003

The roar of the private jet faded as it touched down, like a beast finally subdued.

Inside, the luxury was nearly obscene. Cream leather, polished wood, crystal glasses. Everything designed for pleasure. But sprawled across one of the couches lay a woman’s limp figure. Svetlana. Skin cold. Pulse faint. Beauty, broken.

A porcelain doll trapped in a gilded cage.

“Open the door,” the largest man barked, his voice hoarse, his eyes dead. He lifted her like she weighed nothing. Didn't even flinch as her skin brushed his.

One of the men opened the door of the black van. Svetlana was placed in the back seat with a false kind of care. As if it mattered.

The door shut with a sharp clack—sealing her fate.

The others climbed in. One at the wheel, one beside him. Two flanking her. The engine purred, like a predator well-fed. The van devoured the road, gliding like shadow through deeper shadow.

No one spoke.

Until boredom broke the tension.

“I'm starving,” the passenger yawned. “Can we stop for a minute?”

The driver shot him a glare.

“Why didn’t you eat on the jet?”

“That crap? Even the Russian threw it on the floor.”

He tried to laugh. No one joined in. Silence crushed him.

Eventually, the driver veered toward a small shop lit by a neon sign in Italian.

“Five minutes. No more.”

Two of the men got out. The one beside her snorted.

“Hurry. We’re already late. We need to deliver the package.”

But the “package” was no longer asleep.

Svetlana woke in perfect silence. She didn’t open her eyes right away. She smelled leather. Heard engines. Heard Italian.

She was moving. Still alive. Still kidnapped.

She opened her eyes. Two men. A door beside her.

She counted to three.

And lunged.

The click of the door handle rang out like a gunshot.

“Shit!” one of the men shouted. “I told you to lock the doors!”

Too late.

Svetlana tumbled to the ground, the cold biting at her bare legs. She ran.

She ran like her soul was tearing apart.

“Get her!”

The passenger jumped out behind her. Clumsy. Slow. The other two burst from the shop and joined the chase.

Svetlana didn’t look back.

She just ran.

The world was an abyss of asphalt and forest. Road signs in Italian. She wasn’t in Russia anymore. She was alone. Without God. Without country.

And without salvation.

Then she saw it. A small bar. Lit up. A lighthouse in the dark.

She slammed through the door with her whole body.

“Aiuto!” she choked. “Help! Please! Men… chasing me!”

Three men stared. One stood up. Big. Rough. The kind of face that didn’t invite questions.

“What the hell…?”

“Please!” she begged. “Hide me!”

One pointed silently to a cabinet. Svetlana dove behind it, panting like wounded prey.

The door burst open.

Three men entered. Armed. The wind came with them, bringing the scent of an approaching storm.

“Hand over the girl,” one said flatly. “We don’t want trouble.”

The man behind the bar narrowed his eyes.

“What girl?”

“Don’t play games. We saw her come in.”

One of the patrons glanced at the speaker’s hand. Noticed the ring. Swallowed hard.

“‘Ndrangheta,” he whispered to his friend.

Silence. Tense. Lethal.

The third man nodded. And betrayed her.

“She’s over there.”

They dragged her out like an animal. Svetlana kicked, scratched, screamed. No one stepped in.

Just crooked gazes. Complicit silence.

The man who’d tried to help clenched his fists. The veins in his neck bulged like scars.

He said nothing.

But his eyes burned.

Because fear may fall silent—

But rage never forgets.

★★★★★

The room smelled of expensive whiskey, aged leather… and restrained fury.

Dante collapsed into the armchair as if the weight of hell had landed on his shoulders. He rubbed his temples. Leader. A word that fit him like a crown of thorns.

A throne inherited through blood. And now, stained with his own.

A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts. Brief, but enough to make him tense.

“It’s me, son.”

His mother’s voice didn’t bring comfort. It brought war.

Dante stood at once. Opened the door. And there she was.

Mirella Bellandi.

Imposing. Cold. Dressed in mourning like a dethroned queen… who still intended to reclaim her crown.

“What is it, Mother?” he asked, feigning composure.

She entered without asking. As always.

“We need to talk.”

Dante shut the door. He knew that tone. When Mirella spoke like this, someone was going to bleed.

“It’s about Enzo,” she fired, without preamble.

“What about him? Is he all right?”

“He is. You’re not. Not as long as that child keeps breathing under this roof.”

Dante’s brow furrowed, heart tightening.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying your father was wrong to bring him here. And you were even more wrong to let him stay. That boy is a bomb waiting to explode.”

“He’s nine years old!” Dante roared, stunned.

“And he’s Olivia’s son. Or have you already forgotten who that woman was? Gianluca is dead because of her. If you don’t act now… you’ll be next.”

Dante stared at her like he didn’t recognize her.

“Do you have proof? Or are you just spitting poison because you couldn’t bear that Dad loved someone else?”

