2

Rafael’s POV

The car rolled up the long drive, tires crunching over gravel as moonlight spilled across the stone façade of the Moretti estate.

It looked more like a fortress than a home — sharp lines, heavy iron gates, windows too narrow for sunlight.

I carried the girl — Amara, according to the worn student ID in her pocket — through the front doors.

Mrs. Holloway, the housekeeper, stood waiting in the marble foyer, hands folded neatly in front of her apron.

Her sharp eyes softened the moment she saw the bundle in my arms.

“She’s hurt,” I said gruffly. “Clean her up. Keep her comfortable.”

Mrs. Holloway’s gaze flicked to me, full of unspoken questions.

But she merely nodded, already moving to prepare a guest room.

As I laid Amara down on the soft sheets, she whimpered — a sound so raw it cut deeper than any blade.

“Shh,” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

I brushed a strand of blood-matted hair away from her forehead.

She didn’t wake.

Good.

Better that way.

I straightened and stepped back as Mrs. Holloway entered, carrying warm towels and a first aid kit.

“Be gentle,” I said, surprising myself with the tightness in my voice.

Mrs. Holloway’s mouth twitched — the ghost of a smile.

“Aren’t I always?” she said.

I left before the weight in my chest became unbearable.

Because the worst thing about seeing her like that wasn’t the blood.

It wasn’t even the bruises.

It was the familiarity of it.

The memory of another broken thing I hadn’t been able to save.

Not that night.

Not ever.

Amara’s POV

The first thing I felt was pain.

A dull, throbbing ache in my ribs.

A sharp sting across my cheek.

And softness beneath me — too soft.

Sheets. Pillows. Warmth.

I bolted upright, heart hammering against my ribs.

Where—?

The room was strange. Huge.

Muted colors, no sharp edges, no heavy locks on the doors — but still wrong.

Too clean. Too expensive.

Not my tiny dorm. Not home, either. Never home.

Panic clawed at my throat.

I shoved the covers off, stumbling out of bed.

The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in my vision.

I grabbed the nearest wall to steady myself, breath coming fast and shallow.

Where was I?

Who brought me here?

Memories crashed down, jagged and ugly:

My father’s hand striking my face.

Running barefoot into the night.

A man’s voice — deep, unfamiliar.

Arms catching me before I hit the ground.

Oh, God.

The nightclub.

The blood.

I remembered the blood.

My stomach twisted.

I staggered toward the door. It wasn’t locked.

Why wasn’t it locked?

I cracked it open — just a sliver — and peered into the hallway.

Empty.

Silent.

The house stretched wide and endless, shadows pooling in corners.

A mansion.

A prison.

I slipped into the hall, bare feet silent against the cool marble floors.

Every instinct screamed: Run.

I didn’t make it far.

Two turns down the corridor, I slammed into something solid.

Arms closed around me before I hit the ground.

“Easy,” a low voice murmured.

I jerked back, eyes wide.

It was him.

The man from the alley.

The man who caught me.

Even in the dim light, I could see the sharp angles of his face, the rough scruff on his jaw, the black ink peeking from under his cuff — a tattoo?

Mafia.

The word crashed through me, filling every crack with cold terror.

“Let me go,” I gasped, trying to twist away.

His grip loosened immediately — no resistance, no force.

He stepped back, hands raised slightly, palms open.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly.

They always say that.

And then they do.

I backed up until my spine hit the wall.

“Where am I?” My voice shook.

“Safe,” he said.

I flinched.

Safe wasn’t real. Safe was a lie people told you so they could get close enough to hurt you.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“Rafael Moretti,” he said simply. “I found you last night. Outside Velvet.”

Velvet.

The nightclub.

The blood.

“You’re—”

I couldn’t even say it. Couldn’t shape the word mafia around my fear.

He saw it anyway.

His mouth tightened.

“I run businesses,” he said carefully. “Some of them… less than legal. But I’m not your enemy.”

I shook my head, desperate to clear the fog, the fear.

“I can’t stay here,” I whispered. “I have to leave.”

He didn’t move to stop me.

But his voice, low and rough, anchored me in place.

“You leave now,” he said, “you’ll end up right back where you ran from.”

I froze.

Because I knew he was right.

Because somewhere, deep down, I already felt it —

— the truth that terrified me even more than the blood, even more than the mafia:

I had nowhere else to go.

I stared at Rafael, every nerve ending sparking with confusion, fear, and something worse — something dangerously close to hope.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t step forward either.

He stayed where he was, patient and still, as if he knew even breathing too loud might send me bolting.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said at last, voice low, steady. “I’m not keeping you here.”

I pressed harder against the wall, feeling small and cornered despite the space he gave me.

“But,” he added, and for the first time there was a thread of something — not warning, but reality — in his voice, “if you leave, you need to know what you’re walking into.”

My fingers dug into the cool marble behind me.

“Your parents,” he said, carefully, as if testing each word before offering it, “are looking for you.”

The blood drained from my face.

How did he know that?

“How—?”

“You’re not the only one who left blood behind,” he said grimly. “One of my men saw your father, later. Asking questions. Threatening people.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

“You run, you end up back there. Or worse.”

I bit down hard on my lip to keep the sob from escaping.

It didn’t matter how far I ran.

They would always find me.

Rafael’s hands lowered slightly, palms facing me like a silent offering.

“Stay,” he said. “Just until you’re strong enough to fight for yourself. No strings. No debts.”

I stared at him, torn apart inside.

“You’ll be safe,” he added, almost whispering. “I swear it.”

I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to.

But trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

I shook my head, fighting the sting in my eyes.

“I don’t trust you,” I choked out.

Something flickered in his eyes — not anger, not offense — but understanding.

“Then trust this,” he said quietly. “You deserve to be more than afraid.”

The words wrapped around me like a fragile promise.

I opened my mouth to respond — to argue, maybe — but the world tilted sharply, and everything slid out of focus.

Darkness rose up to meet me.

Flashback: 

The crack of a slap across my face.

The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

“You think you’re better than us, Amara?” my mother hissed, smiling sweetly at the neighbors passing by on the porch.

“You’re nothing without us.”

My father’s grip tightened around my arm, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.

“You leave this house,” he snarled, “and you’re dead to me. You hear me? Dead.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Inside, something small and desperate twisted free.

A voice I barely recognized anymore.

Run.

The front door slammed behind me as I stumbled into the night, barefoot, broken.

The stars blurred overhead, smeared by tears.

Don’t look back.

Don’t you dare look back.

 Rafael’s POV

I caught her before she hit the floor.

She was light — too light — and burning with fever.

“Amara,” I said sharply, but she didn’t stir.

Mrs. Holloway appeared at the end of the hall, her expression tightening when she saw the girl crumpled in my arms.

“She’s malnourished,” Mrs. Holloway said, moving briskly. “Dehydrated. Exhausted. We need to get fluids into her. Food when she wakes.”

I nodded, already moving to carry Amara back to her room.

As I settled her into the bed again, tucking the sheets carefully around her battered frame, a thought kept gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Someone had seen her.

Someone knew she was here.

And in my world, knowledge was the deadliest weapon of all.

I glanced down at her sleeping face — pale, bruised, far too young for the horrors she carried.

I would protect her.

Even if it destroyed me.

Especially if it destroyed me.