Alya
Alya
A dull, throbbing ache blooms at the base of my skull, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It drags me from the depths of unconsciousness, slow and disorienting, like being pulled through molasses. My limbs feel wrong—heavy, uncooperative. The weight pressing against my body is unfamiliar, sluggish, as though I'm drowning in my own skin. Then the memories crash down on me like a tidal wave. The ambush.
A surge of adrenaline claws through the fog in my mind, but my body remains sluggish, a cruel betrayal. Did they drug me? They must have. It's the only explanation for this unnatural stillness, the weight pressing against my ribs, the stiffness in my joints. I try to move, but my limbs barely shift. How long has it been?
Softness. I register it slowly, the sensation of silk sheets beneath my fingers, the plush give of a mattress cradling my form. A bed. A comfortable bed. That realization jolts me, prying my eyes open in a desperate attempt to understand. The room is nothing like what I expected. Soft lighting spills over elegant furnishings; a dark oak nightstand beside the bed, a grand piano sitting in the far corner, its polished surface gleaming under the light. A painting easel stands nearby, scattered with brushes and unfinished canvases, their strokes both chaotic and deliberate. Heavy drapes frame a tall window, their deep crimson fabric brushing against a sleek bookshelf lined with leather-bound volumes. Everything here screams wealth, refinement—not the cold, empty cell of a prisoner.
What. The. Fuck.
I force myself upright, a struggle against the dead weight of my limbs, but I manage. The motion makes my head spin, sending black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. I press my palm to my temple, inhaling shakily. Have I died? Did the blow to my head kill me, and this is some twisted afterlife? Because who the hell treats their prisoners like this? A mentally disturbed person, that's who.
As if the universe decides to confirm my thoughts, a sharp click sounds from the door, the unmistakable twist of a lock disengaging. Fair enough. Of course, they wouldn't leave it open. My breath stutters in my chest as the door swings inward, and I lift my gaze and my heart…stops.
The man standing in the doorway is tall, his broad frame effortlessly filling the space. His face, chiseled and angular, carried an intensity that was both brooding and captivating. His dark hair, tousled just enough to suggest carelessness, framed a face that was sharp in its beauty; angular cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips that rested in an expression neither soft nor hard. His eyes, deep-set and heavy-lidded, burned beneath thick, softly arched brows. His sharp jawline is dusted with faint stubble, and his skin, tanned and smooth, catches the soft glow of the chandelier as we both assessed each other.
Then, he smiles.
And the breath I've been holding shatters in my lungs.
It's a slow, deliberate thing, curving his lips with an ease that shouldn't exist in this moment. A pair of deep-set dimples carve into his cheeks, disarming, almost boyish, as if this is some casual encounter between acquaintances, not captor and prisoner.
I'm the one who must be disturbed, because despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, I find myself staring. The logical part of my brain screams at me, reminds me that this man is the reason I'm here, that his men attacked us, captured me and has me currently imprisoned. But my thoughts twist in on themselves, spiraling, because—why the hell is he smiling?
I must have made a face, because he finally speaks.
"Finally awake," he muses, still grinning as he steps inside and lets the door shut behind him. The soft click of the lock makes something in my chest tighten. "My men must have struck too hard; you were out for two days."
Two days. My stomach drops, a nauseating sense of wrongness coiling in my gut. Two days, and no one has come. No one. Siege hasn't come. The thought lands like a punch to my ribs. Why? He may not have wanted a daughter, but I'm still his. And Hule—Hule was taken, too. He wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't—
"I dealt with the man responsible," the man continues, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. "No need to worry. He treated our guest with a bad start." He pauses, a playful lilt in his voice. "My mother always taught me to treat guests fairly and to make proper introductions."
My eyes snap to him, my disbelief evident. Fairly? Did he actually just say that?
I scan him properly now, my earlier haze of misplaced admiration dissolving. His black shirt is rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, smudged faintly with what looks like dried blood. His dark slacks are just as disheveled, creased as if he'd been wearing them for too long. And his boots—heavy, worn, with dirt and something darker clinging to the leather.
He looks like he just came from a battle. And yet, here he stands, acting as if this is nothing more than polite conversation.
"Why am I here?" My voice is hoarse, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on it. "And Hule?"
He waves a hand dismissively, stepping toward the grand piano. "Your friend will live." He drops onto the stool, his fingers ghosting over the keys as if contemplating playing. I only know one thing about this man—his men spoke Italian during the ambush. That alone narrows the possibilities.
"You must be hungry," he continued, turning around to face me.
He seems to catch on to my silence. Then, with a suddenness that makes my muscles coil, he pushes off the piano and strides toward me. My body tenses, instinct warning me to move, but I force myself to remain still. He stops just before the bed, looking down at me with that same unnerving ease.
"James Carrizo," he finally says, offering his hand as if we're closing a business deal.
I stare.
Then, slowly, my gaze drags from his outstretched palm back to his face. He's serious. The moment stretches, heavy and taut, before he finally pulls his hand back with a small, amused chuckle.
James Carrizo. Head of the Nosa Costra.
The most powerful and feared mafia organization in Italy. A name spoken in hushed whispers, a shadow that looms over the underworld like a specter of death. And at its helm? James Carrizo. A man whose reputation is built on blood and brutality, whispered about in darkened rooms where even criminals dare not speak too loudly.
The stories paint him as something more than human—a phantom draped in violence, a man who does not forgive, does not forget, and leaves nothing behind but ruin and bodies in his wake.
And yet…
The man standing before me is smiling. Smiling.