Chapter 3 Chapter 3: No Escape

The moment Enzo's grip loosened to open the Escalade door, Elena ran.

She didn't think, didn't plan, didn't calculate the odds—she just moved. Her broken heel twisted beneath her and she kicked off both shoes, her stockinged feet hitting cold pavement as she sprinted toward the mouth of the alley. Behind her, someone shouted, but adrenaline turned the words into white noise. All that mattered was the streetlight at the end of the darkness, the promise of witnesses and traffic and civilization.

Freedom was fifty feet away. Then forty. Then thirty.

A hand grabbed her collar and yanked her backward so hard she left the ground.

"Did you really think that would work?" Enzo's voice was almost amused as he hauled her against his chest, one arm banding around her waist like an iron bar. "Boss! We've got a runner!"

"No!" Elena thrashed, her nails raking across his forearm. "Let me go! Help! Someone—"

His hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream. "Shh. You'll only make this harder on yourself."

Harder? It could get harder than being kidnapped by the mafia? Elena bit down on the flesh of his palm with every ounce of strength she possessed. Enzo cursed and jerked his hand back, and she managed one more shriek before he spun her around and slammed her against the brick wall, using his body to pin her in place.

"Enough." His face was inches from hers, scar pulling his expression into something feral. "You want to do this the hard way? Fine. But know that the boss said to bring you in gently. He didn't say what I could do if you made it difficult."

"Touch me again and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Enzo's laugh was cold. "You're five-foot-nothing and weigh maybe a hundred pounds. I've been killing people since before you learned to drive. So let me give you some advice, piccola—save the fighting for someone it might actually work on."

Footsteps echoed through the alley, measured and unhurried. Elena's stomach dropped even before Dante materialized from the shadows, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. Even in the aftermath of murder and chaos, he looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread.

The devil wore Armani, apparently.

"Problem, Enzo?" Dante's voice was silk over steel.

"She ran, boss. Bit me too." Enzo displayed his bleeding palm like evidence at trial. "Want me to teach her some manners?"

Elena's heart hammered against her ribs. This was it—the moment where she learned exactly what kind of monster had taken her. Would he let his man hurt her? Would he do it himself? She'd seen him order Marco's execution with less emotion than someone swatting a fly.

But Dante's gaze fixed on Enzo with sudden, terrifying intensity. "Take your hands off her. Now."

Enzo stepped back so fast he nearly tripped. "Boss, I was just—"

"Following orders? My orders were to handle her gently. Do you see any part of slamming her against a wall that qualifies as gentle?" Dante's tone never rose above conversational, which somehow made it worse. The threat lived in the spaces between words, in the way his hand drifted toward the gun at his hip.

"No, sir. Won't happen again."

"It won't. Because if anyone lays a hand on her without my explicit permission, I'll remove the hand. Capisce?"

"Capisce, boss."

Dante dismissed him with a gesture and turned his full attention to Elena. She pressed harder against the brick, wishing she could melt through it, disappear into the mortar and escape this nightmare. But there was nowhere to go, no one to save her, and the man approaching her with predatory grace had just made her his personal property.

"That was foolish," Dante said, stopping just outside her personal space. Close enough that she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, far enough that she couldn't accuse him of the intimidation Enzo had employed. "Did you really think you'd make it?"

"I had to try." Elena hated how her voice shook. "You can't expect me to just... accept this."

"Actually, I can. And you will." He tilted his head, studying her with that unsettling focus. "But I'm not unreasonable. You tried to escape—fair enough. Natural instinct. Consider it out of your system."

"Out of my—" She let out a hysterical laugh. "You think one failed attempt means I'll stop trying?"

Something flickered across his face—approval, maybe, or darker interest. "I think you're smarter than you're pretending to be. You know the math now. My men are faster, stronger, and everywhere. The city belongs to me. Every street, every building, every shadow has my eyes watching. Where exactly do you think you'll run that I won't find you?"

The truth of it settled over her like a shroud. She'd heard the stories, dismissed them as urban legends exaggerated by fear. But standing here, seeing the casual certainty in his expression, Elena realized the stories probably didn't go far enough.

"Then what's the point?" The fight drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and terror. "If I can't escape, if you're going to kill me anyway, why not just do it? Why drag this out?"

