The night pressed against the glass walls of Adrian's penthouse, a thousand lights burning below, mocking me with their freedom. I couldn't sleep. The silk sheets smelled of cedar and something darker, a reminder of the man whose rules I'd been forced to obey over dinner.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying his words:
"They didn't come to save you. They came to bargain."
The image of my father's face at the altar — pale, silent, as Adrian pulled me down the aisle — clung to me like a stain.
If my family had been outside tonight… why hadn't they demanded I be returned? Why had they come with someone else?
I turned over, pulling the sheets tight around me as if they could block out the truth. Somewhere deep down, I already knew: nothing Adrian said felt like a lie.
The clock had just struck two when a sound pulled me from restless half-sleep: voices in the hall, low and urgent. I slipped from bed, bare feet silent against the cold floor, and crept to the door.
"Boss, it's them again," a man's voice muttered. Rafe.
"They don't quit," Adrian's reply was smooth, steady. "How many?"
"Three cars. Parked across the street."
"And?"
"They're not police. They're family."
My pulse hammered. Family.
I pressed my ear closer to the door.
"What do you want done?" Rafe asked.
Adrian paused. "Bring her down. Let her see."
The door opened without warning. Adrian stood there, already in a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, his eyes sharp even at this ungodly hour.
"Get dressed," he said.
I pulled the robe tighter around me. "Where are we going?"
"Downstairs. To meet your family."
My stomach dropped. "At two in the morning?"
His lips curved faintly. "Truth doesn't care what time it is."
Minutes later, I was in the elevator with him, the silence suffocating. Rafe stood behind us like a shadow. My palms were damp against the fabric of my robe.
"You're enjoying this," I muttered.
Adrian didn't look at me. "Enjoyment isn't the word. Anticipation, maybe. Because tonight, Elena, you'll stop pretending your family is innocent."
The doors opened to the private lobby.
Through the glass entrance, I saw them. My father. My brother Matteo. And standing with them — the man with the cane.
Even in the dim glow of streetlamps, he looked immaculate. That same stillness, that same smile carved in shadow. His cane gleamed as he leaned on it lightly, as if for effect rather than need.
When my father saw me, his shoulders sagged. Matteo's jaw clenched, but he didn't move forward. The stranger's eyes, though, locked on me like he'd been waiting.
Adrian's hand closed around my wrist — not roughly, but with possession. He pushed the glass doors open.
The night air was sharp with salt and asphalt.
"Elena," my father said, his voice hoarse. "Come home."
Home. The word felt foreign on my skin.
"You shouldn't be here, Rossi," Adrian said smoothly. "This isn't your ground."
"You stole my daughter," my father snapped.
Adrian's brow lifted. "Did I? Or did you sell her long before I arrived at that church?"
My father froze. Matteo's head dropped.
My breath caught. "What is he talking about?" I demanded.
Silence