Alya
The monster they speak of, the ruthless king of Italy's underworld—this is him? Right now, all I see is a man who treats my captivity like some twisted game, like he's amused by the very idea that I might fear him. I was prepared for a monster. A beast with soulless eyes and a voice carved from ice. A creature who would strike first, who would let the rumors of his cruelty precede him.
But this? This is worse. Because he isn't what I expected. And I hated that. As if the universe knew my distaste for surprises and decided to twist the knife just a little deeper, just to see me flinch.
My patience thins, stretched taut like a fraying thread as I tilt my head, studying him. There's something off about him, something that coils around my ribs like a warning. His presence hums with an unhinged sort of energy, the kind that makes the air feel too thick, too charged. The kind that tells me I am sitting in front of a man who doesn't just enjoy fear. He feeds on it. Not because he needs to. Not because it serves a purpose. But because it amuses him. Because watching people squirm reminds him that he's alive.
He kills because he can. Because the moment you stop being interesting, you stop being anything at all. I swallow hard, my throat tight and dry, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me as if they can anchor me to something solid. But nothing about this moment feels solid.
Nothing about this man feels human.
"Why am I here?" I repeat, my voice sharper now, my eyes narrowing as if I can carve the answer out of him myself.
What did Siege do to grab his attention? And why is it always me who has to suffer the fallout of his recklessness? This man was not a monster. He was far worse.
"Don't most people ask first where they are?" he muses, his voice smooth, controlled, utterly unbothered by the confusion clawing its way up my throat. Then, as if I'm already an afterthought, he turns, strides to the door, and swings it open with effortless ease. Pausing just long enough to glance back, he stretches out an arm in a lazy, almost mocking invitation.
"We'll talk about it over lunch," he says, his tone making it clear that my compliance is assumed. Then he disappears through the doorway, not waiting to see if I move or not.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my chest tight with the force of it. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something, anything, that will make this make sense. Hidden cameras? A microphone? Some kind of sign that this is all some elaborate trick? That would almost be comforting compared to the unknown stretching out in front of me like a yawning abyss. Why is he acting like we're friends?
I force myself to swallow my growing frustration, but it burns like acid in my throat. 'Treating guests fairly,' he had said. Bullshit. I rake through my memories, desperate for a scrap of information, some thread that will lead me to why James Carrizo has taken an interest in Siege. But no matter how hard I search, nothing surfaces.
My stomach twists as I stare at the open door, at the empty space where he stood just moments ago. The air still feels heavy with his presence, his voice curling around the edges of my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp but suffocating all the same. I should stay put. Shouldn't give him the satisfaction of obedience. But something tells me he's the kind of man who doesn't ask twice. With a sharp breath, I push off the bed, my bare feet meeting the cool floor as I stand. My legs feel unsteady, as if the ground itself can't be trusted, but I force myself to move.
Fine. Lunch. If that's what it takes to get answers, I'll play along. For now.
Stepping into the hallway, I find him a few feet ahead, walking with the kind of unshaken confidence that only comes from a man who knows he's in complete control. He doesn't check if I'm following; he knows I am.
Arrogant bastard.
The corridor stretches long and pristine, the walls lined with dark paneling, expensive paintings spaced at even intervals. This isn't a warehouse or some underground bunker—it's wealth. Real, undeniable, untouchable wealth. The kind that shields men like him from consequences. My stomach knots tighter.
"Where are we?" I ask, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.
He glances at me over his shoulder, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Like I just proved his point.
"Now you want to know."
I clench my jaw, irritation spiking. Smug. That's what he is. Like this is all a game to him, and I'm just another piece on the board.
"James." I bite his name out before I could think, lacing it with as much contempt as I can manage.
He stops. Turns. And just like that, the air shifts. My breath stutters. His face remains composed, but there's something different in the way he looks at me now.
"Let's get one thing straight," he says, voice soft but edged with something sharp, something dangerous. "You don't get to say my name like that."
He's right. Why did I say his name at all? A shiver races down my spine, but I lift my chin, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of his stare.
"You don't get to decide how I say your name," I counter, my pulse pounding in my throat.
A long silence stretches between us, tension thick enough to suffocate. Then, just as smoothly as he stopped, he turns and continues walking. I force my feet to move, my pulse still hammering as I fall into step behind him. Don't let him get in your head. Easier said than done when every glance, every shift in his voice, feels like a calculated move, a thread tightening around me before I even realize it's there.
We move through another corridor, then down a wide staircase lined with sleek, black railing. The house—or estate, more like—stretches out around me in quiet, suffocating luxury. The scent of polished wood and something subtly spiced lingers in the air, too controlled to be accidental. Nothing about this place is accidental.
I open my mouth to press him again—where we are, why I'm here, what the hell he actually wants—but before I can, we step into a vast, sunlit dining room.
The table is long and made of dark, gleaming wood, set with plates that probably cost more than my monthly allowances. Yes, despite being the daughter of a wealthy, influential individual, I wasn't exactly treated with the privilege society typically associated with such lineage. At the center, an arrangement of food has already been placed—grilled fish, fresh greens, a glass of something golden that catches the light. Elegant. Precise. Prepared before he even knew I'd follow him.
Because he did know. Of course he did.
James moves to the head of the table, pulling out a chair with an ease that somehow still feels like control. He gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit."
It's not a request.
I don't move. "You didn't answer me."
He leans back, studying me like he has all the time in the world. Like my resistance is just another step in a dance he's already memorized. "You'll find I don't answer to demands."
His gaze flicks down, to my hands clenched at my sides, then back up again. "Eat."
I don't. My mind is still spinning, still clawing for footing in this game he's playing.
His lips twitch, just barely. "You think I'd bother poisoning the food?"
"You tell me."
A short, quiet chuckle. "If I wanted you dead, you'd know."
Not exactly comforting.
But my stomach is still twisted in knots, and eating means sitting, and sitting means surrendering to this—this dynamic he's already trying to set, this silent expectation that I'll fall in line. So I stay standing.
His amusement fades, though there's no real frustration in its place. If anything, there's something almost approving in the way he watches me. Like he enjoys the push and pull of it, the slow unraveling.
Then, finally—finally—he gives me something real.
"You're here," he says, voice steady, even, certain, "because we have a problem."
I hold his gaze, pulse kicking hard. I mean yes, of course, we had a problem. But the fact he said we. We. Not you have a problem. We have a problem. And that single, simple word shifts everything.