The sky had once again taken on the color of cinnamon—that impossible blend of warmth and blood that announced either the end of night or the beginning of day. I didn't know which, because time had lost all meaning since I'd been in his car. The colors were stunning, perhaps the most beautiful I had ever seen, but to me they offered no comfort. They tasted of blood and fear. Of an ending.
I sat rigid in the passenger seat, knees drawn up, my body wrapped in Duca's coat—far too large for me, heavy, warm, carrying his scent: an expensive perfume mixed with leather, smoke, and something dangerous, impossible to define. I was shaking uncontrollably, even though the heat inside the car was nearly suffocating.
Earlier, amid clipped remarks and sharp orders, I had heard his name.
Duca Santino.
The name clung to my mind in an unpleasant way, like a memory I didn't know where it came from but that refused to leave. It sounded familiar. Too familiar. And with it came a cold, deep premonition telling me that things were far more serious than I had imagined.
The road grew longer and longer, the city left far behind. Buildings disappeared, lights thinned out, and around us there was nothing but darkness, empty fields, and a highway that seemed to lead nowhere. The isolation crushed my chest like a vise. Out here, if I screamed, no one would hear me. If I died, no one would know.
I didn't understand.
I couldn't understand why a man like him would spend two million dollars on me, only to take me to a desolate place and kill me. It made no sense. He was too calculated, too cold for a pointless gesture.
When his hand left the steering wheel and settled on my thigh, I froze.
My muscles tightened instinctively, my heart spiraled out of control, but I forced myself not to flinch, not to pull away, not to show my fear. His palm was large, warm, heavy. I waited for it to move upward, to slide, to turn into something filthy.
It didn't.
His fingers stayed low, close to my knee, moving slowly, rhythmically, in a gesture that was surprisingly calm—almost mechanical—as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal.
"Everything's going to be fine," he said without looking at me.
I didn't believe him.
And yet, after a few minutes, my shaking eased slightly. The warmth of his hand began to thaw me, to seep through my skin, to temper my fear. It was the first moment since getting into his car when I didn't feel completely on the verge of coming apart.
We arrived in an industrial area, far beyond the edge of the city. A large, gray building—something that could have been a warehouse or an abandoned factory—loomed ahead of us. Around it, dozens of men dressed in black moved in coordinated, efficient patterns. Tall, solid, silent. Military.
An aircraft stood with its belly open, heavy crates being unloaded quickly and transferred into a truck.
Duca got out of the car without saying a word.
I stayed in the car.
No one paid me any attention. No one looked at me. I was invisible.
Through the windshield, I saw the older man from the bar approach Duca, holding an impressive weapon in his hands—an AK-12, black, perfectly maintained, displayed with an almost childlike pride. Duca took the gun, turned it over, inspected it, and then smiled.
His smile hit me harder than the weapon ever could.
For a moment, his face transformed completely. His blue eyes lit up, his features relaxed, and his beauty became almost unreal. He was tall, powerful, dark-haired, with a presence that dominated everything around him.
He would have been a dream.
If he hadn't been a nightmare.
Alone in the car, his coat still draped over my shoulders, I finally connected the dots.
Santino.
The Italian mafia.
The truth struck me with full force. I wasn't just in a dangerous situation. I was in the middle of one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. And the man smiling in front of me wasn't just a gangster.
He was Duca Santino.
When he returned, he got into the car and drove off as if nothing had happened. The smile still played on his lips. I watched him from the corner of my eye, drawn to him and terrified at the same time.
"We're going to my place," he said. "To grab my luggage for the trip. And for you to change."
His gaze slid slowly over my waitress-dancer uniform, and for a fraction of a second, his smile faded. His jaw tightened visibly, the muscle beneath the skin twitching briefly, as if a memory had crossed his mind without permission—me on stage, the lights, the way others looked at me. It was an almost imperceptible shift, but a real one, like a crack in a perfectly controlled mask. Then he regained his composure, the corner of his mouth lifting again into a slow, dangerous smile, as though nothing had truly touched him.
"We'll take a shower. In no more than two hours, we say goodbye to America for two weeks."
I nodded.
As long as I pleased him, I stayed alive.
His estate was not a house, no matter how hard I tried to call it that to make it feel less threatening. It was a territory. The forest surrounded it on all sides, dense and dark, like a living wall breathing in rhythm with the night, and the imposing building—its lines elegant and cold—seemed torn from a world where power did not need to be justified, only accepted.
When I stepped out of the car, the cold air bit into my skin, but I didn't have time to react. Duca caught my hand before I could take a step back. His palm was large, warm, steady, his fingers closing around mine with a calm, final firmness, as if the decision had been made long before I ever arrived here. The contact was electrifying—a short, violent shock that shot up my arm and lodged straight in my chest. He didn't let go. Not even when my steps hesitated for a fraction of a second.
An older woman met us in the foyer, her hair pulled tight, her gaze lowered—the kind of presence that sees everything and never asks questions.
"Coffee in half an hour. And you don't disturb us until then," Duca said, in a low, controlled tone that allowed no reply.
He led me up the central staircase, still holding my hand, each step carrying me deeper into a world I wasn't sure I would ever leave. The room he brought me to was bright, enormous, almost unreal in its beauty, with large windows and enough space to make you feel small, exposed, vulnerable.
"The bathroom's here," he said, indicating it with a brief gesture. "If you need me, I'll be in the room across the hall."
I nodded, because I had no voice. My words were trapped somewhere between fear and awe.
His gaze slid over me then—slow, deliberate—lingering a moment longer than necessary on my waitress-dancer uniform. For a fraction of a second, his smile dulled. His jaw tightened visibly, as if a memory had struck him without warning—me on stage, the harsh lights, my movements laid bare under other people's eyes. His eyes darkened for an instant, his breathing shifted almost imperceptibly, then the mask settled back into place, perfectly controlled, cold, impenetrable.
He cursed softly, almost to himself, let out a short, humorless laugh, and stepped closer. I felt his presence fill the space between us, felt the air change as the distance closed.
"You know," he said in a low voice, "it's a good thing you don't understand what effect you have on me. Or how much influence. If you did… or when you will… the world would implode."
Then he kissed me.
It wasn't an impulsive gesture, nor a gentle one. It was precise, inevitable—like a decision made long before his lips ever touched mine. I felt the warmth first, then the pressure—certain, dominant—and my breath broke in my chest before I could even understand what was happening. His lips were firm, shockingly alive, carrying the taste of mint, smoke, and something wild, dangerous, that spread across my tongue like a forbidden promise.
He pulled me closer with one hand at the nape of my neck—not roughly, but with enough determination to leave no doubt—and my body reacted before my mind could object. Everything narrowed around that single point of contact—the air, my thoughts, the fear—until nothing remained but the burning sensation of his mouth and the desire that exploded in my chest, violent, confused, impossible to control.
For one suspended moment, I forgot who he was. I forgot who I was. I existed only there, caught between his breath and the chaotic pounding of my heart, in a space where I should have run, but where I wanted to stay.
When he released me abruptly and stepped back, the rupture was almost painful. I stood motionless, lips burning, breath uneven, my body aching for continuation, as if something essential had been torn away before I could understand it.
And for the first time, fear was no longer alone.
It mingled with desire—dense, misplaced, dangerous—and with a cold shiver I knew I had just crossed a threshold beyond which nothing could ever be simple again.