Chapter 2 - A Cage of Glass and Granite
The tires hissed against wet asphalt for thirty agonizing minutes. Elena pressed her back into the corner of the leather seat, as far from Luca as the cabin of the Mercedes would allow. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic, trapped rhythm. Every time she looked down, the hem of her Vera Wang gown—drenched in Michael’s cooling blood—reminded her that the world she woke up in no longer existed.
Michael was dead on the floor of St. Patrick’s. Her father had dropped to his knees like a broken statue. And now, she was trapped beside the devil who had pulled the trigger.
Luca didn’t look at her. He tapped an unlit cigarette against his gold lighter, his profile carved from harsh shadow and cold Sicilian stone. His dark overcoat smelled of rain, sulfur, and expensive bergamot.
"Where are you taking me?" Elena rasped, her throat raw from screams she hadn't realized she’d released.
"Somewhere you can't run," Luca replied without turning his head. "And somewhere your father’s mercenaries can’t reach before I get what belongs to me."
The car turned past a set of towering iron gates flanked by private security armed with assault rifles. A long, winding driveway led up a forested cliffside overlooking the Hudson River. At the summit sat an imposing estate of dark glass, poured concrete, and sharp angles—a modern fortress isolated from the rest of the world.
When the car stopped, the chauffeur hurried to open Luca’s door. Luca stepped out into the rain and reached into the cabin, his fingers closing around Elena’s wrist with inescapable firmness.
"Out."
"Don't touch me!" She pulled back violently, but he merely tightened his grip, hauling her toward him until her satin slippers hit the wet stone. She stumbled, the heavy, water-logged gown dragging her down. Luca caught her around the waist, lifting her effortlessly against his chest before she could hit the ground.
Her hands instinctively braced against his shoulders. She felt the heavy Kevlar beneath his suit jacket, the rigid strength of a man who lived at war.
"Put me down, you bastard!" she spat, striking his shoulder with a clenched fist.
Luca didn't flinch. His dark amber eyes locked onto hers, cold and entirely devoid of remorse. "Conserve your energy, Elena. You're going to need it once you realize your father isn't coming for you."
He carried her through the towering front doors. Inside, the foyer was vaulted and silent, lit only by recessed warm lights reflecting off polished black marble. Two men in tactical suits bowed their heads as Luca walked past, carrying a bride smeared in another man's blood.
Luca set her down in the center of the vast living room. Elena staggered, wrapping her arms around her shivering frame. The chill was setting in—deep, bone-aching, and terrifying.
"Take off the dress," Luca ordered quietly, unbuttoning his overcoat and tossing it onto an armchair.
May you like
Elena’s eyes went wide. She retreated a step, horror pooling in her stomach. "What?"
"I said take it off." Luca stepped toward her, his expression unreadable. "You reek of a dead man, and you’re ruining my floors."
