Kidnap

(Alessio's POV)

I woke up to find the woman from last night gone. In her place, she had left a pillow where her waist had been. How dare she run off as if what happened between us was meaningless? My jaw tightened as I sat up, her absence triggering a strange blend of frustration and longing. I rose from the bed, heading to the wardrobe to grab fresh clothes. After a quick shower, I changed and prepared to confront the day ahead.

My eyes flicked back to the bed, lingering on the faint stain on the sheets—a mark of last night’s intensity. The memory rushed back, vivid and unshakable. Who would have thought a woman so breathtakingly beautiful, with an hourglass figure that seemed sculpted by the gods, would still be a virgin? I felt honored—no, privileged—to have been the first man to touch her. Her fragility, her innocence—it was unlike anything I’d experienced before.

The night had started like any other. I went to the nightclub to meet with other mafia bosses, as I often did to discuss business. Whiskey and weed kept me company as I scanned the dimly lit club, my mind half-focused on the conversations around me. Then, my gaze was drawn to the entrance, and I saw her.

She walked in hesitantly, her posture tense, her face streaked with the remnants of tears. She looked utterly lost, like a woman who had been shattered by betrayal or heartbreak. Her misery was palpable, an invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders. Something about her struck me immediately—she wasn’t Italian. Her features, her demeanor, and the way she carried herself all screamed foreigner. What was she doing in Italy? More importantly, why did she look like she had no idea where she was going or what to do next?

I watched her from the shadows, my drink forgotten. She sat down and ordered vodka, downing it like water. Her expression was vacant, but the pain was unmistakable. Watching her drink bottle after bottle, a strange pang of emotion stabbed at my chest. Was it a concern? Anger? I couldn’t tell. But one thing was certain: I didn’t like seeing her like this.

My piercing gaze must have caught her attention because she looked at me briefly before quickly turning away. It was as if she were afraid of me—or perhaps afraid of something else entirely. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, as she emptied three bottles of vodka.

I wondered if she could handle it and then she stumbled to her feet, clearly drunk, and made her way toward the exit.

Was she leaving?

I watched her, my fists clenching as she staggered through the crowd. A man approached her, slipping his arm around her waist. The sight ignited a fire inside me. Was it jealousy? Possessiveness? Whatever it was, it was new—and it was uncontrollable.

Before I realized it, I was on my feet. I didn’t know what I was going to do; I just knew I couldn’t let this man touch her. When he leaned in to kiss her, she slapped him, and a sense of pride surged through me. But when he raised his hand to hit her back, I intervened.

“How dare you?” My voice was low, dangerous.

The man froze, his eyes widening as he realized who I was. I am Alessio DeLuca, one of the most feared mafia bosses in Italy. He knew better than to cross me. Stammering an apology, he fled, his cowardice evident.

She leaned against me, her head resting on my chest. I could feel her warmth, her vulnerability. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt an overwhelming need to protect her.

“Where do you live?” I asked her gently.

Her words were incoherent, her drunken state rendering her incapable of answering. I made a decision then and there. She couldn’t be left alone in this condition. I took her to a nearby hotel, carrying her up to a room and laying her on the bed as carefully as if she were made of glass.

This wasn’t like me. I wasn’t the type to be gentle or considerate, especially not with women. And yet, with her, everything was different.

As I sat by the bed, watching her sleep, I found myself mesmerized. Her beauty was ethereal, almost otherworldly. If beauty were a crime, she’d be serving a life sentence. Her heart-shaped lips parted slightly, her breath soft and rhythmic. She was intoxicating, even without trying.

I was tempted to touch her, to explore the softness of her skin, but I resisted. She was drunk, vulnerable, and unaware of what was happening. No matter how much she stirred something primal within me, I wouldn’t take advantage of her.

As I turned to leave, she grabbed my arm, pulling me back. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she stared at me, her gaze clear and full of longing.

Then, without warning, she kissed me.

Her lips were warm and inviting, igniting a fire that spread through my veins. My body reacted instantly, every nerve ending alive with desire. But I stopped her, pulling away even though it took every ounce of self-control I had.

She frowned, clearly unhappy. She wanted me—perhaps all of me—but I couldn’t tell if it was her genuine desire or the alcohol speaking. I tried to scare her with my words, warning her that I’d own her body and soul. But she seemed oblivious, determined to have her way.

When she reached out to me again, I couldn’t hold back any longer, especially when she ripped my shirt. I took over from there. What happened after that was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. She was mine in every sense of the word, her fragile hands clinging to me as I claimed her completely.

A knock on the door snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said, my voice sharp.

Ivan entered, bowing slightly. He was my right-hand man, someone I trusted, though trust was a rare commodity in my world.

“The supplies from Russia have arrived and require your supervision,” he said.

Work called, but my mind was elsewhere. As we drove to the warehouse, my thoughts remained fixed on her. I didn’t even know her name, yet she had consumed me completely.

“Find out everything about that woman,” I instructed Ivan. He nodded, understanding what I meant.

“Okay, boss.”

The day passed in a blur of activity as I oversaw the delivery and inventory of the Russian goods. But even as I worked, her face lingered in my mind.

Later that evening, Ivan returned with information.

“Her name is Lisa Sanders,” he began. “She’s from California. She came to Italy to visit her boyfriend, only to discover he was cheating on her.”

That explained the pain in her eyes. Her boyfriend was the source of her heartbreak. The thought made my blood boil. Whoever he was, he would regret it. But first, I needed to find her.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“She boarded a flight back to California this morning,” Ivan replied.

I clenched my fists, anger coursing through me. She had run away. She was mine, and I wasn’t about to let her go.

“Kidnap her and bring her back to Italy,” I ordered, my voice cold and final.