Alya
A dull, throbbing ache blooms at the base of my skull, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It drags me from the depths of unconsciousness, slow and disorienting, like being pulled through molasses. My limbs feel wrong—heavy, uncooperative. The weight pressing against my body is unfamiliar, sluggish, as though I'm drowning in my own skin. Then the memories crash down on me like a tidal wave. The ambush.
A surge of adrenaline claws through the fog in my mind, but my body remains sluggish, a cruel betrayal. Did they drug me? They must have. It's the only explanation for this unnatural stillness, the weight pressing against my ribs, the stiffness in my joints. I try to move, but my limbs barely shift. How long has it been?
Softness. I register it slowly, the sensation of silk sheets beneath my fingers, the plush give of a mattress cradling my form. A bed. A comfortable bed. That realization jolts me, prying my eyes open in a desperate attempt to understand. The room is nothing like what I expected. Soft lighting spills over elegant furnishings; a dark oak nightstand beside the bed, a grand piano sitting in the far corner, its polished surface gleaming under the light. A painting easel stands nearby, scattered with brushes and unfinished canvases, their strokes both chaotic and deliberate. Heavy drapes frame a tall window, their deep crimson fabric brushing against a sleek bookshelf lined with leather-bound volumes. Everything here screams wealth, refinement—not the cold, empty cell of a prisoner.
What. The. Fuck.
I force myself upright, a struggle against the dead weight of my limbs, but I manage. The motion makes my head spin, sending black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. I press my palm to my temple, inhaling shakily. Have I died? Did the blow to my head kill me, and this is some twisted afterlife? Because who the hell treats their prisoners like this? A mentally disturbed person, that's who.
As if the universe decides to confirm my thoughts, a sharp click sounds from the door, the unmistakable twist of a lock disengaging. Fair enough. Of course, they wouldn't leave it open. My breath stutters in my chest as the door swings inward, and I lift my gaze and my heart…stops.
The man standing in the doorway is tall, his broad frame effortlessly filling the space. His face, chiseled and angular, carried an intensity that was both brooding and captivating. His dark hair, tousled just enough to suggest carelessness, framed a face that was sharp in its beauty; angular cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips that rested in an expression neither soft nor hard. His eyes, deep-set and heavy-lidded, burned beneath thick, softly arched brows. His sharp jawline is dusted with faint stubble, and his skin, tanned and smooth, catches the soft glow of the chandelier as we both assessed each other.
Then, he smiles.
And the breath I've been holding shatters in my lungs.
It's a slow, deliberate thing, curving his lips with an ease that shouldn't exist in this moment. A pair of deep-set dimples carve into his cheeks, disarming, almost boyish, as if this is some casual encounter between acquaintances, not captor and prisoner.
I'm the one who must be disturbed, because despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, I find myself staring. The logical part of my brain screams at me, reminds me that this man is the reason I'm here, that his men attacked us, captured me and has me currently imprisoned. But my thoughts twist in on themselves, spiraling, because—why the hell is he smiling?
I must have made a face, because he finally speaks.
"Finally awake," he muses, still grinning as he steps inside and lets the door shut behind him. The soft click of the lock makes something in my chest tighten. "My men must have struck too hard; you were out for two days."
Two days. My stomach drops, a nauseating sense of wrongness coiling in my gut. Two days, and no one has come. No one. Siege hasn't come. The thought lands like a punch to my ribs. Why? He may not have wanted a daughter, but I'm still his. And Hule—Hule was taken, too. He wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't—
"I dealt with the man responsible," the man continues, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. "No need to worry. He treated our guest with a bad start." He pauses, a playful lilt in his voice. "My mother always taught me to treat guests fairly and to make proper introductions."
My eyes snap to him, my disbelief evident. Fairly? Did he actually just say that?
I scan him properly now, my earlier haze of misplaced admiration dissolving. His black shirt is rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, smudged faintly with what looks like dried blood. His dark slacks are just as disheveled, creased as if he'd been wearing them for too long. And his boots—heavy, worn, with dirt and something darker clinging to the leather.
