Chapter 4 THE ESTATE

The world was darkness.

Alina had been blindfolded the moment she was led out of the underground auction. Her hands were bound in front of her with smooth leather cuffs, the kind meant not to bruise, but to restrain all the same. She was guided into a vehicle-an SUV by the sound of its heavy doors and the low hum of the engine-and since then, there had only been silence.

No one spoke to her.

The interior smelled of clean leather and something subtler-cologne, maybe. Expensive. Masculine. And beneath that, the lingering trace of fear clung to her skin like sweat. Her wrists ached slightly against the cuffs, her shoulders stiff from sitting upright for so long, but she didn't dare move. She didn't know if the man from the auction-Luciano Moretti-was in the car with her, or if she was being delivered like cargo. The silence itself was oppressive. It made her mind race in endless circles, chasing questions she was too afraid to answer.

How long had they been driving? She'd lost all sense of time. It could've been hours. It could've been half a day. The quiet, uninterrupted road beneath them offered no clues.

Finally, the car began to slow. The crunch of gravel under the tires replaced the soft hum of the highway. A gate, maybe? She thought she heard the groan of metal as it opened. Then the SUV glided forward once more, taking several turns before coming to a complete stop.

A door opened.

A hand closed around her arm-firm, but not rough-and guided her out of the vehicle. She stumbled a little, her balance thrown off by the blindfold. The ground beneath her was smooth stone now. Cool. Even. She could hear birds in the distance, the rustle of wind through trees, and the faint trickle of water. It wasn't a city. Wherever she was now, it was remote. Private.

Luciano's voice came, quiet and direct.

"Remove the blindfold."

The leather strip was tugged free. Alina blinked hard against the light-natural sunlight, blinding after so long in darkness. Her vision blurred at first, and then, slowly, the world came into focus.

She stood in front of a villa.

No-an estate.

Massive, old, and beautiful. It rose out of the landscape like something out of a movie. Ivy crawled up the stone walls, and towering cypress trees lined the driveway. The architecture was unmistakably Italian: wide arches, terracotta roof tiles, wrought iron balconies with flower boxes overflowing in muted colors. There were marble statues in the garden, hedges cut into clean lines, and a water fountain in the center of the courtyard, its gentle spray catching the sunlight like diamonds.

If she had stumbled upon this place on her own, she might have called it paradise. But she hadn't. She'd been bought and brought here-without choice, without freedom.

Her cuffs were removed, but she didn't run. Where would she go?

Luciano stood a few feet away, dressed in another custom suit-midnight black this time, without a wrinkle in sight.

Alina faltered.

For a second, her breath caught, and it had nothing to do with fear. She hadn't really seen him at the auction-only the outline, the silhouette. But now, in full daylight, the sight of him rooted her to the spot.

He was devastatingly handsome in a way that was almost unreal. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp, patrician features carved in perfect symmetry. His jaw was strong, the stubble across it deliberate, not careless. Dark, close-cropped hair framed his face, and his eyes-cold, calculating-were the color of molten obsidian. There was something timeless about him, something ruthless. Like he'd stepped out of a Renaissance painting with the soul of a king and the heart of a warlord.

But it wasn't just his face or his body that unsettled her-it was the way he carried himself. Power didn't cling to him; it obeyed him. He didn't have to speak to command a room. He just existed, and the world fell in line.

She hated that a part of her noticed.

Hated more that she couldn't look away. His presence was like a shadow that sucked all warmth from the sun. He wasn't looking at her directly. Instead, he studied the villa.

"You'll stay here now," he said finally, his voice like stone-calm, final, and utterly unchallengeable.

Then he turned and walked inside.

Just like that.

No explanation. No introduction. No promise of what came next.

Alina stood frozen in place, unsure whether to follow or fall apart. But a woman approached her instead-older, silver hair in a tight bun, posture ramrod straight. She wore a black dress and heels, her expression unreadable.

"I'm Teresa," she said, English wrapped in a thick Italian accent. "Come."

Alina hesitated. Teresa did not.

The woman led her up the marble steps and through grand double doors. Inside, the estate was no less impressive. The floors were polished to a mirror shine, the ceilings high and arched with intricate plasterwork. The hallways stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with oil paintings in gilded frames. The air smelled of lavender and wood polish.

