To save her family from financial ruin, Elena Romano is forced into an arranged marriage with the most feared man in New York's underworld-Luca Moretti, a ruthless mafia boss. What begins as a cold, loveless union soon transforms as Elena discovers...
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The silence in the car was thick, a suffocating weight pressing against my chest as we wove through the dimly lit streets. The dark outline of Elena's parents' house loomed closer with every passing mile, its shadow curling over us like a warning. My fingers curled around the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension.
Matteo.
We were finally getting him back.
Dread and hope twisted together, a sickening knot in my stomach. I wanted to believe we'd find him whole. I needed to. But the doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve, whispering worst-case scenarios I wasn't ready to face. Not yet. Not until I saw him with my own eyes.
I pulled the car to a stop a few houses down, killing the engine. The silence deepened. In the backseat, my men sat still, waiting. Watching. Their presence was a steady, grounding force.
"No mistakes," I said, voice low but firm. "We get in, we get him, we get out. No one sees us."
They nodded. No unnecessary words. Just the unspoken agreement that failure wasn't an option.
Moving like shadows, we slipped through the night, the house rising before us, quiet and unsuspecting. A perfect lie. The air was thick, the kind of quiet that hummed with something waiting to go wrong. The door wasn't even locked. Either they were careless, or they wanted us to walk into something ugly.
I stepped inside first, gun drawn. The walls closed in, the darkness swallowing us whole. Every creak of the floorboards was deafening, each step a reminder that time was slipping through my fingers.
Then we found him.
Matteo.
I stopped breathing.
Slumped forward, arms bound to the chair, head hanging like a marionette with its strings cut. His skin was pale, too pale. His chest barely moved. The sight of him—bones where there used to be strength, bruises painting a story I wasn't ready to hear—was a fist to my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
I stumbled forward, falling to my knees beside him. My fingers hovered over his wrist, searching for a pulse. A beat. Anything.
"Matteo," I whispered, voice cracking. Nothing. "Matteo."
Marco was already at his back, sawing through the ropes. "Luca, we need to move. Now."
My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to work through the knots. His skin was cold. Too cold. My stomach churned, panic clawing at my throat.
When the last rope fell away, Matteo slumped forward, dead weight against me. I caught him, my arms locking around his frail body. His head lolled against my shoulder, breath shallow, heartbeat a weak flutter against my chest.
"Stay with me, Matteo," I muttered, though I wasn't sure he could hear me. "You're not dying on me. Not like this."
Marco helped me lift him, and we moved, quick and precise, retracing our steps through the silent house. Each second felt stretched thin, fragile, one wrong move away from snapping.
