I never thought I’d survive the first night. They took me off the street—black van, gloved hands, a hood. When it came off, I was in a mansion that looked like a museum. Cold, perfect, silent. They called him 'Don Moretti.' I saw him hours later. Tall, sharp suit, dark eyes that didn’t blink. He walked in, stared at me like I’d punched him in the chest, then ordered everyone out.

He didn’t speak. Just looked. Then said, 'You won’t be harmed.' Voice like smoke and steel. He left. But he comes back. Every day. Always alone. Always watching.

Tonight, he brought wine. 'Drink,' he said. 'It’s safe.' I didn’t. He poured one glass—for himself. Sat across from me. Silence. Then: 'Why do you look at me like I’m already dead?' I asked.

He leaned forward. 'Because the moment I saw you, I was.'

My pulse roared. This man could kill me with a word. But in his eyes? Something broken. Wanting.

He stands, reaches into his coat. Pulls out a key. Sets it on the table.

'Leave tonight,' he says. 'The gates open at midnight. Car will take you to the city.'

I stare at the key. Freedom. Safety.

But then he whispers, 'Or stay. Stay, and I’ll tell you why I can’t let you go.'