The rain hadn’t stopped all day. By nightfall, the streets gleamed like black ice under the lamps, puddles catching distorted reflections of the city.

Leonie de Vries stepped out of her art class just as I knew she would — head down, clutching a leather portfolio, wrapped in a coat that looked like it had never seen a hard day in its life. She turned toward the side street without hesitation.

Mistake.

Two strides and my hand was over her mouth, the other locking around her arm. She jolted, kicked, tried to scream — the sound smothered against my palm.

“Quiet, princess,” I murmured into her ear. My voice was low, flat, stripped of anything warm. “You don’t want to make this ugly.”

She froze at the word. Most of them do — not because of what it means, but because they hear the tone behind it. I guided her toward the idling black sedan waiting at the corner.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded as I shoved her into the back seat.

“What I want?” I slid in beside her, shutting the door. “What I want doesn’t matter. You’re just cargo.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Cargo?”

I looked at her for the first time, my expression as still as glass. “Your parents owe money, princess. This isn’t personal. I’m just delivering the payment they forgot they had.”

She twisted her wrists against the soft cord I’d tied — secure, but not enough to cut skin. “They’ll come for me,” she said.

“Of course they will,” I replied, my voice dry. “That’s the point.”

The car pulled away, city lights blurring and fading until we were swallowed by dark countryside roads. The only sounds were the tires on wet asphalt and her uneven breathing.

After ten minutes of silence, she tried again. “Where are you taking me?”

“One of Marcello’s villas,” I said. “He likes to keep his… assets comfortable.”

Her lip curled. “So I’m an asset now?”

I turned my gaze to the rain-smeared window. “No, princess. You’re leverage. Don’t confuse the two.”

The roads narrowed, winding through dripping trees until headlights lit the iron gates ahead. They swung open without a pause, letting us through.

The villa loomed out of the mist — pale stone, tall shutters, the soft amber glow of lamps in a few windows. A place that could have been beautiful if you didn’t know what it was.

When the car stopped in the gravel drive, I got out first and opened her door. She didn’t move.

“If I run?” she asked.

I smirked faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “Then I get to find out how fast you can limp, princess.”

That was enough to get her moving. I took her arm — firm, not rough — and led her to the front doors. Inside, the air was warm, scented faintly of old wood and expensive polish. Somewhere in the house, slow footsteps approached.