Chapter 2

The hallway spun.

I didn’t remember walking out of the lecture hall. One moment I was staring at the empty space where Niccolò De Luca had stood, and the next, I was stumbling through the double doors, the humid air of the corridor hitting me like a physical blow.

I made it three steps before my knees gave out. I caught myself against the cold plaster wall, breathing in jagged, shallow gasps.

South of France.

Three words.

Just three words, and he had dismantled my entire existence.

My father was supposed to be in a safe house in Montenegro.

That was the plan.

That was what the broker had promised us when he took eighty percent of the stolen cash to craft our new identities. If Nico knew he was in France, then the broker was dead, or worse—he was on the De Luca payroll.

I pressed my forehead against the wall, fighting the bile rising in my throat.

Students streamed past me.

A few glanced my way, their gazes lingering with that specific Blackwood mixture of curiosity and disdain, but no one stopped. To them, I was just the scholarship girl having a panic attack.

If I ran now, I could make it to the train station in twenty minutes. I could burn the burner phone, toss the credit cards, and disappear.

But he knows.

If I ran, Nico wouldn’t chase me.

He wouldn’t have to. He would just make a phone call, and men with hollow eyes and suppressed pistols would walk up to my father at a café in Nice and put a bullet in his brain.

I was the collateral. I was the insurance policy.

"Deep breaths, Vance. Or is it Rossi?"

The voice came from my left. I snapped my head up.

It wasn’t Nico. It was one of the others the guy that had walked in with him. This one was shorter than Nico, with sandy blonde hair and a smile that looked like it had been sharpened on a whetstone.

Matteo. I remembered his name from the terrifying orientation pamphlets I’d memorized. Matteo Rinaldi. The De Luca family’s enforcer-in-training.

He leaned against the lockers, tossing a heavy silver lighter between his hands.

"Nico wants you to know that attendance is mandatory," Matteo said, his voice light, almost friendly. "If you skip your next class to run to the bus station, the old man in France stops breathing. Capiche?"

My fingers curled into fists at my sides. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Good girl." He winked, pushing off the wall. "Welcome to the family, Elena."

He walked away, whistling a cheerful tune that chilled me to the bone.

I couldn’t go to my next class. The thought of sitting in another room, waiting for the axe to fall, was impossible. I needed air. I needed to think. I needed a place where the walls weren't made of eyes.

I pushed through the tide of students and bolted for the exit.

***

The library was the oldest building on campus, a gothic cathedral of knowledge with towering spires and gargoyles that seemed to sneer at the students below.

It was usually quiet. It was the one place the Blackwood Heirs didn’t seem to care about. They owned the frat houses, the stadium, and the administration building, but they rarely ventured into the stacks.

I hurried past the front desk, flashing my ID with a trembling hand, and dove into the depths of the West Wing. I needed the darkest, most secluded corner I could find.

I found a narrow aisle between "European History" and "Theological Studies," a dead-end blocked by a dusty window overlooking the stormy quad. I dropped my bag to the floor and slid down against the shelf, pulling my knees to my chest.

I took my phone out. No service.

Of course. The stone walls were thick

I closed my eyes, trying to formulate a plan. I had no leverage. I had no money. The only thing I had was the fact that Nico hadn't killed me yet.

He wants to play with his food.

Why? Why not just kidnap me? Why do this in public?

He probably wants to break me in front of the entire school.

The sound of footsteps snapped my eyes open.

I held my breath, It could be anyone. A librarian or a student.

The air pressure in the aisle shifted, becoming heavy.

The scent of sandalwood drifted around the corner, overpowering the smell of old papers.

I scrambled to my feet, backing up until my spine hit the cold glass of the window.

Nico stepped into the aisle.

He had removed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and inked with black tattoos, vines and thorns twisting around a dagger.

He didn't look like a student. He looked like an executioner on his lunch break.

"You think you can hide from me in the library, little mouse?" Nico whispered, his voice low and vibrating through the floorboards.

He took a step closer. I took a step back, but there was nowhere to go.

"Stay away from me," I warned, though my voice lacked any real bite. It sounded breathless, terrified.

Nico chuckled darkly. He closed the distance in two long strides, invading my personal space.

He slammed his hands against the shelves on either side of my head, pinning me in.

"I told you," he murmured, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "You don't give the orders anymore."

His breath was hot against the shell of my ear, sending a traitorous shiver racing down my spine. Up close, his eyes were mesmerizing.

"What do you want?" I demanded, pressing myself flat against the books behind me.

"You know where my father is. Why am I still here?"

"Because your father is a coward," Nico said, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back up to my eyes. "If I grab him now, he dies screaming, but the money stays lost. He hid it well. But you..."

He lifted a hand, tracing the line of my jaw with a calloused thumb. The touch was electric, scorching my skin. I wanted to bite him and I wanted to lean into it. I hated him for making me feel both.

"You are the only thing he ever loved," Nico continued softly. "He won't come out for threats or torture. But he will come out when he realizes that his debt is being paid by his daughter."

"I have nothing to give you," I spat.

"You have everything," he corrected. "You have your pride. Your reputation. Your sanity. And I’m going to take them all, piece by piece."

He leaned closer, his body pressing against mine. I could feel the hard planes of his chest, the heat radiating through his shirt.

"You are going to attend your classes," he commanded, his voice dropping to a rough growl. "You are going to sit where I tell you. You are going to eat when I tell you. And every time you think about running, you’re going to remember that I have a man with a sniper rifle sitting across from your father's favorite bakery in Nice."

