Lena awoke with a start, the soft light of early morning cutting through the heavy curtains and spilling across the room. The bed she lay on was unfamiliar, the sheets crisp, and the room meticulously clean. But there was no comfort in it. The walls were tall, adorned with dark, polished wood panels. Windows were barred or reinforced, she wasn't sure which, but the sense of isolation was immediate.
Her wrists ached from the restraints of the night before, a dull sting that reminded her she was still very much a prisoner. She tried to sit up, the unfamiliarity of the room making her stomach twist.
"Ah, you're awake."
The voice cut through the silence, low, deliberate, calm. Her pulse jumped, fear and adrenaline stirring together.
Lena froze.
The man appeared in the doorway without ceremony. Dante Russo. Same dark suit, same imposing presence, same unreadable expression. The way he moved, even casually, suggested danger in every step. He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate. He simply entered, as if the room and the world belonged to him, and perhaps, in some way, they did.
"I see the night didn't treat you well," he said, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes tracked her movements, precise and unsettling. "I trust the restraints didn't cut too deep."
"They were painful," Lena admitted cautiously. She refused to meet his eyes directly. She didn't know if that would make her stronger or weaker, but she felt safer pretending ignorance.
He didn't smile. He didn't move closer. But his gaze pinned her down like steel.
"This isn't a mistake," he said finally, breaking the silence. "I want to make that perfectly clear."
Lena lifted her head slightly, curious despite herself. "What isn't a mistake?"
"You," he said plainly. His words were simple, but they carried weight. "You being here. All of this."
Her stomach twisted. "I don't understand. You could have asked for money. You could have… I don't know… made threats. You didn't have to…."
He cut her off with a single word.
"Money is meaningless."
Her eyes widened. "Then… why?"
Dante stepped fully into the room, his shadow falling over her, not threatening, but heavy with intent.
"To hurt him," he said. "Your father."
The words landed like a punch.
Lena's throat tightened. "You… what?"
He ignored her, circling the room as though evaluating it, or her, like a strategist plotting a war. He didn't touch anything. He didn't speak again until he stopped at the window, arms crossed.
"You're his perfect weakness," he said. "You're the one thing he can't control, can't replace, can't risk losing. And now, you're mine."
Lena's mind spun. This wasn't about money. This wasn't even about leverage. This was… personal, Dangerous, Cold-blooded.
"I'm not your pawn," she said. Her voice trembled, but she forced it firm. "I'm not going to be used to make him suffer."
He turned his sharp gaze on her, and for the first time, she noticed the faint trace of something behind his eyes. Not tenderness. Not mercy. But curiosity. Interest. Perhaps even… respect?
"You don't have a choice," he said simply. "You are already part of a war that isn't yours. You were born into it whether you like it or not."
Lena's fists clenched. "I don't belong to him. I don't belong to anyone. I won't let you… use me."
Dante's expression hardened. "You think this is about use?" He shook his head slowly. "No. This isn't a transaction. You weren't taken for ransom. You weren't taken for bargaining. You were taken because you are his greatest vulnerability, and I intend to exploit it."
Her stomach dropped. The words were clinical, almost surgical in their cruelty. She realized, in that moment, that she wasn't just a pawn. She was a weapon. A tool. A target. And Dante Russo… he was the one wielding her.
"You're insane," she whispered, voice trembling.
"Perhaps," he admitted. He moved closer, slow, deliberate, and Lena's stomach twisted at the combination of menace and control. "But I am methodical. Precise. Everything I do is calculated. And right now, that calculation is you."
She shivered, not from cold, but from the inevitability in his words. Her mind raced. What could she do? How could she survive? Her father… Victor Moretti… would come for her. But by then… it might already be too late.
He studied her silently, as if reading her, measuring her. His gaze was unsettling, precise. Lena felt exposed in a way she had never experienced. Not fear exactly, though she certainly felt that, but something sharper, more intimate.
"You are going to learn," he said finally, his voice low, "that control is more powerful than rage. Fear is a tool, but understanding weakness… that is art. And I intend to master it."
Lena's mind reeled. She had read about men like Dante Russo in newspapers, whispered about in hushed tones by her father's men. Brutal, unstoppable, unflinching. And now she was in the same room with him. Alive. Barely. But alive. And he had made one thing terrifyingly clear: her life was no longer her own.
Her thoughts swirled. How long would she survive? Could she outsmart him? Could she escape?
"I will not break," she said finally, her voice firm, though it trembled inside. "I will not become part of your plan."
Dante's lips curved in the faintest hint of amusement. "We'll see."
He stepped closer, looming over her. "You'll find, very quickly, that survival is about understanding what controls you… and learning to use it to your advantage."
The weight of his presence was overwhelming. Lena realized she was no longer just a visitor in someone else's world. She was trapped inside a fortress, in the grip of a man whose reputation promised pain, chaos, and destruction.
And yet, strangely… she didn't feel entirely powerless.
Because he had underestimated her.
Even as her fear twisted inside her, a spark of determination ignited. Lena wasn't just Victor Moretti's daughter. She was Lena. And she wouldn't go quietly.
Dante turned from her, motioning to a guard. "Show her the room," he commanded. "She stays inside. No one touches her."
The guard, obedient, stepped forward and led Lena to a suite at the far end of the corridor. It was luxurious, but sterile. Minimal furnishings. No distractions. A bed, a desk, and a wardrobe, nothing more. And yet, she sensed every detail had been carefully considered. A cage, not an accident.
As the door closed behind her, Lena pressed her back to it, hands trembling. Her wrists still smarted from the restraints, but it wasn't the pain that unnerved her. It was the realization that nothing she had known about her life had prepared her for this.
Dante Russo hadn't taken her to negotiate. He hadn't taken her for ransom. He had taken her to hurt her father, and in doing so, he had made her a prisoner in a game that was far older and far deadlier than she could comprehend.
The thought should have broken her.
But instead, it lit a fire.
She would survive. She would endure. And one day, she would make sure Dante Russo knew, she was not simply a weapon to be wielded. She was a person with choices. And she would fight to make them.
Outside the walls of the estate, the world continued unaware. Victor Moretti's empire thrummed with activity, oblivious to the storm that had already claimed the most precious piece of his life. And somewhere in the shadows, Dante Russo waited, calm and relentless, studying, calculating, ready for the next move.
Lena closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath. Her life had changed forever. She was a captive now. But she refused to be broken.
Because she understood one critical truth already:
Dante Russo had underestimated her.
And that would be his first mistake.