Chapter 3

The library was quiet.

I sat curled in the window seat, staring at the gardens below without really seeing them. The book beside me lay closed. I couldn't focus.

One more day.

One more day until the new bodyguard arrived.

Rocco stood near the door, one hand resting on his holstered gun. He'd been tense all day. We all had been.

"Signora," he said suddenly. "Step away from the window."

My head snapped up. His expression had changed—alert, focused.

"Now."

I slid off the window seat and moved toward the center of the room, pulse already quickening.

Rocco stepped into the doorway, hand on his weapon. "Identify yourselves."

No response.

Just footsteps. Fast. Multiple people.

Then—nothing.

The silence was worse.

Rocco drew his gun. "Signora, behind the—"

They came fast.

Too fast.

Five men poured into the library like water through a broken dam. Masked. Armed. Moving with mechanical precision.

Rocco raised his gun. "Don't—"

Two of them grabbed him from behind, slamming him against the bookshelf. His gun clattered to the floor.

Rocco struggled, trying to break free.

One of the men pressed a gun to his shoulder and fired.

The crack echoed through the room.

Rocco screamed and sagged in their grip. Blood bloomed dark across his shirt. They released him and he crumpled to the floor, clutching his shoulder.

I stumbled backward, both hands pressed over my mouth, choking on a scream that wouldn't come.

The five men spread out instantly. Two moved to the windows. Two positioned themselves at the door.

The fifth walked straight toward me.

Tall. Broad shoulders. He moved differently than the others—controlled, deliberate. Every step purposeful.

I backed up until my spine hit the bookshelf.

He stopped in front of me.

For a long moment, he just looked at me. His eyes—I couldn't see them clearly through my tears, through the panic blurring everything—studied my face through the holes in the mask.

Then he reached out.

I flinched violently, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for—

His fingers caught my chin. Not rough. Not gentle. Just firm, tilting my face up.

My eyes flew open. Tears spilled over, hot against my cold cheeks.

He pulled something from his belt.

A knife.

The blade caught the light—sharp, clean, professional.

He brought it to my face slowly. The flat of the blade pressed against my cheek.

Cold. So cold.

"Look at me."

His voice was low. Deep. Accented—Russian, I thought, but I couldn't focus, couldn't think through the terror—

I couldn't look away. His eyes held mine, and through the haze of my tears I caught a glimpse—gray, maybe? Dark? I couldn't tell, couldn't focus—

"Your father thinks these walls will keep you safe." The knife pressed harder against my cheek. Not cutting. Just there. A promise. "They won't."

A sob caught in my throat silent, choking.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was solving.

"Nowhere is safe, little one."

His thumb brushed across my jaw—just once then he released me and stepped back.

One of the other men spoke in rapid Russian. A warning.

The man in front of me turned his head slightly, listening, then looked back at me.

"Remember this moment," he said quietly.

Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me forward.

I stumbled, legs barely working. He dragged me across the room and shoved me down onto my knees in the center of the marble floor.

Pain shot through my kneecaps. I gasped—a silent, useless sound.

He released me and stepped back.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Shouting. Father's men, finally responding.

"Contact! East wing!"

"Intruders in the library!"

The five men moved as one—fluid, coordinated. They melted toward the side exit, weapons raised, covering each other's retreat.

The tall one paused at the doorway.

He looked back at me still kneeling on the floor, shaking, tears streaming down my face.

Our eyes met for one brief, terrible second.

Then he was gone.

I stayed frozen on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Rocco groaned somewhere to my left. Still alive. Bleeding, but alive.

Guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, shouting orders.

Dante appeared in the doorway. He saw me kneeling in the center of the room and crossed to me in three strides.

"Luna." His voice was sharp. "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head. I couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but shake.

He crouched down, scanning me quickly for injuries. His hand reached toward my shoulder—

I flinched violently, jerking away from him.

Dante's jaw tightened. His hand stopped mid-air, then lowered slowly.

"Where did they go?"

I pointed toward the side exit with a trembling hand.

Dante barked orders into his radio and half the guards took off running.

He looked back at me. "Can you stand?"

I nodded, but when I tried, my legs wouldn't cooperate. The guard beside Dante helped me up, steadying me when I swayed.

More guards were checking Rocco. One of them called out, "Gunshot wound to the shoulder. He needs medical treatment immediately."

Dante's expression hardened. "Get him out. Now."

They lifted Rocco onto a stretcher and carried him out, his face gray and slick with sweat.

I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, still shaking.

Nowhere is safe, little one.

The voice echoed in my head. Deep. Controlled. Cold.

And his eyes—

I couldn't stop seeing his eyes.

Father arrived minutes later.

He swept into the library like a storm, Dante at his side giving a rapid report.

"Five men. Coordinated breach. Shot Rocco, threatened Luna, and extracted before we could engage."

Father's face was stone. He looked at the shattered window, the blood on the floor, then at me.

His gaze was cold. Calculating. Not concerned—assessing.

He crossed the room and grabbed my chin roughly, tilting my head up to examine my face.

"Did you see them?" His voice was clipped, demanding. "Their faces?"

I shook my head frantically.

His grip tightened. "How many?"

I held up five shaking fingers.

"What did they look like? Did they speak? Did you see anything useful?"

I couldn't answer. The tears were coming faster now, my whole body shaking.

Father's jaw clenched. He released my chin with a sharp motion and turned to Dante.

"Get me Volkov. I don't care what it takes. I want him here tonight."

"Boss, he said—"

"I don't care what he said!" Father's voice cracked like a whip. "They were inside my home. Inside this room. They put their hands on my daughter."

He looked back at me, and for the first time, I saw something dangerous in his eyes.

Fear. And fury.

"Get him here," Father said quietly, voice dropping to something deadly. "Or I'll go get him myself."

Dante left immediately.

Father paced to the window, staring out at nothing. His hands were clenched into fists.

"Did they say anything to you?" he asked without turning around.

I nodded.

He spun back. "What?"

I looked around desperately. Someone handed me a notepad and pen.

My hands shook so badly I could barely hold it. I wrote, letters jagged and uneven:

Nowhere is safe

Father read it. His expression went cold and hard as iron.

He crumpled the paper in his fist.

"Go to your room," he said flatly. "Lock the door. Don't come out."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out, already pulling his phone from his pocket, barking orders.

I stood there alone, forgotten, still shaking.

A guard cleared his throat. "Signorina, I'll escort you."

I followed him on trembling legs, arms wrapped tight around myself.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.

The tall man. The mask. The knife.

Look at me.

His voice. Deep. Accented. Controlled.

Nowhere is safe, little one.

The way he'd touched my face. Not violent. Not cruel.

Clinical. Like he was memorizing me.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly freezing.

Tomorrow, the new bodyguard would arrive.

And somehow, I knew—

Everything was about to change.