Dante stepped closer, and this time Elena had nowhere to retreat. His hand came up—she flinched—but he only plucked a piece of brick dust from her hair, his touch impossibly gentle.

"I told you. You interest me." His fingers lingered near her temple. "Do you know how rare that is? In my world, everything is predictable. Choreographed. People do exactly what I expect them to do because they're too afraid to surprise me. But you—" His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and heat sparked along her skin despite her terror. "—you keep surprising me."

"That's not a good thing." Elena forced the words past the lump in her throat. "People like you don't like surprises."

"People like me." He smiled, and it transformed his face from beautiful to devastating. "What do you think you know about people like me, Elena?"

"I know you kill people who inconvenience you. I know you took me instead of letting me go home to my cat and my pathetic little life. I know—" Her voice broke. "I know I'm never going to see my apartment again, am I?"

The smile faded. Dante regarded her for a long moment, and Elena couldn't read the calculation happening behind his eyes. Finally, he pulled out his phone and tapped out a message.

"What's your address?"

"What?"

"Your address. And the cat's name."

Elena stared at him. "Why?"

"Because in approximately—" He checked his watch. "—twenty minutes, someone will arrive to collect your cat and whatever personal items you want from your apartment. Clothes, photos, books, whatever. Give me a list."

It was a trick. It had to be. "You're... you're serious?"

"I'm many things, Elena, but I'm not a liar." Dante's expression hardened. "You're mine now. That means your wellbeing is my responsibility. I won't have you pining for a cat or sleeping in clothes that don't fit. So. Address. List. Now."

The casual possessiveness of you're mine should have terrified her more than it did. But the idea of having Mr. Whiskers—her only family since her parents passed—safe and with her cracked something open in her chest.

"Apartment 4B, 2247 Morrison Street," she whispered. "His name is Mr. Whiskers. He's orange. He needs his special food—the blue bag—and his mouse toy or he'll destroy everything. And—" She hated how desperate she sounded. "And my photo albums. Please. They're all I have left of my parents."

Dante typed rapidly, then pocketed his phone. "Done. Anything else?"

"My clothes. My laptop. My—" She swallowed hard. "Can I tell someone I'm okay? My friend Jenna will worry if I don't show up for lunch on Thursday."

"No." The word was absolute. "As far as the world is concerned, Elena Hayes has disappeared. Tragic, but these things happen in the city. In a week, people will stop looking. In a month, they'll forget." His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Your old life is over. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

Tears burned behind Elena's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "And what's my new life? Being your prisoner?"

"My guest." Dante's thumb traced her lower lip, and Elena's breath caught at the intimacy of the gesture. "My responsibility. My—" He paused, something dark and possessive flashing across his face. "—my concern. You'll have everything you need, Elena. Everything except freedom."

"That's the only thing I want."

"I know." He released her and stepped back, adjusting his cufflinks with the same care he'd probably used to aim his gun at Marco. "But you can't always get what you want. Now, you can walk to the car on your own, or Enzo can carry you. Your choice."

Elena looked past him to where the Escalade waited, a black mouth ready to swallow her whole. Behind it, the city stretched out—her city, the only home she'd ever known, now transformed into a prison with invisible bars.

She thought about running again. Thought about screaming for help, about fighting, about doing literally anything except accepting this fate.

But Dante was right. The math was simple. He owned this city, and now he owned her.

"I'll walk." The words tasted like ashes.

"Good girl."

Dante placed his hand on the small of her back—proprietary, claiming—and guided her toward the vehicle. His touch burned through the thin fabric of her blouse, branding her with heat and the promise of captivity.

As Elena climbed into the Escalade's leather interior, she caught one last glimpse of the alley mouth, of freedom disappearing into the distance. Then Dante slid in beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers, and the door closed with the finality of a coffin lid.

The driver pulled away from the curb without a word. Beside her, Dante pulled out his phone and made a call in rapid Italian, his free hand still resting possessively on her knee.

Elena stared out the window as familiar streets rolled past, each one taking her further from the life she'd known and deeper into the darkness of Dante Valeri's world.

She didn't know where they were going. Didn't know what he planned to do with her. Didn't know if she'd survive the night.

But as the city lights blurred into streams of gold and white, one thought crystallized with terrifying clarity: The man beside her, the monster who'd stolen her life with the same casual ease he'd ended Marco's, had no intention of ever letting her go.

And God help her, some twisted part of her wondered what that meant.