Chapter 3 Three

Cassie:

It happened faster than I could scream.

The parking lot behind the café was dim and mostly empty, just like it always was during my closing shifts. I'd done this a hundred times....lock the back door, adjust my tote bag on my shoulder, and head for the bus stop. Nothing unusual. Just the usual click of my boots on concrete and the hum of a streetlamp overhead.

Until a van door slid open behind me.

I spun, instinct flaring too late. A sharp scent, clean, metallic filled my nose before an arm clamped around my waist and yanked me backward. I thrashed, my elbow connecting with something solid. A grunt, then a curse. Another set of hands grabbed my wrists. I screamed.

Or tried to. A hand clamped over my mouth.

Heart slamming, lungs burning, I kicked with everything I had. One of my boots slipped off as I connected with someone's shin. The guy holding me snarled something in Italian, and for a second, panic turned cold in my veins.

What the hell is happening?

"Get the needle," someone growled.

Needle?

I fought harder, wild with adrenaline. One hand got free-only for a second-and I clawed at the arm pinning me. My nails scraped skin. Another shout. Then pinprick. My neck. My vision blurred.

No. No, no.

The concrete beneath me tilted. Someone was speaking low, urgent....but their words warped like a distorted radio. I felt movement, my body hauled into something. Leather seats. Cold metal against my temple. My arms were heavy. My eyes wouldn't stay open.

Then...

Nothing.

*********

I woke up cold.

Not cold like wind against your face cold. Cold like distance. Like detachment. My body was warm under the blanket, but something inside me felt... severed.

My head pounded. My arms felt sluggish, like I'd been floating underwater. For a moment, I couldn't remember anything-only the blur of lights, the stench of sweat, the scratch of a van floor beneath my cheek.

Then it came back like a punch to the gut.

The parking lot.

The hands.

The needle.

I sat up too fast and nearly fell off the couch.

Where the hell am I?

The room was huge-glass walls, sleek marble floors, towering ceilings. Definitely not some rundown hideout. This was modern, luxurious... like a penthouse from a movie.

What the actual hell?

Then I heard footsteps.

Measured. Clean. Confident.

He stepped into the room like he owned not just the space, but the air I breathed.

Tall. Composed. Dressed in a black button-down rolled at the sleeves, exposing a full tattoo sleeve inked down one arm, black and gray, sharp lines of something mythological. His dark hair was slicked back, his expression unreadable. Cold. Controlled.

He looked like a man who could kill with silence.

And somehow, he still looked like he'd just walked off the cover of a magazine.

"You're awake," he said, voice deep and smooth, like glass scraping against velvet.

I didn't answer. I stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"

He didn't blink. "Luca Martelli."

That name struck somewhere in my memory. Vaguely. Like something I'd overheard in the background of a news clip once, or whispered in the back of a bar.

"And you kidnapped me?"

"You were... retrieved," he said calmly.

My jaw tightened. "That's a really nice way of saying drugged and dragged into a van."

Luca stepped closer. "You're not a prisoner, Cassie."

I blinked. "How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things." He glanced at his phone like it bored him. "You live alone. You work part-time at The Subway Cafe, and you take the same route home four nights a week."

A chill ran down my spine. "How do you know that?"

"I make it my business to know things. Especially when people start becoming a target."

"A target?" I laughed, disbelieving. "Me?....A target?.I'm a barista who sometimes pulls all-nighters to finish psych papers. Who the hell am I a target to?"

"That's a longer conversation," he said smoothly. "But for now, all you need to know is that you're going to be staying here. With me."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're not a prisoner," he repeated, slowly this time, like I was a child. "We're roommates. You can think of this as me doing you a favor. Temporary protection, if you will."

"And if I don't want it?"

His gaze hardened. "That's not really an option."

I stood, wobbling slightly. "This is illegal. I can go to the cops."

He took a step forward. "Cassie, if you go to the cops right now, you won't make it to their doorstep. There are people who want something from you. People who won't ask nicely."

I swallowed hard.

"And what exactly do they want?"

He paused. "Something your father had before he died."

My stomach twisted. "You knew my father?"

"I knew of him," he replied. "He worked with dangerous men, Cassie. Left behind dangerous things."

I stared at him, suddenly feeling small in this glass and steel palace.

"You can leave if you want," he added. "But I'd give it twenty-four hours before someone else finds you."

My fists clenched at my sides. "You don't get to decide that."

He ignored me. "There's a guest room down the hall. It's yours. The apartment is fully staffed, so if you need anything, speak to Elias...my butler. Make yourself at home."

"How kind," I snapped.

He gave a faint smirk. "You'll attend your classes as usual. I've sent messages to your friends from your phone, letting them know you need space. And to your mother I told her everything's fine. No need to worry."

My stomach dropped.

"You had no right!"

"I had every right," he said quietly. "Because if I hadn't, they'd already be in danger, too."

My throat was dry. "What are you talking about?"

Luca Martelli didn't answer.

And that silence said more than any lie.

*******

I didn't say another word to him.

Not when he turned and walked down the hall like we hadn't just had the most insane conversation of my life. Not when I heard the soft murmur of a door closing behind him. Not when the butler Elias entered the room, dressed in black and polite to a fault, and offered to show me to "my room."

My room. Right.

I followed him in silence, every part of me buzzing with confusion, dread, and something else I couldn't name. Survival, maybe.

The guest room was more like a hotel suite, king bed, warm lighting, a massive window overlooking the skyline. Every inch screamed money. Nothing personal, nothing warm. Just cold elegance. I didn't belong here.

"I'll bring you something to eat," Elias said with a short nod before slipping out.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still in the oversized hoodie I wore to work, missing one boot, my hair a mess. The weight of everything finally pressed down.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to cry.

Instead, I sat there in silence, my hand wrapped tightly around my phone. I opened it. The last texts weren't mine.

Rebecca, Sydney:

I just need some space. Everything's overwhelming lately. I'll still be in class. Just... don't worry, okay? I love you.

To Mom:

Hey, I'm okay. Just overwhelmed. I'll text you later.

I didn't write any of it. But it sounded enough like me that no one would question it.

That scared me more than anything.

I locked the phone and tossed it on the bed like it burned.

This wasn't protection. This was possession disguised as safety. And I don't think anyone did favors. At least not without a price.

I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, forehead resting against denim. My chest ached. This couldn't be happening. Some part of me still thought I'd wake up in my apartment, with the broken heater and noisy pipes. I'd go to class, text my friends, finish my shift at the café. Everything would be normal.

But it wasn't.

Because my father who I'd always thought was just an accountant with long hours and too many secrets had apparently left behind something people would kill for.

And I had no idea what it was.

I couldn't sleep. Even after Elias brought in a tray of warm pasta and left without a word. Even after I shut off the lights and climbed into bed. My thoughts wouldn't stop racing.

Why me?

Why now?

What the hell did my father do?

And most importantly....

What does Luca really want?

Because no matter how calm he spoke, how groomed and poised he appeared he was dangerous. I could feel it in every quiet look, every clipped word. He wasn't protecting me out of kindness. He had a reason. A motive.

And that terrified me more than whoever he was supposedly protecting me from.

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Roommate.

What kind of roommate drugs you first?

Still, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered something I didn't want to hear:

He hasn't hurt you.

Not yet.

That didn't mean he wouldn't.

But it also meant for now....I was safe.

Trapped, but safe.

At least until I figured out what the hell was really going on.