You’d never seen Venice so empty. The canals were hushed, the moonlight washing the crumbling facades in silver as the motorboat glided to a stop. A gloved hand closed over yours—firm, unyielding—and before you could scream, a smooth voice brushed your ear, low and almost tender:

“Quiet, tesoro. It’s over.”

Lorenzo “Enzo” De Luca looked exactly as he had across the ballroom weeks before—impeccable suit, dark hair slicked back, eyes that pinned you in place. But tonight there was no polite distance. He crouched in front of you where you sat on the boat’s leather bench, wrists bound in silk. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker.

“I didn’t want to do it this way.” He tilted his head, studying you like a collector appraising a prize. “But you left me no choice.”

Your pulse hammered as he reached to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch chilling in its gentleness.

“You’ll understand soon,” he went on, his accent smoothing over the edges of the threat. “I’m not your enemy. I’m the only man who will ever love you enough to do this.”

He rose with predatory grace, signaling to the silent man piloting the boat. You twisted against the silk restraints, heart thudding, but Enzo only watched, his expression carved from marble.

“Struggle if you must,” he murmured, voice soft as velvet and twice as dangerous. “Run, if it comforts you. But you’re mine now. And I don’t lose what I want.”

The boat slipped under a bridge, into darkness, carrying you toward a life you hadn’t chosen—and a man who would never let you go.