CHAPTER TWO — ASSET**
The car felt sealed off from the world, like a moving vault.
Elena noticed it immediately—the way sound seemed to die inside the cabin.
The city outside still existed, she could see that much: headlights slicing through the dark, neon signs bleeding color into rain-slicked streets, silhouettes of strangers who had no idea her life had just been rerouted. But none of that noise reached her. The glass was too thick. The doors too solid.
Everything about the car suggested permanence.
She sat on the far end of the back seat, posture rigid, hands folded tightly in her lap as if restraint might keep her from unraveling. The fabric of the borrowed coat scratched faintly against her wrists. It wasn't hers. None of this was.
Across from her sat Dominic Vercetti.
He hadn't acknowledged her since they'd left the building. No instructions. No warnings. No reassurances. He reviewed documents on a tablet, the soft glow illuminating his face in controlled intervals.
His expression never shifted. Not when the car slowed. Not when it accelerated. Not when they passed through a darker stretch of road where the city lights thinned.
Elena studied him in fragments, careful not to stare.
He looked like a man built from decisions—sharp lines, no excess. His suit fit perfectly, unwrinkled despite the long evening. Even sitting, he commanded space, as if the car had been designed around him. There was no wasted movement in him. No tells.
That scared her more than anger would have.
She had expected cruelty. Threats. A warning disguised as politeness.
Instead, she was being ignored.
Her pulse ticked louder in her ears the longer the silence stretched. She tried to slow her breathing, counting the seconds between the faint hum of the engine, grounding herself in sensation the way she'd learned to during panic attacks years ago.
Leather. Cool air. The faint scent of citrus and something darker—wood, maybe. Expensive. Controlled.
The smell of ownership.
"You understand why this happened."
Dominic's voice cut through the quiet without warning. Calm. Unemotional. He didn't look up from the screen.
It wasn't a question.
Elena's throat tightened. She had rehearsed answers in her head since leaving the building—defiant ones, logical ones—but they dissolved now, melting under the weight of his certainty.
"I understand," she said slowly, choosing each word like a stepping stone, "that I was convenient."
His fingers paused on the screen.
"Convenience implies chance," he said. "This was calculated."
That landed harder than she expected.
She shifted in her seat, turning slightly toward him. "You mean I was chosen."
"Yes."
"For what I represent?" she pressed. "Or for what I am?"
Dominic finally looked up.
The moment their eyes met, Elena felt something cold slide down her spine—not fear exactly, but recognition. He wasn't looking at her like a man looked at a woman. He was looking at her the way someone assessed a structure under strain.
Load-bearing. Replaceable. Risky.
"You understand that you don't belong to me," she said, the words leaving her mouth before she could reconsider. "This—whatever you think this is—it isn't ownership."
His gaze sharpened, not offended, but attentive. Curious.
"You misunderstand," Dominic replied evenly. "You don't belong to anyone. That's the problem."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of the coat. "I'm not a thing."
"No," he agreed. "You're a liability."
The word hollowed something out in her chest.
Liability.
She knew the term intimately. She'd worked long enough in finance to understand its implications. Liabilities were tracked. Managed. Offset.
Eliminated when necessary.
The car slowed, turning off the main road. The change in motion tugged her attention toward the window. Iron gates rose out of the dark, opening silently as they approached. Beyond them, a long, winding drive disappeared into shadow.
"Where are we?" she asked, though part of her already knew.
"My home," Dominic said.
The word did not carry warmth.
As the estate came into view, Elena felt a strange dissonance settle over her. The house was massive, yes, but understated—stone and glass, modern lines softened by old trees and careful lighting. It didn't look like a fortress.
That unsettled her more than if it had.
The car stopped beneath a covered entrance. A guard stepped forward, opening the door with practiced efficiency. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth and clipped hedges.
"You'll stay here," Dominic said as he exited the car, not waiting for her response. "You'll be safe."
Safe.
The word sounded thin in her mind.
She followed him inside, her footsteps echoing softly against stone floors. The interior was quiet—no music, no voices. The temperature was carefully regulated, the air faintly perfumed with something clean and neutral.
Not comforting. Controlled.
"You won't interfere with my business," Dominic continued as they walked. "You won't leave the property. You'll have everything you need."
"And when the debt is paid?" Elena asked.
He slowed then. Just slightly.
She noticed.
"That depends."
On what? she wanted to demand.
On her behavior? On how useful she proved to be? On whether he decided she was worth the inconvenience?
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "You are not a hostage," he said. "But you are not free."
The distinction felt cruel in its precision.
A member of staff appeared—a woman with kind eyes and professional distance. Dominic gave brief instructions, his tone efficient. Elena caught fragments: room prepared, meals arranged, no visitors without clearance.
Clearance.
As Dominic turned away, Elena felt a sudden flare of panic. "You're not even going to tell me how long this will last?"
He paused at the doorway, back to her.
"No," he said. "Because that would imply certainty."
Then he left.
The silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence.
The staff member gestured gently for Elena to follow, leading her down a corridor lined with abstract art and recessed lighting. Elena walked slowly, absorbing details the way she always did when overwhelmed—textures, colors, patterns. Anything to keep from spiraling.
The room she was shown to was large and impersonal. Neutral tones. Clean lines. A bed that looked unused, as if waiting.
"This is temporary," Elena said aloud, more to herself than to the woman standing quietly nearby.
"Yes," the woman replied politely.
But her eyes said something else.
When Elena was finally alone, she sat on the edge of the bed and let the weight of the night settle over her. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs now that there was no one watching. She pressed her palms into the mattress, grounding herself in the softness.
She wasn't locked in.
That was the problem.
She could move freely within the space provided to her. Eat. Shower. Sleep. Observe.
And observation, she realized, was where power began to shift.
As she lay back and stared at the ceiling, Elena made herself a promise.
If she was going to be treated like an asset—
She would learn her value.
And somewhere down the hall, behind layers of glass and security, Dominic Vercetti reviewed his screens again, his gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary on the feed marked with her name.
Not because she was dangerous.
But because she hadn't asked for mercy.
And that made her unpredictable.