Chapter 2: Hostage

The penthouse door shut behind them with a solid, expensive click that sounded louder than any gunshot.

Luca didn’t let go of Alexei’s wrist until the driver’s door was sealed and the tires were already rolling toward the city.

Even then he just steered with one hand, the other still locked around Alexei’s forearm like he was afraid the ghost enforcer would vanish into thin air.

Rain flogged the windshield in thick sheets, turning Chicago skyline into a smeared watercolor of lights and black buildings.

Alexei’s thigh burned where the bullet had grazed it, but he didn’t even flinch.

He kept his green eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight, the taste of his own blood still thick on his tongue.

Luca killed the wipers for a second, just long enough to glance sideways. “You’re bleeding on my leather.”

It wasn’t a question.

Alexei spat a thick glob of red onto the floor mat and said nothing. The words felt stupid anyway. Three years of being the Voss ghost and he still hadn’t learned to shut up when it mattered.

They drove in silence except for the rain and the low hum of the engine. Alexei counted the blocks, memorized the turns, filed every detail away like he always did. He could feel the new scar on his temple pulsing. His shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse. But none of it mattered right now. What mattered was that Luca Moretti had chosen him over the bullet.

And choosing always came with strings.

The elevator ride up was the same as every other night Luca spent in the Moretti penthouse, except this time the doors opened straight into a world of glass and obsidian marble that made the old Voss warehouse look like a shed. The doors closed behind them with a soft whoosh, cutting off the outside world completely. No rain. No Moretti men waiting to clean up the mess. Just silence and the faint smell of expensive coffee and gun oil.

Luca’s grip on Alexei’s wrist tightened the whole way down the long hallway. The suite was at the end of it two hundred and fifty feet of steel, glass, and pure Moretti money.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting, rain streaking the glass in rivers. The living room was open-plan, dark leather couches, a bar stocked with things that probably cost more than most people’s houses.

Alexei catalogued every exit: the service elevator hidden behind a fake fireplace, the fire escape on the west wall, the two security cameras in the corners that blinked red and green like watchful eyes.

Luca stopped at the bedroom door and pushed it open with his shoulder. The room was even bigger than most apartments back in the Voss neighborhoods king-sized bed with black silk sheets, a walk-in closet the size of a garage, and a bathroom big enough for a small football team.

He didn’t drag Alexei straight to the bed. Instead he walked him straight to the marble bathroom, flicked on the overhead lights, and shoved him toward the glass shower.

“Strip.”

Alexei laughed once, short and ugly. “You gonna wash the blood off my dick too, boss?”

Luca didn’t smile. He just reached past Alexei, turned the shower on hot, and waited for the water to hit. “You’re dripping on my floor.”

Alexei’s clothes came off piece by piece. Vest first, then the soaked tactical shirt, then the jeans that were already stiff with dried blood from the graze on his thigh. He kicked his boots aside and stood there in nothing but his boxers, green eyes locked on Luca’s like a challenge. Luca watched for three seconds, then crossed the room in three strides and ripped the boxers down.

The graze was ugly red and angry, already swelling but nothing deep. Luca’s fingers brushed it once, clinical and cold. “Doc can clean it later. For now you’re mine to punish.”

Alexei’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “You keep saying that. But we both know you’re not gonna kill me tonight.”

Luca’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Alexei’s throat, not squeezing hard enough to bruise but hard enough that the water hit the inside of his wrist and ran down. “Wrong. I’ve wanted to put you in the ground since you put two rounds through my brother’s skull.

Tonight I’m just changing the date.”

He shoved Alexei back under the spray. The water was scalding. Alexei hissed, but didn’t he fight. Luca stripped his own blood-soaked shirt off and tossed it into the corner, then his pants. His body was a map of old scars knife lines across the ribs, bullet holes that had healed crooked, the kind of damage that came from being the son of a mafia king. He stepped under the spray fully clothed in his underwear and grabbed the shampoo from the ledge.

“Turn around.”

Alexei did. Because he had no choice. Luca’s hands were efficient, professional almost, working the shampoo into his hair with the same calm he used to load a gun. But when his fingers dug into Alexei’s scalp, they weren’t gentle. They pulled just enough to make his eyes water.

“You’re shaking,” Luca murmured against his ear, water drumming down his back. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Alexei’s green eyes met Luca’s in the foggy mirror. “You’re the one bleeding.”

Luca’s mouth twitched not a smile, but something sharper. “Yeah. And I’m gonna keep bleeding every time you try to run.”

He rinsed Alexei’s hair with his bare hands, then turned the water off. Steam curled up around them like ghosts. Alexei stood dripping, naked, cold now that the water was off, while Luca wrapped a thick black towel around his own waist and one around Alexei’s shoulders. The fabric smelled like Luca’s cologne something expensive and sharp.

Luca didn’t bother with clothes. He just walked back into the bedroom, towel around his hips, and pointed at the bed.

“On.”

Alexei went. The mattress was cold under his bare ass. Luca moved to the closet, pulled out a pair of heavy leather cuffs, and the short chain that came with them. He was methodical about it, the way he did everything. No theatrics. No speeches. Just the soft click of metal against metal.

Alexei twisted his wrists when Luca tried to lock the first cuff. “You really think that’s gonna hold me?”

Luca tightened the buckle and slid the chain through the bedpost. The other cuff clicked shut. The chain was long enough for Alexei to sit up, but not long enough to do more than roll around the bed like a caged animal. Luca tested the chain with one tug. It held.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Three days. No food, no water, no talking unless you’re bleeding or dead. I’ll come back in the morning and see how much you still remember about your precious Voss code.”

He turned off the bedroom light, leaving only the city glow through the windows. Alexei lay on his back, chains rattling softly with every breath, staring at the ceiling. His thigh throbbed. His temple pulsed. His throat still carried the ghost of Luca’s fingers. And somewhere deep in his chest, something that used to be hope was cracking open.

Luca stopped at the door. The hallway light caught his face grey eyes half-lidded, blood drying on his temple, the faint red line from where Alexei had headbutted him still visible. He looked almost human. Almost.

“Sleep well, ghost,” Luca said quietly. “You’re gonna need it.”

The door closed.

Alexei lay there in the dark, chains cool against his skin, the faint taste of his own blood still on his tongue. He listened to the penthouse settle around him the low hum of the fridge, the distant wail of sirens far below, the soft creak of the building itself. Then he started laughing. Low at first, then louder, until the sound bounced off the glass walls and filled the room like smoke.

He was chained.

He was bleeding.

He was the last Voss.

And the man who hated him most in the world had decided to keep him alive just to watch him suffer.

Alexei rolled onto his side, chain clinking, and stared at the empty doorway.

Tomorrow would be worse, just like Luca had promised.

He almost looked forward to it.