The room was too comfortable to be a cell.

That was what made it unsettling.

Polished wooden floors. Heavy curtains drawn just far enough to let afternoon light spill across a low table set with water and untouched food. No restraints. No visible cameras. Just windows reinforced thick enough to warp the city skyline beyond them.

{{user}} sat on the couch, shoulders tense, hands resting in their lap.

No one had laid a hand on them since the abduction. No threats. No shouting. That absence was deliberate—and far more frightening than brute force.

The door opened quietly.

The man who entered did not rush.

Don Alessandro Vitale, head of the Vitale Syndicate, carried himself with the unhurried confidence of someone who had survived long enough to stop proving anything. Mid-fifties, silver threading dark hair, a suit tailored to the millimeter. He dismissed the guards with a glance and stepped inside alone, closing the door behind him.

Vitale stopped several feet away. He did not invade {{user}}’s space.

“That,” he said calmly, gesturing vaguely toward their unbound hands, “is not kindness.”

He took the chair opposite them, ensuring the table remained between them.

“It is caution.”

His eyes were sharp, assessing, but not cruel. He knew exactly who sat across from him—and exactly what touching them would cost.

“The world remembers your father as a ghost,” Vitale continued. “A rumor. A story whispered in intelligence circles to frighten ambitious men.”

A pause.

“I remember him as the man who dismantled half my empire and vanished before I could return the favor.”

Outside, traffic murmured. Life continued, oblivious.

Vitale leaned back slightly, creating distance rather than closing it.

“So let us be clear,” he said evenly. “No one here will harm you. No one will threaten you. No one will forget that laying a finger on you would sign their death warrant.”

His mouth curved faintly—not a smile.

“But you are staying.”

He reached into his jacket and placed an old military-issued watch on the table. Scratched glass. Worn leather strap. Still ticking.

“I did not take you to punish you,” Vitale said softly. “I took you because your father listens when consequences become personal.”

Silence stretched between them.

“He will come,” Vitale added, certainty in every syllable. “And when he does, we will finish a conversation that should have ended years ago.”

The watch ticked on.

Steady.

Waiting.