Diana's POV
The café smelled like cinnamon rolls and espresso when I walked in. Daniel was behind the counter, already making small talk with a customer.
"Morning," I said, sliding onto a stool.
"Finally," Daniel replied, leaning on the counter. "Thought you'd sleep through the whole morning again."
"Funny," I said, grabbing a bottle of water. "I like to make an entrance."
He smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Entrance noted. Don't forget breakfast, genius. You look like you could use some food before school eats your soul."
I laughed. "I'm fine. You keep the world running on coffee; I'll survive on my dignity."
"Surviving on dignity is overrated," he said, flipping a sandwich onto a plate. "Trust me. Food's better."
I rolled my eyes but smiled. "You're bossy for someone who doesn't pay rent."
Daniel grinned. "And you're still eating my sandwich. Checkmate."
I shook my head and left, streets of Brooklyn stretching out bright and messy.
---
Art school didn't start until nine, but the city was already alive. Yellow cabs honked like they were having an argument with the world, and a street guitarist tried to drown them out with a half-tuned rendition of something soulful. I tugged my jacket tighter, still replaying last night in my head—Papà's late phone calls, his pacing, the way he avoided my eyes at dinner.
That's when I noticed him.
Down the block, just outside our building, Papà stood with a man I didn't recognize. Expensive suit, stiff shoulders, the kind of presence that didn't fit our neighborhood. They spoke low, too low for anyone passing to hear, but Papà's hand gestures were sharp, controlled.
My stomach tightened. I slowed my steps, pretending to fix my bag, eyes flicking toward them. The man leaned in, muttered something, then slipped a folded piece of paper into Papà's hand before walking off. Papà's jaw clenched as he watched him leave.
I swallowed hard and forced my legs to keep moving. Maybe it was business. Maybe it was nothing. But my gut told me otherwise.
---
At school, the smell of turpentine and acrylics clung to the halls. Easels stood like awkward skeletons in the studio, canvases propped everywhere in half-finished chaos. I dropped into my spot near the back, pulling out charcoal and a fresh sheet of paper.
But focus? Yeah, impossible. My hand sketched the curve of a shoulder, the faint outline of an arm—then smudged into something jagged and restless.
"You okay?" Leah, the girl next to me, asked. She had bright pink hair today, like she changed it with the weather.
"Fine," I muttered.
"You've redrawn that line like twelve times." She raised an eyebrow. "Looks like your figure's having a breakdown."
I forced a laugh, but my grip on the charcoal tightened. "Just… distracted."
By the end of class, my sketch looked like a storm had torn through it.
---
Leah walked with me part of the way home, talking about a new exhibit downtown, but peeled off toward the subway. I hugged her goodbye and kept walking, tugging my bag higher on my shoulder.
The street was busy, but in that way where everyone was too wrapped up in themselves to notice anyone else. That's probably why I didn't see the van until it was too late.
A hand grabbed my arm. I gasped, twisting, but a cloth smothered my mouth before I could scream. The world tilted, sound muffled, and then—darkness.
---
I woke to the smell of leather and the rough press of fabric over my eyes. Blindfold. My wrists were tied, but not painfully. The low hum of an engine told me I was in some kind of car or van.
And then—his voice.
"Well, someone's dramatic. You fainted before I even introduced myself." Smooth, edged with amusement.
I jerked against the ropes. "You drugged me!"
"Details, details." He leaned back, unbothered. "You're awake now. That's what counts."
My pulse thudded in my ears. "Let me go."
"Mm. Tempting. But no."
"You can't just—"
"I can," he cut in, lazy and confident. "In fact, I already did. Congratulations, you're officially kidnapped."
I sucked in a shaky breath. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you're funny," he said. "The way you're pretending not to be terrified right now. Cute, really."
Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm not pretending."
"Of course you are." His tone softened into mock sympathy. "Your voice shakes when you're scared. You should work on that. Poker face and all."
I pressed my lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
"Silent treatment?" he drawled. "Interesting choice. Though I liked it better when you were snapping at me."
"Sorry to disappoint," I muttered.
"There she is," he said, and I could hear the smirk. "I knew you had more in you than quiet little mouse."
I exhaled hard. "Do you always annoy people you tie up, or am I just special?"
"Special," he said without hesitation. "Definitely special."
The van hit a bump, and I stumbled against the seat. He caught my arm, steadying me, and for a second his hand lingered, firm and careful.
"See?" he murmured. "I can be nice."
"You call this nice?"
"I didn't say perfect," he shot back. "Don't push your luck."
I turned my head toward his voice, even though I couldn't see him. "Who are you?"
A pause, deliberate. "Alessio."
The name sent a shiver down my spine.
"Well, Alessio," I said tightly, "I hope you're proud of yourself."
"I am," he answered smoothly. "And you will be too, once you figure out why you're here."
I stilled. "Why am I here?"
He chuckled, low and dark. "Now, where's the fun in telling you everything at once?"
My heart hammered as silence stretched, heavy and electric. I hated him. I feared him. And yet—part of me leaned toward his voice, drawn like a moth to a flame.