The car smelled of leather and blood.
Elena sat frozen in the back seat, her wrists trapped in the Don's iron grip. Her body trembled with every bump of the road, her mind replaying the horror she'd just witnessed: men crashing through her window, blades flashing, the Don's ruthless precision as he cut them down one by one. The apartment she'd once called safe was gone, stained in blood. She had nowhere left to go.
He sat beside her, calm as ever, as though the slaughter had been nothing but a routine inconvenience. His shirt was still streaked with crimson, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his eyes unreadable as they stared out the tinted window.
"Where are you taking me?" Elena's voice cracked, raw from screaming.
His gaze slid to hers, dark and steady. "Home."
Her pulse spiked. "This isn't my home."
His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to face him. "It is now."
The car slowed, then turned down a long, winding road. Massive iron gates loomed ahead, guarded by armed men in dark suits. They parted instantly at the sight of the car, their eyes sharp, respectful. Beyond the gates stretched a mansion that looked less like a house and more like a fortress—stone walls, towering columns, windows glowing like watchful eyes. The kind of place built to keep the world out.
Elena's stomach dropped. This was his domain.
The car rolled to a stop at the base of the steps. Before she could move, the Don was out, his grip tightening as he dragged her with him. The cold night air bit at her skin, but the heat of his hold was worse. She stumbled up the marble stairs, her eyes darting wildly. Men stood stationed at every corner, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their faces betrayed nothing. Not pity, not curiosity. Just obedience.
The double doors opened. The mansion swallowed her whole.
The interior gleamed with wealth: chandeliers dripping with crystal, polished marble floors, oil paintings of men whose faces bore the same sharp features as his. The air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. Elena's boots echoed loudly, too loud, as he dragged her across the foyer and up a sweeping staircase.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, voice shaking but louder this time.
His reply was simple, chilling. "Where I can keep you."
He led her down a long hall, its doors closed and silent, until he stopped before one. He opened it, revealing a bedroom larger than her entire apartment. A four-poster bed draped in silk, velvet curtains, gilded furniture. It was beautiful, suffocatingly so.
He released her at last, shoving her lightly inside. The door shut behind her with a finality that cracked her chest.
Elena spun, fury cutting through her fear. "You can't keep me here like some prisoner!"
He leaned casually against the door, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes glinting. "Prisoner? No, bella. Protected. There's a difference."
Her laugh was bitter, broken. "Protected? You killed men in my apartment. Dragged me out like baggage. And now you call this protection?"
His smirk vanished. His voice dropped, sharp as a blade. "Those men came for you. Because of me. If I hadn't been there, you'd be dead right now. Or worse."
Her stomach twisted. "So it's my fault? I should just thank you for ruining my life?"
He took a slow step forward. She backed away instinctively until her legs hit the bedframe. He towered over her, his presence suffocating, his voice low and dangerous.
"You should thank me for sparing it," he said.
Her breath caught. For a long, tense moment, neither moved. The air between them vibrated with fury and something else—something Elena refused to name. Her chest heaved, her hands clenched tight at her sides. Finally, she spat out the only weapon she had left.
"I hate you."
His eyes narrowed, but his smirk returned, slow and deliberate. "Good. Hate ties you to me just as much as love. You'll learn that."
He turned abruptly, striding toward the door. Her chest loosened for the first time all night. But before he left, he glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze pinning her to the floor.
"You don't leave this room. Not without me."
The lock clicked as he shut the door behind him.
Elena collapsed onto the bed, her entire body shaking. The silk sheets felt foreign against her palms. She wanted to scream, to tear the curtains down, to throw something until the glass shattered. Instead, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Silent, shaking, furious sobs.
She didn't know how long she cried before the knock came.
Her head shot up, panic flooding her. The door opened slowly, and a woman stepped in. Older, gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun, her face stern but not unkind. She carried a tray with food—bread, roasted chicken, fruit, a glass of wine.
"Eat," the woman said simply, setting the tray on the table.
Elena's throat tightened. "I don't want it."
The woman's eyes softened, though her tone stayed firm. "Starving yourself won't change anything. He doesn't let go of what he claims."
Elena's chest cracked. "He's insane. I don't belong here."
The woman gave a long, measured look. "No one belongs here. We're all here because of him. One way or another." She paused, then added quietly, "Eat while you can. Tomorrow will be harder."
Before Elena could respond, the woman slipped out, the door locking again behind her.
Elena stared at the food, untouched. Her stomach growled, but her throat burned. She curled onto her side, pulling the blankets over her head, clinging to the faint hope that this was just a nightmare she'd wake from.
But the echo of his words haunted her: This is your cage. And I hold the key.
Sometime later, she woke with a start. The room was dark, moonlight spilling through a crack in the curtains. For a moment, she thought she'd imagined the sound. Then she heard it again—footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving across the floor.
Her breath caught. She sat up sharply. "Who's there?"
A figure shifted in the shadows.
The Don.
He stepped closer, the silver of moonlight cutting across his face. His jacket was gone, his shirt open at the collar. His eyes gleamed, sharp and unyielding. He stopped at the edge of her bed, looking down at her like a hunter admiring his catch.
"You locked the door," she whispered, throat dry.
"I have all the keys," he murmured.
Her chest hammered. "What do you want from me?"
He leaned down slowly, his face inches from hers, his voice a velvet threat.
"Everything."