"I have instincts. The kind that saved my life more than once," she said, unshaken. "If you can't kill him, then get him out of here. Before it’s too late."

"He’s a kid, for fuck’s sake… my brother!"

"He’s not your brother. He’s a threat. Not yet. But he will be."

Dante looked away. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from fury. From disgust. From helplessness.

"I won’t do it," he said at last, voice low and steady. "And I won’t discuss it again."

But she wasn’t done.

"Then let’s talk about what matters: you need an heir."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"What now? Are you going to choose who I sleep with too?"

"I just want to make sure the Bellandi name doesn’t die with you."

Dante tilted his head, a wry smile curling his lips.

"There’s Enzo. He’s a Bellandi too… or have you forgotten?"

Mirella’s face changed. She paled—then burned.

"I’d rather have my soul ripped out than see that bastard take over this family!" she spat, every word a dagger. "Don’t you dare suggest that boy has any right to anything."

Dante fell silent. It had only been a jab… but it struck her in the one place she was still human.

She stepped closer. Her eyes, pure ice. Her voice, pure venom.

"Think, Dante. Before you have nothing left to protect. No name. No throne. No life."

And then she left. Back straight. Without looking back. The way executioners walk once the sentence is sealed.

Dante remained alone. The glass of whiskey in his hand trembled.

And the echo of his own decisions began to gnaw at his heels.

★★★★★

A low growl of an engine cut through the night’s icy air. The armored, black luxury SUV pulled up in front of the Bellandi estate. Majestic. Remote. The property rose like a fortress in the middle of wild, untamed land. A kingdom of secrets. Of betrayal.

Two men stepped out first, armed to the teeth. Their boots struck the ground with the confidence of killers. Behind them came Svetlana—dragged between two others, wrists bound tightly, bare legs trembling from the cold. Her body barely covered. Her dignity torn. Her mind, shattered.

What the hell was happening? Her breathing was ragged, clouded by fear and confusion. This couldn’t be real. The idea that some sick bastard, some psychopath, had finally gotten his hands on her lingered in her mind—but something didn’t add up. These men weren’t Bratva. She could feel it. So who the hell were they?

"Walk," ordered one, voice sharp as steel.

Svetlana hesitated. A brutal shove forced her forward. The fog of fear thickened around her. Every step echoed with damnation. But she counted. Counted faces. Exits. Hallways.

A massive wooden door opened with a faint click. A dark hallway swallowed her whole. Walls cold as tombstones. They led her to a room, and silence fell heavy.

Footsteps echoed. From the shadows emerged a woman. Fifty, maybe older. Elegant. Cold as marble. Her eyes were made to judge.

"Is this her?" she asked flatly.

The men nodded.

"Where am I? What do you want from me?" Svetlana cried out in Russian, her voice raw.

The woman said nothing. Just gestured. And they shoved her in.

The room smelled of damp stone, of ancient captivity. Svetlana stayed standing. Shaking. But proud.

"Don’t touch me! Let me go!" she screamed.

The woman raised her hand to slap her, but a male voice stopped her.

"Easy, Giulia. Don’t damage the boss’s gift."

From the couch, a man rose—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of authority that never needed to be questioned. His voice was deep. Commanding. Menacing.

"You’re in Aspromonte, girl," he said in English, circling her like prey.

His gaze was a blade. His eyes, frozen steel. Each step carried unspoken threat.

"Look at me."

Svetlana lifted her eyes. And saw something in him. Something not human. Something darker.

"From this moment on, you belong to Dante Bellandi. You’ll do what he says. When he says. How he says."

A choked laugh rose in her throat but twisted into rage. Another mafioso obsessed with her? What the hell was it about her life that attracted psychopaths like flies to blood?

"I… I don’t understand… Why me?"

"You don’t need to understand. Only obey," he replied. "Each morning, you should thank our signore for allowing you to breathe."

Svetlana felt the floor tremble beneath her feet.

"Today marks the beginning of your new life," the man said, a sinister smile on his face. "At the mercy of the Don."

"Don of what?"

"The Bellandi clan. Reggio Calabria."

Svetlana turned pale.

"The ‘Ndrangheta?" she whispered, more to herself than to them.

The man smiled.

"Here, those who aren’t loyal are eliminated. Torn apart. Tortured. Then forgotten."

"You can’t do this to me!" she shouted, struggling.

"Easy, piccola. This can be heaven… or hell. You choose."

"Let me go! I’m not an object!" she sobbed.

The man leaned in, his breath hot and threatening.

"Strip her. Wash her. Feed her. And get her ready. Tomorrow she meets her new master."

The guards grabbed her. She thrashed. Fought. Screamed.

But it wasn’t enough.

As they dragged her away, something inside her began to stir. A fury waking in her chest. Fire beneath her skin.

Maybe she couldn’t escape. Not yet.

But surrender?

Never.