Stolen to Break Him

The night they came for me smelled like rain and gunmetal. I remember that detail because it made no sense how the world could still carry the scent of something clean when my life was about to be ruined. The gate opened slowly, the iron screaming as if it knew what was coming. I was standing on the balcony when the lights went out. Not one. Not two. All of them. The Moretti estate fell into darkness like it had been swallowed whole. My heart slammed violently against my ribs. “Nico,” my father’s name echoed in my mind, even before the guards started shouting. I didn’t see the men at first. I felt them. The presence of violence has a way of crawling across your skin before your eyes can catch up. Shots rang out. Glass shattered below. I turned to run but a hand clamped over my mouth, dragging me backward into the shadows. I screamed anyway. The sound died uselessly against his palm. “Quiet,” a voice murmured near my ear. Calm. Cold. Italian. Not panicked. Not rushed. Trained. I was lifted effortlessly, my feet barely touching the ground as he moved. My body shook violently as fear flooded my veins. They didn’t cover my eyes. They wanted me to see. I saw guards on the ground. Some breathing. Some not. I saw blood staining marble floors my mother once polished herself. I saw my home die in minutes. And then I saw him. He stood in the courtyard like he owned the night. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still. The chaos seemed to bend around him rather than touch him. Black coat. Black gloves. A face carved from control and cruelty sharp jaw, dark eyes, no emotion. This was not a man who rushed. This was a man who waited. “Nico Valente,” someone whispered behind me. The devil had a name. His eyes lifted. Found me immediately. Something in his gaze shifted not surprise, not interest. Assessment. I was placed on my feet in front of him, my captor’s hand finally leaving my mouth. I should have screamed. Instead, I lifted my chin. Nico Valente walked toward me slowly, as if I were not a person but an object he had already paid for. “You’re smaller than I expected,” he said. His voice was deep, disturbingly calm. “You destroyed my house,” I managed to say, my voice trembling despite my effort. He leaned closer. “No,” he corrected softly. “Your father destroyed it. I only ended it.” My stomach twisted. “What do you want?” I whispered. That earned the smallest curve of his lips not a smile. “You.” One word. No apology. No explanation. My blood turned cold. “I won’t beg,” I said. That finally interested him. His eyes darkened. “Good,” he murmured. “Begging bores me.” He straightened and gestured once. “Take her.” Panic surged. “Wait!” His hand caught my chin before I could step back. His grip wasn’t rough but it was absolute. “I am not your father,” he said quietly, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t make threats I can’t keep.” His thumb brushed my lower lip. “Tonight, Aria Moretti,” he whispered, “I begin breaking him.” He released me. And just like that, my life was no longer mine.