My heart shattered. "Please. He’s an old man."

"He’s a thief," Nico snarled, his mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the raw, unadulterated rage beneath. "And you are the thief’s daughter. Sins of the father, Elena. You know how this works."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning my face as if memorizing my fear.

"Classes are done for the day," he said, stepping back and buttoning his cuffs with infuriating calm. "Go to your dorm. Room 304. I had your things moved."

My stomach dropped. "My room is 210."

"Not anymore. 304 is in the East Wing."

The East Wing. The penthouse floor. That was where the Heirs lived.

"I can't live there," I whispered.

"You are living on borrowed time," Nico said, turning to walk away. He paused at the end of the aisle, looking back over his shoulder.

The shadows clung to him, making him look like a devil. "And unfortunately for you, I’m the one collecting the interest."

He disappeared into the stacks, leaving me trembling against the window.

I hid in the library bathroom for twenty minutes.

I just stood there, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink, staring at my reflection in the spotted mirror.

I looked wrecked.

My mascara had smudged into dark bruises beneath my eyes, and my skin was the color of old paste. I splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing until my skin turned red, but I couldn’t wash away the feeling of Nico’s thumb on my jaw.

It felt like a brand.

Get it together, Elena, you can’t fall apart, not yet.

I forced myself to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom and walk back out into the rain. The trek to my old dorm, Room 210 in the scholarship hall, felt like a funeral march.

When I got there, the key card didn’t work.

The little light on the handle flashed an angry red. Once. Twice.

" seriously?" I whispered, my voice cracking. I tried it again, jamming the plastic card into the slot. Red. Red. Red.

"You looking for your stuff?"

I spun around. The RA, a senior with a compassionate, pitying look that I absolutely hated, was standing in the hallway holding a clipboard.

"My key isn't working," I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

"Yeah... um, maintenance cleared the room about an hour ago," she said, chewing on the end of her pen. "They said there was a reallocation? Your boxes are down in the lobby."

My stomach bottomed out. He didn’t even wait for me to pack. He’d had strangers go through my underwear, my hidden cash, my half-empty journals. The violation made my skin crawl.

"Right," I managed to say. "Thanks."

I walked down the three flights of stairs because I didn’t trust my legs to hold me up in the elevator. In the lobby, sitting lonely near the vending machines, were two cardboard boxes and my beat-up suitcase.

That was it. My entire life fit into three sad containers.

I dragged them out into the drizzle. The East Wing—Blackwood’s "Gold Coast"—was all the way across campus. It was a quarter-mile walk uphill.

By the time I reached the iron gates of the residence hall, I was soaked. My cheap coat was heavy with water, my socks were squishing inside my boots, and I was sweating from the exertion of dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel.

I looked pathetic. And I knew it.

The East Wing wasn't a dorm; it was a fortress. The architecture was Gothic Revival, all dark stone and gargoyles, but the security was state-of-the-art. I stood before the heavy oak doors, rainwater dripping off my nose, and stared at the keypad.

I didn't have a code.

The lock buzzed with a sharp, mechanical click before I even touched it. The door swung open silently.

I hesitated. This was the threshold. Once I walked in, I wasn't just a student anymore. I was property.

I dragged my suitcase over the threshold, the plastic wheels making a horrible, screeching sound against the marble floor.

The lobby smelled like money, fresh lilies, floor wax, and there was silence. There was no RA desk here. No bulletin boards with flyers for pizza parties. Just a grand staircase and a crystal chandelier that probably cost more than my father’s freedom.

I found the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. My hand was shaking so badly I hit the button twice.

Room 304.

The hallway was carpeted in plush crimson, thick enough to muffle my footsteps. It was terrifyingly quiet. I felt like an intruder in a museum. I counted the brass numbers on the doors. 301... 302... 304 was at the end of the hall.

I reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked, expecting to have to sit in the hallway and wait for Nico to come mock me.

But the door was unlocked.

I pushed it open and stepped inside, dragging my wet boxes with me.

The room was massive. It was bigger than the entire apartment I’d shared with my dad in Ohio. There was a four-poster bed, a mahogany desk, and a sitting area with leather armchairs. A private bathroom was off to the left, gleaming with tile.

But it was cold.

The air conditioning was blasting, and the room was devoid of anything personal. It was a cage, gilded and polished.

I dropped my boxes in the middle of the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, expensive.

I put my head in my hands. The anger finally hit me then, cutting through the fear.

I was angry at Nico, yes. But God, I was furious at my father.

You promised, I thought, digging my nails into my scalp. You promised you had a plan. You promised we were safe. And now you’re eating croissants in Nice while I’m waiting to get slaughtered.

I loved him, but in that moment, I hated him for making me this vulnerable. For making me pay the bill for his greed.

A soft ping echoed through the silent room.

I froze. It wasn't my phone. My phone was dead in my pocket.

I looked around. On the desk, sitting squarely in the center of the leather blotter, was a brand-new smartphone. Sleek, black, and beautiful.

I stood up, my legs trembling, and walked over to it.

The screen lit up as I approached. There was no passcode. Just a single new message notification.

My heart hammering against my ribs, I picked it up. My thumb hovered over the glass. I didn't want to open it. I wanted to throw the device through the window.

But I swiped the screen.

It was a text from a number saved simply as Him.

The message was short.

Put on the dress in the closet. Dinner is at 7. Don't make me come get you.

I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand.

6:15 PM.

I looked at the closet door. It was slightly ajar.

I wasn't just a prisoner. I was a doll.