Fear had a sound.
Lena had heard it before, shallow breaths, trembling hands, the quiet sobs people tried to swallow when they realized they were trapped. Fear lived in the body before it ever reached the mind.
But as the hours passed inside Dante Russo's house, Lena discovered something unsettling.
Fear didn't live in her.
Not the way it should.
She sat at the long dining table, spine straight, hands folded loosely in her lap as a plate was placed in front of her. The food smelled rich, expensive. A courtesy she neither asked for nor trusted.
Two armed men stood at opposite ends of the room, their eyes trained forward, disciplined, unmoving.
Lena picked up her fork.
She ate.
Across the room, Dante watched.
He didn't pretend not to. He leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, his attention fixed on her every movement. He'd expected hesitation. Tears. A breakdown delayed by shock.
Instead, she chewed calmly, her gaze level, her shoulders steady.
It bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
"You're quiet today," he said.
Lena swallowed and set her fork down. "Would you prefer screaming?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "Most people do that first."
"I'm not most people."
No bravado. No challenge.
Just a fact.
Dante straightened, stepping further into the room. The guards stiffened but said nothing. He stopped a few feet away from her, close enough to cast a shadow across the table.
"You know what this place is," he said. "You know what happens to people who cross me."
She met his gaze without blinking. "I know what happens to people who are afraid."
That caught his attention.
"And what's that?"
"They lose," she replied quietly.
Something flickered behind his eyes, surprise, maybe. Or irritation.
"You think this is a game?" he asked.
"No," Lena said. "I think you want it to be."
He studied her for a long moment, as if searching for cracks beneath the surface. He found none.
"Eat," he ordered.
"I am."
She took another bite, slow and deliberate.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Dante turned away first.
Later that evening, the house erupted into movement.
Lena heard it before she saw it, boots pounding down hallways, voices sharp with urgency. The tension seeped through the walls like smoke.
She stood near the window when the gunshots echoed outside.
One. Two. Then shouting.
Her heart jumped, but she didn't scream. She didn't run.
She watched.
From her vantage point, she saw men rushing across the courtyard, weapons drawn. A car screeched to a halt near the gates. Someone was dragged out, bloodied and struggling.
Her stomach tightened.
This was because of her.
The door to her room opened without warning.
Dante stepped inside, eyes dark, expression carved from stone.
"Stay away from the windows," he said.
"I heard gunshots."
He didn't deny it.
"Your father sent men," he added.
The words landed heavy.
"Did they die?" she asked.
A pause.
"Yes."
The truth rang between them.
Lena's fingers curled into fists at her sides. She felt it then, the weight of guilt, sharp and nauseating. People were dying because Victor Moretti wanted his daughter back.
Her chest tightened.
Still, she didn't cry.
Dante watched her closely, expecting the dam to break.
It didn't.
"You don't look surprised," he said.
"I am," she replied. "Just not shocked."
"That's not normal."
She laughed softly, without humor. "Neither is being kidnapped."
For the first time since he'd taken her, Dante looked… unsettled.
"Your father will keep coming," he said. "He won't stop."
"I know," Lena whispered.
"And he won't care who dies to get you back."
Her silence confirmed it.
Dante exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. "He's reckless."
"He's desperate."
"And dangerous."
"So are you."
Their eyes locked.
Something shifted.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" he asked suddenly.
Lena hesitated, not because she was scared, but because the truth felt dangerous.
"Because fear gives you power," she said finally. "And I won't give you that."
The air changed.
Dante stepped closer, invading her space. She could feel the heat of him now, the controlled violence barely restrained beneath his skin.
"You think refusing to cry makes you strong?" he murmured.
"No," she said. "I think surviving does."
His breath hitched, just barely.
For a moment, he looked like a man standing on the edge of something he hadn't planned for.
"You should be terrified," he said quietly.
"Maybe I was," Lena replied. "Before I realized this."
"Realized what?"
"That you don't want me broken."
Silence.
The truth hovered between them, dangerous and undeniable.
Dante straightened abruptly, stepping back as if she'd struck him.
"Get some rest," he said coldly. "Tomorrow will be worse."
The door shut behind him with finality.
Lena sank onto the bed, her hands trembling now that she was alone.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, but no tears came.
Fear didn't live here.
Not anymore.
And somewhere down the hall, Dante Russo stood alone in the dark, realizing something he hadn't prepared for.
The girl he'd taken to destroy a man was refusing to be destroyed herself.
And that terrified him more than her father ever could.