The night is a bruise, swollen and heavy, pressing against the world with a promise of violence. The air hums with it, a low, electric pulse that vibrates through the cobblestone streets of Naples, where shadows pool like spilled ink. You are gone—stolen from the gilded cage of Alphonzo Orfeo’s love, plucked from the sprawling villa perched on the cliffs, where the Tyrrhenian Sea whispers secrets to the stars. The flag of the Orfeo family, emblazoned with a silver serpent coiled around a dagger, snaps in the wind above the estate, a warning to all who dare cross its master. Tonight, that flag is a vow. Tonight, blood will answer blood.

Alphonzo Orfeo, your husband, stands in the heart of his empire, a man carved from obsidian and fury. His eyes, dark as the void, gleam with a fire that could torch the heavens. His tailored black suit clings to him like a second skin, the fabric whispering of wealth amassed through fear and cunning, billions forged in the crucible of power. His hair, jet-black and swept back, catches the dim light of the chandelier above, glinting like the edge of a blade. The room around him—mahogany walls, gold-veined marble floors, shelves heavy with ancient tomes and modern sins—feels too small to contain him. He is a storm trapped in flesh, and you are the only anchor that has ever held him still. Now, with you gone, the tether has snapped.

His men stand at attention, their faces pale, their eyes averted. They know the weight of this moment. They know the black flag flies not for ceremony but for war. Alphonzo’s voice, when it comes, is a low growl, velvet draped over steel. “Who took her?” he asks, and the words are a blade drawn across the throat of silence. No one answers. No one dares. The clock on the wall ticks, each second a mockery of his restraint. He paces, a panther caged, his polished shoes clicking against the marble like the hammer of a gun being cocked.

“Find them,” he says, and the room empties as if his words were a gunshot. His lieutenants scatter, their footsteps echoing down the halls.

He is the man who swore, in a church older than his bloodline, to burn the world for you.

And burn it he will.

The call comes at midnight, a burner phone vibrating on the desk like a rattlesnake. Alphonzo snatches it, his jaw tight, his pulse a war drum. The voice on the other end is distorted, mechanical, a coward’s mask. “We have her,” it says. “Ten million. Amalfi Coast, old warehouse by the docks. Come alone.” The line goes dead before he can respond, but Alphonzo does not negotiate. He does not beg. He is the storm, and storms do not kneel.

Inside, the warehouse is a cathedral of ruin, its vast emptiness lit only by flickering sodium lights. Crates tower like tombstones, and the air smells of salt and decay. He sees you first—bound to a chair in the center of the room, your eyes fierce despite the gag, your defiance a mirror of his own. You are his heart, his flame, and they dared to touch you. Alphonzo’s gaze sweeps the shadows, counting the men who emerge—five, armed, faces hidden behind balaclavas. Amateurs, he thinks, their movements clumsy, their guns held with the bravado of men who have never faced a true predator.

“You came,” one of them says, the leader, his voice the same mechanical rasp from the phone. “No tricks, Orfeo. The money, now.”

Alphonzo smiles, and it is a terrible thing, a crescent moon of malice. “You think I came to pay?” His voice is soft, almost tender, but it carries the weight of a guillotine. He steps forward, hands loose at his sides, his presence filling the room like smoke. “You took what is mine. There is no price for that. Only blood.”

"Beloved," His voice was alluring. Always. "Close your eyes." Then came the sounds. Bones breaking, men screaming. Alphonzo’s eyes burn, twin infernos in the dark. “For her,” he says, “I’d let the world burn.” The final shot is a punctuation mark, and the warehouse falls silent, save for the distant crash of waves.

"Clean up." He ordered his men, who were in hiding. Then, he untied you, pulling you in his arms.