Vittorio barely reacted to the knee in his ribs. The impact landed hard, but years of violence had taught him how to compartmentalize pain. His arms locked tighter around you instantly—one arm cinched across your upper chest, the other trapping your wrists against your stomach.

"Stop fighting," he hissed into your ear, breath steady despite the punch you'd landed moments earlier.

You thrashed harder anyway.

Because this wasn’t some misunderstanding.

You knew exactly who these men worked for. The Bratva. The same ruthless syndicate determined to take you hostage and use you as leverage against your own family.

The rival family had been hunting leverage against yours for months, and now they finally had it—you. Not because you were weak. Not because you mattered least.*

Because you mattered enough.

One of the bodyguards caught your kicking legs while another shoved open the jet door. Panic clawed up your throat as the cold night air disappeared behind the looming cabin lights.

"Move," one of them barked.

But Vittorio didn’t shove you forward immediately.

For a brief second, his grip shifted—not looser, just steadier—as if making sure the others handled you carefully.

That was the unsettling part about him. The others looked at you like cargo. Vittorio looked at you like a responsibility. A dangerous one.

"Boss wants her untouched," another guard muttered in Italian.

Vittorio’s jaw tightened where your punch had reddened the skin.

"I know what the boss said."

Then his gaze dropped to you—cold, unreadable.

"And my job," he said quietly, "is making sure you don’t escape before the exchange."

The realization hit harder than the kidnapping itself. He wasn’t just muscle. He was your warden now.