The Santoro villa loomed over the countryside, its stonework walls garlanded in ivy choking the moonlight like some beast curled in darkness.
Iron gates slammed closed on the car, their crash echoing within Valeria Costa's heart, imprisoning her in a fortress scented with ancient money and older sins. The air was thick with dew and cigar fumes, the far-off cracking of shots cutting through the night. Her wrists pulsed, bound with coarse rope that bit into her skin, and her bare feet hurt from the cathedral stones, now bent back into the chill leather of the car.
"Valeria pressed her forehead to the car window, jaw clenched. Her pulse throbbed at her temples. Her mother was gone. Her wedding was ruined. Her life was hijacked. And Matteo… why her?"
Matteo Santoro beside her, his gray eyes unyielding, fingers curved around a glass of amber liquid—the liquid glowing with reflected light like fire trapped within.
Valeria's heart hammered, a wild cadence in quiet. She fumed at the villa's windows, their barred shapes mocking, and memorized every detail: the spare lines of the guard towers, the gravel road disappearing into darkness, the sheen of a rifle on a patrolman's shoulder.
The vehicle came to a stop under the stone archway. Matteo broke his silence at last.
Compared to her father's gaudy fortress, this place had an order to it—too calm, too clean. A kingdom run with ruthless precision.
"You're wondering whether I kidnapped you," he remarked, voice smooth as obsidian. "But I didn't."
He moved his head, the gray eyes glinting back at him from the dashboard light.
"It's an abduction. There is a distinction, principessa. One's desperate. The other's. calculated."
He sipped his drink. "Your father caused me more damage than you'll ever understand. I should have tossed your body in a ditch and left him crying over his wine."
His voice went cold as steel cooled from flame. "I won't. For the moment, I'll keep you safe. Welcome home, princess."
He shoved open the door of the car, hinges creaking, and dragged her out—his grip firm, but not cruel. Rain had stopped, and the air was heavy, sticky, clinging to her torn wedding gown like a second skin. She slumped into the gravel, pebbles biting into her soles, and swayed, her shoulder brushing his chest. His scent—gunpowder, leather, something intensely male—burst around her.
Within, chandeliers cast golden webs on marble floors. Perfume of polished wood and the faint tang of tobacco filled the air. A curving staircase swirled upwards, banister a glint, but luxury seemed prison—every glint reminding her of her imprisonment.
Matteo's thugs herded them in. Valeria leaned her head back—a rags-to-riches queen not likely to curtsy. She counted tiles, exits, the guards' rotations. Her fingers itched to fix the hairpin jammed in her ruined updo—a dagger she'd employ when she needed it.
He shoved her into a guest room, the door crashing closed. The room was luxurious—silk drapes, a four-poster, a crystal decanter—but barred windows creaked cell.
Valeria moved to the window. Beyond the panes, the terrace extended like a painting, rain-soaked marble glinting in the light of torches. The compound stretched out in layers—gardens blooming in contained frenzy, lanterns flaring along cobblestone streets, guards creeping like ghosts, maids disappearing soundlessly between shadows. It was disciplined. Tranquil. Not what she'd expected of a mafia enclave.
And yet—lucky.
She was not accustomed to riches. Her father's empire was one that was replete with gold and cruelty. But not this. Managed. Minding. Every person had their place in the machine Matteo built.
She complained, "Even the guards don't socialize."
And then more loudly: "What kind of heaven is this for a devil like you?"
Matteo appeared in the doorway, jacket removed, shirt pulled up at the sleeves. His burn-seared forearms glowed in the light. He was holding a crystal glass and looking at her as if she were a curious creature.
"Consider yourself lucky, Valeria. Others wouldn't have offered a room, let alone restraint."
He walked slowly. "Instead, I'm giving you a room. Wine. A bed."
She knocked the decanter to the floor. Shards flew. Wine bled across the marble like spilled blood.
"I don't drink with abusers," she spat.
Matteo only smirked. "You're in my home, Valeria. You'll find it's far safer than the world your father built for you."
Then he left her alone, but the door's lock snapped behind him like a gunshot.
Later That Night – Poolside
The patio of the villa wrapped around an inky pool, water reflecting moonbeams in shattered glass. Matteo reclined bare-chested along the water's edge, toes in the water, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. Rocco collapsed beside him, two tumblers grasped in one hand.
"To a clean pull," Rocco growled, handing one over.
Matteo smiled and clinked glasses. "Now Giovanni will dance."
"You think he'll back down?" Rocco asked. "He still has half the politicians in Rome in his pocket. One phone call, and it's over."
"Let him phone," Matteo said, gazing into the water. "I saw his face when I abducted her. He cares. That's power."
He leaned back. "He'll comply. And this vendetta?"
He exhaled smoke. "It stops. With her."
Rocco shook his head. "Taking her in here—it's dangerous, brother. If someone lets this leak out, it's war."
Matteo's gaze hardened. "Then let there be war."
A pause. "Come in. Let's talk business."
Costa Compound – Midnight
The air in Giovanni Costa's office was thick with smoke and quiet, interrupted only by the soft jingling of ice in crystal glasses. A half-circle of powerful men sat in a long mahogany table—old mafia blood, hardworking enforcers, cartel middlemen imported on overnight flights. Maps of Naples and its outskirts were spread out before them, red circled and black X'd.
Giovanni stood at the head, silver hair gleaming under the chandelier, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Still no trace," he muttered, stabbing a finger at the map. "No movement from Santoro's businesses, no chatter from his ports, and none of our men have spotted her on any of the roads. She's vanished."
One of the dons leaned forward. "He's hiding her well."
Giovanni's jaw clenched. "He won't hide her for long."
The door slammed open.
Nico Bellini strode in like he owned the room, black slacks creased, shirt half-unbuttoned, the gold chain around his throat catching the light.
"Meeting without me?" he said, loud and mocking. "That's a first."
Giovanni's glare didn't waver. Without a word, he raised a hand and made a small gesture.
The room stilled.
The other mafiosi rose one at a time and lined up, grumbling to themselves as the heavy doors thudded shut behind them. The room was silent again—only Nico and Giovanni remained.
Giovanni poured himself another drink, ice crunching softly.
"This is a delicate matter, Nico. I haven't time for your tantrums."
"Tantrum?" Nico scoffed. "My bride was kidnapped, and I've been left out. If you expect me to sit idly by and do nothing while Matteo Santoro prances her around like a trophy—"
"It's not a parade," Giovanni cut in with chill calm. "It's war. And we're planning an attack."
Nico leaned over the table, eyes burning.
"Or maybe it's something else. Maybe she wasn't kidnapped. Maybe she left."
That hurt. Giovanni's expression hardened.
"You're accusing Valeria of betrayal?"
"I'm saying she never wanted me. She hated this marriage. And Santoro's not an idiot. He's manipulative, controlled. She's headstrong, impulsive. Put them in a cage long enough…"
"She is my daughter," Giovanni snapped, but doubt flickered across his face. "She knows what betrayal costs.
A tense pauses.
Giovanni slowly set his glass down, voice dropping to steel.
"I don't care what lies Matteo tells her. I know my blood. Tomorrow we initiate our transition. Everything, every informant, every rat we have in that family's ranks—I want them deployed. I want eyes on all their properties they own from Naples to Palermo."
"You're sure?" Nico asked, voice gentler now. "She's not in on this?"
Giovanni's eyes sparked with something uninterpretable.
"I trained her to obey. She knows the price of betrayal."
He stepped forward, low and resolute voice:
"Tomorrow, she arrives."
Nico did not argue. But the silence between them was charged with something tougher than fidelity.