, but the car jolted to a stop, the sudden motion throwing her forward. One of the suited men pushed open the door, but Lorenzo didn't move, his presence still filling the space between them like fire consuming oxygen.
His eyes locked on hers, unreadable, merciless.
"By morning," he said, voice low and final, each word striking like a verdict, "you'll wear my name."
The door opened wider, and the night air rushed in, but Aria felt no relief. Only the slow, chilling realization that her life as she knew it had already ended.