The city always felt different after midnight—like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
That night, I should've listened to my gut. I should've waited for Daniel's call or at least asked security to walk me to my car. But I didn't. I just wanted to go home.
The office was quiet, too quiet, when I stepped out. My driver wasn't at the curb. The parking lot stretched wide and empty, the streetlights flickering like dying stars. I tightened my coat, clutching my phone, scrolling for his number.
That's when I heard it—a low hum, the growl of an engine turning the corner too fast.
Headlights flared.
A black van.
I barely had time to react before it screeched to a stop beside me. The door slid open.
"Isabella?" a voice snapped.
I froze. My instincts screamed run.
I turned—but someone was already behind me. A rough hand clamped over my mouth, and another yanked my arms back. I struggled, kicked, and bit down on skin, but he didn't even flinch.
The sting of a needle bit into my neck.
Everything blurred. The world folded into darkness.
I woke to the sound of dripping water. My head throbbed, my mouth dry. The air smelled like iron and oil.
My wrists were bound behind a chair, ropes digging into my skin. A single bulb flickered above, throwing weak light across the room. Concrete walls. Rusted tools. Shadows.
A man stepped out of the dark. Average build, wrong smile. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, mockingly polite.
I said nothing.
He tilted his head. "You've been a hard woman to find. Marco De Luca's little secret."
My stomach clenched.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I rasped.
He chuckled, circling me slowly. "Oh, you do. The man who burns cities for people he loves. Let's see what he'll do for you."
He nodded to someone. Pain exploded in my ribs as a boot slammed into my side. I gasped, the breath knocked from me.
"You're leverage, sweetheart," he said. "And if Marco wants you breathing, he'll bring us what we want."
I looked up, blood in my mouth, fear clawing at my throat. "You're making a mistake."
He leaned closer, eyes glinting. "No, he did."
Time dissolved after that.
I stopped keeping count of how long I'd been there. The bulb flickered. The ropes burned my wrists raw. Every creak of the door made my pulse spike.
They barely spoke, but I caught pieces—names, codes, and something about shipments. And Marco. Always Marco.
They wanted information. Power. Revenge.
But somewhere between the terror and the silence, I realized something—someone kept checking his phone, restless. I saw the message flash once before he turned it away:
He's on his way.
My heart jumped.
Marco.
A mix of fear and relief hit me like a wave. He was coming. Of course he was. But that also meant—
Gunfire shattered the silence.
The bulb burst, plunging the room into half-darkness. Men shouted, ducking for cover. The metallic echo of bullets filled the air. I dropped to the floor, heart racing, trying to crawl beneath the chair.
Then I heard him.
"Isabella!"
That voice—rough, desperate, alive.
"Marco!" I screamed back.
He appeared through the haze, black shirt, gun drawn, eyes wild. The sight of him nearly broke me. He looked like hell—sweat, blood, fury—but he was here.
He fired twice, precise and deadly. Two men fell before they even reached their weapons.
He was at my side in seconds, cutting the ropes from my wrists. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head, trembling. "No—but—"
A flash of movement behind him.
"Marco!"
He turned, pulling me down with him just as the shot rang out. The sound was deafening.
For a moment, I didn't feel anything. Then I saw the red spreading across his shirt.
"Marco—oh my God—"
He gritted his teeth, firing back with his free hand. The shooter dropped.
He pressed a hand to his side, blood seeping through his fingers. "It's fine," he said hoarsely. "We need to move."
"You're bleeding!"
"Later." He grabbed my hand, staggering toward the exit.
The door burst open to the night. Rain. Cold. Sirens in the distance.
We ran—half-running, half-carrying each other—until he shoved me into a car waiting by the road. One of his men was behind the wheel. The moment we slammed the doors shut, the engine roared to life.
I turned to him. "You need a hospital."
He shook his head, his breathing shallow. "No hospitals."
"Marco—"
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, jaw tight. "They'll be watching. Just—stay awake with me."
I took his hand, my fingers slick with his blood. "You shouldn't have come."
His lips twitched into something almost like a smile. "You think I could let them take you?"
I wanted to yell at him, cry, or do something—but all I could do was hold on as the city lights blurred past.
By the time we reached his house, he was barely conscious. His men carried him inside, shouting orders in Italian. I followed numbly, drenched, shaking.
They laid him on the couch, blood staining the white cushions. Someone pressed a cloth to his wound.
I knelt beside him, my hands trembling as I brushed his hair from his face. His skin was pale, his breathing uneven.
"Marco, stay with me."
His eyes fluttered open. "You're safe," he whispered. "That's all that matters."
Tears blurred my vision. "Don't you dare say that like you're leaving."
He managed a weak smile. "You're stronger than you think, bella mia."
"Stop talking," I said, voice breaking. "Please."
The medic arrived—a young man with dark gloves and calm hands. He worked fast, murmuring orders. I couldn't move. I just sat there, holding Marco's hand, willing his pulse not to fade.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
Inside, everything was quiet except the rhythm of his breathing—and the sound of my heart trying not to break.
Hours passed before the bleeding stopped. They said he'd live. That the bullet had missed anything vital. But seeing him there, unconscious, with tubes and bandages, I wasn't sure I believed it until I heard him whisper my name again in his sleep.
That's when I broke.
The tears came hot and uncontrollable, all the fear and guilt crashing over me. I buried my face in his chest and whispered, "Don't ever do that again."
He stirred slightly, his fingers brushing mine.
"I'll always come for you," he murmured, barely audible. "Even if it kills me."
And for the first time since the night began, I believed him.
But deep down, I knew something had shifted. The line between his world and mine was gone. Whoever took me had started something bigger—something neither of us could walk away from now.
And as I sat there, holding his hand, listening to the storm outside, one truth settled like a shadow over my heart:
Love had just become our most dangerous weapon.