He looks like he just came from a battle. And yet, here he stands, acting as if this is nothing more than polite conversation.
"Why am I here?" My voice is hoarse, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on it. "And Hule?"
He waves a hand dismissively, stepping toward the grand piano. "Your friend will live." He drops onto the stool, his fingers ghosting over the keys as if contemplating playing. I only know one thing about this man—his men spoke Italian during the ambush. That alone narrows the possibilities.
"You must be hungry," he continued, turning around to face me.
He seems to catch on to my silence. Then, with a suddenness that makes my muscles coil, he pushes off the piano and strides toward me. My body tenses, instinct warning me to move, but I force myself to remain still. He stops just before the bed, looking down at me with that same unnerving ease.
"James Carrizo," he finally says, offering his hand as if we're closing a business deal.
I stare.
Then, slowly, my gaze drags from his outstretched palm back to his face. He's serious. The moment stretches, heavy and taut, before he finally pulls his hand back with a small, amused chuckle.
James Carrizo. Head of the Nosa Costra.
The most powerful and feared mafia organization in Italy. A name spoken in hushed whispers, a shadow that looms over the underworld like a specter of death. And at its helm? James Carrizo. A man whose reputation is built on blood and brutality, whispered about in darkened rooms where even criminals dare not speak too loudly.
The stories paint him as something more than human—a phantom draped in violence, a man who does not forgive, does not forget, and leaves nothing behind but ruin and bodies in his wake.
And yet…
The man standing before me is smiling. Smiling.
The monster they speak of, the ruthless king of Italy's underworld—this is him? Right now, all I see is a man who treats my captivity like some twisted game, like he's amused by the very idea that I might fear him. I was prepared for a monster. A beast with soulless eyes and a voice carved from ice. A creature who would strike first, who would let the rumors of his cruelty precede him.
But this? This is worse. Because he isn't what I expected. And I hated that. As if the universe knew my distaste for surprises and decided to twist the knife just a little deeper, just to see me flinch.
My patience thins, stretched taut like a fraying thread as I tilt my head, studying him. There's something off about him, something that coils around my ribs like a warning. His presence hums with an unhinged sort of energy, the kind that makes the air feel too thick, too charged. The kind that tells me I am sitting in front of a man who doesn't just enjoy fear. He feeds on it. Not because he needs to. Not because it serves a purpose. But because it amuses him. Because watching people squirm reminds him that he's alive.
He kills because he can. Because the moment you stop being interesting, you stop being anything at all. I swallow hard, my throat tight and dry, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me as if they can anchor me to something solid. But nothing about this moment feels solid.
Nothing about this man feels human.
"Why am I here?" I repeat, my voice sharper now, my eyes narrowing as if I can carve the answer out of him myself.
What did Siege do to grab his attention? And why is it always me who has to suffer the fallout of his recklessness? This man was not a monster. He was far worse.
"Don't most people ask first where they are?" he muses, his voice smooth, controlled, utterly unbothered by the confusion clawing its way up my throat. Then, as if I'm already an afterthought, he turns, strides to the door, and swings it open with effortless ease. Pausing just long enough to glance back, he stretches out an arm in a lazy, almost mocking invitation.
"We'll talk about it over lunch," he says, his tone making it clear that my compliance is assumed. Then he disappears through the doorway, not waiting to see if I move or not.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my chest tight with the force of it. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something, anything, that will make this make sense. Hidden cameras? A microphone? Some kind of sign that this is all some elaborate trick? That would almost be comforting compared to the unknown stretching out in front of me like a yawning abyss. Why is he acting like we're friends?
I force myself to swallow my growing frustration, but it burns like acid in my throat. 'Treating guests fairly,' he had said. Bullshit. I rake through my memories, desperate for a scrap of information, some thread that will lead me to why James Carrizo has taken an interest in Siege. But no matter how hard I search, nothing surfaces.