"Is this... his home?" Alina asked, her voice hoarse. She hated how small it sounded.

Teresa glanced at her over her shoulder. "It is one of them."

One of them?

They walked through room after room-lavish sitting areas, a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a dining room big enough for twenty. There were no other people. Just silence. Like the estate had been prepared specifically for her arrival.

Teresa finally stopped at the foot of a staircase.

"Your room is upstairs. You'll be permitted to walk the house during the day, except the west wing. That is off limits."

Alina's brow creased. "What's in the west wing?"

Teresa's gaze narrowed. "Off limits means locked. Don't be stupid."

Alina looked away, her throat tightening.

Teresa led her up the stairs, heels clicking crisply with every step. The hallway upstairs was just as luxurious-muted tones, tall windows draped in sheer linen, and thick rugs muffling their steps. They stopped at a heavy wooden door.

"Don't try the windows," Teresa said, unlocking it with a small key. "You're on the third floor. And the grounds are patrolled."

Alina stared at her. "So I'm a prisoner."

"You're a guest," Teresa replied, opening the door. "As long as you behave like one."

The room was beautiful. Too beautiful. The bed was enormous, dressed in silk sheets and a velvet coverlet. A fireplace sat at one end, unlit but clean. There were fresh flowers in a vase. A small balcony with ornate railings overlooked the rolling countryside.

It felt like a hotel suite in a dream.

But dreams didn't come with locks on the outside of the door.

The door shut behind her.

She didn't move for several minutes. She just stood in the center of the room, trying to breathe. Trying to understand. Was this better than a cell? Maybe. But at least in the cell, she hadn't been confused. This place played with her head-offering softness with one hand and steel with the other.

Freedom disguised as luxury.

She moved to the window. Teresa hadn't lied-three floors up, sheer drop, and beneath it, the garden stretched like a labyrinth. And beyond that, guards. She spotted them-two men, one near the fountain, the other by a hedge. Both carried radios. Both were armed.

She sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.

A soft knock made her jump.

The door opened-Teresa again. She entered without asking.

"You're expected to change for dinner. Closet is stocked. Bathroom is through there."

"I'm not hungry," Alina said, her voice muffled.

"You will be."

She left again.

Alina sat still for a long while before finally standing. The closet held dresses-designer, elegant, expensive. She chose the plainest one-a black slip dress that hit just above the knee. The bathroom was marble, gold-trimmed, with fragrant oils and soaps laid out as though she were royalty. She washed her face, then stood staring at her reflection for a long time.

When she emerged, the hall was empty.

She followed the scent of food until she reached the dining room. A long table. Candlelit. Silent.

Luciano sat at the head.

He looked up when she entered, dark eyes scanning her from head to toe. She didn't know what he was thinking. His face was unreadable. He gestured silently to the chair beside him.

She sat.

Food appeared-served by two silent staff members she hadn't seen before. Pasta with truffle, freshly baked bread, a bottle of red wine already open. She didn't touch the wine. She barely touched the food.

Luciano finally spoke.

"You chose the plainest dress."

"It's not like I asked for any of them," she said quietly.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "You're not what I expected."

She clenched her fists in her lap. "Why did you buy me?"

He didn't answer.

"Was it just because you could?" she pressed. "Because you wanted to prove you could take whatever you want?"

Still nothing.

Luciano reached for his wine glass and took a sip. "You'll stay here," he repeated softly, just as he had earlier. "And no one will hurt you. Unless you try something foolish."

"I'm not afraid of dying," she said.

He looked at her then. Really looked. And what she saw in his eyes made her shiver.

"That's what makes you dangerous."

Dinner ended in silence.

Later, when she was walking back to her room alone, she passed a hallway she hadn't noticed before. It was darker, quieter, and something drew her to it. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the wall lined with portraits.

She glanced at the faces.

Men. Women. Families.

And then her heart stopped.

Her breath hitched.

There-hanging in the middle of the hall-was a portrait she knew.

Her mother.

Young. Beautiful. Wearing the same locket that had been left behind in their apartment.

It was her. Alina couldn't deny it. The same face she had seen in photos growing up. The same gentle expression.

What was her mother's portrait doing here?

Why would Luciano have it?

The room began to tilt.

She stepped back.

And then the hallway lights flickered out.