My stomach twists as I stare at the open door, at the empty space where he stood just moments ago. The air still feels heavy with his presence, his voice curling around the edges of my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp but suffocating all the same. I should stay put. Shouldn't give him the satisfaction of obedience. But something tells me he's the kind of man who doesn't ask twice. With a sharp breath, I push off the bed, my bare feet meeting the cool floor as I stand. My legs feel unsteady, as if the ground itself can't be trusted, but I force myself to move.
Fine. Lunch. If that's what it takes to get answers, I'll play along. For now.
Stepping into the hallway, I find him a few feet ahead, walking with the kind of unshaken confidence that only comes from a man who knows he's in complete control. He doesn't check if I'm following; he knows I am.
Arrogant bastard.
The corridor stretches long and pristine, the walls lined with dark paneling, expensive paintings spaced at even intervals. This isn't a warehouse or some underground bunker—it's wealth. Real, undeniable, untouchable wealth. The kind that shields men like him from consequences. My stomach knots tighter.
"Where are we?" I ask, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.
He glances at me over his shoulder, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Like I just proved his point.
"Now you want to know."
I clench my jaw, irritation spiking. Smug. That's what he is. Like this is all a game to him, and I'm just another piece on the board.
"James." I bite his name out before I could think, lacing it with as much contempt as I can manage.
He stops. Turns. And just like that, the air shifts. My breath stutters. His face remains composed, but there's something different in the way he looks at me now.
"Let's get one thing straight," he says, voice soft but edged with something sharp, something dangerous. "You don't get to say my name like that."
He's right. Why did I say his name at all? A shiver races down my spine, but I lift my chin, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of his stare.
"You don't get to decide how I say your name," I counter, my pulse pounding in my throat.
A long silence stretches between us, tension thick enough to suffocate. Then, just as smoothly as he stopped, he turns and continues walking. I force my feet to move, my pulse still hammering as I fall into step behind him. Don't let him get in your head. Easier said than done when every glance, every shift in his voice, feels like a calculated move, a thread tightening around me before I even realize it's there.
We move through another corridor, then down a wide staircase lined with sleek, black railing. The house—or estate, more like—stretches out around me in quiet, suffocating luxury. The scent of polished wood and something subtly spiced lingers in the air, too controlled to be accidental. Nothing about this place is accidental.
I open my mouth to press him again—where we are, why I'm here, what the hell he actually wants—but before I can, we step into a vast, sunlit dining room.
The table is long and made of dark, gleaming wood, set with plates that probably cost more than my monthly allowances. Yes, despite being the daughter of a wealthy, influential individual, I wasn't exactly treated with the privilege society typically associated with such lineage. At the center, an arrangement of food has already been placed—grilled fish, fresh greens, a glass of something golden that catches the light. Elegant. Precise. Prepared before he even knew I'd follow him.
Because he did know. Of course he did.
James moves to the head of the table, pulling out a chair with an ease that somehow still feels like control. He gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit."
It's not a request.
I don't move. "You didn't answer me."
He leans back, studying me like he has all the time in the world. Like my resistance is just another step in a dance he's already memorized. "You'll find I don't answer to demands."
His gaze flicks down, to my hands clenched at my sides, then back up again. "Eat."
I don't. My mind is still spinning, still clawing for footing in this game he's playing.
His lips twitch, just barely. "You think I'd bother poisoning the food?"
"You tell me."
A short, quiet chuckle. "If I wanted you dead, you'd know."
Not exactly comforting.
But my stomach is still twisted in knots, and eating means sitting, and sitting means surrendering to this—this dynamic he's already trying to set, this silent expectation that I'll fall in line. So I stay standing.
His amusement fades, though there's no real frustration in its place. If anything, there's something almost approving in the way he watches me. Like he enjoys the push and pull of it, the slow unraveling.
Then, finally—finally—he gives me something real.
"You're here," he says, voice steady, even, certain, "because we have a problem."
I hold his gaze, pulse kicking hard. I mean yes, of course, we had a problem. But the fact he said we. We. Not you have a problem. We have a problem. And that single, simple word shifts everything.