The night smelled like snow, blood, and lies.
Naya Morelli stood in the back alley of Morelli's Restaurant in Chicago and counted her heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
It was supposed to be a truce.
Her father said the war with the Voss Syndicate would end tonight.
Three black SUVs pulled in. No lights. No plates.
Don Marco Morelli's men were not supposed to drive cars like that.
"Miss Morelli."
The voice was ice. It cut through the cold October air.
Naya turned.
Adrian Voss.
Six foot three. Black suit. Snow on his shoulders. Gray eyes that saw everything and felt nothing. A raven tattoo at the base of his neck.
The Ice King. Heir to the Voss Syndicate. The man her father called the devil.
"Where is my father?" Naya asked. She hated how small her voice sounded.
Adrian looked at her like she was math he already solved.
"He ran," Adrian said. "The second he saw us. Leave you to us."
No.
Don Marco Morelli did not run. He did not leave family.
But the restaurant behind her was dark. The back door was open.
He left her.
The truth hit her chest and knocked the air out. Naya gripped her silver locket. The only thing her mother left her.
"You're coming with me," Adrian said. "Payment for your father's debts."
"I didn't do anything," she whispered.
"You're a Morelli," Adrian said. "That is the crime."
Two men stepped out from behind him. Big. Armed.
Before Naya could run, before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth. Another arm locked around her waist.
She fought. She kicked. She bit down until she tasted blood.
It did nothing.
The SUV door closed. The last thing Naya saw was the Chicago skyline through the window. Snow started to fall.
Then darkness.
She woke up to white.
White walls. White sheets. White light that hurt her eyes.
A safehouse.
Naya sat up. Her head pounded. Her dress from dinner was wrinkled. Her locket was still around her neck.
The door opened.
Adrian walked in. He had changed. Black sweater. Black pants. No tie. Without the suit he looked younger. And more dangerous.
"You're awake," he said.
"Where am I?" Naya demanded.
"A place your father can't find you," Adrian said. He poured himself water. Didn't offer her any. "For now."
"For how long?"
"Until I decide," Adrian said. He finally looked at her. Those gray eyes were empty. "Leverage. Or I give you back to Marco in pieces."
Naya stood. Her legs shook but she forced herself to stand straight. "I'm not a thing you trade."
"No," Adrian said. "You're a Morelli. That's worse."
The first week was silence.
He brought her food. Clothes. Books. A guard outside the door at all times.
He never touched her. Never yelled.
At dinner they sat across from each other. He read reports on a tablet while she pushed pasta around her plate.
At night she heard him on the phone. His voice was steel when he talked about territory. About her father.
On day 8 she broke.
"Why don't you just kill me?" she asked.
Adrian looked up from his tablet. "Do you want me to?"
"I want to go home."
"You don't have a home," he said. "Your father traded you to buy yourself time. Remember that."
Naya put her fork down. "Then let me go."
"I can't," Adrian said. "If I let you go, Chicago burns tomorrow. You're the only thing stopping it."
"So I'm a shield."
"You're the enemy's daughter," he corrected.
Something in his voice cracked. Naya heard it.
She wasn't supposed to notice the tiredness under his eyes. She wasn't supposed to see how his jaw clenched when his phone buzzed with news about the war.
He wasn't just a monster.
That scared her more.
By week 2, they were talking.
About stupid things. About the books she liked. About how she hated coffee. About the scar across his knuckles.
He never asked about her family. She never asked about him.
But the walls got thinner.
On day 19, the power went out.
The whole safehouse went dark for a minute. In the dark, Naya's breathing sped up.
The door opened immediately. Adrian stood there, a gun in his hand.
"You alright?" he asked. His voice was rough.
"Yes," Naya lied.
He didn't leave. He sat in the chair across from her bed. Didn't turn the light on.
"Snowstorms are bad this time of year," he said.
"I'm not scared of snow."
"Good," Adrian said. "You shouldn't be scared of anything."
Silence.
"Naya," he said. Her name.
"Yes?"
"Don't trust Marco."
"I don't," she whispered.
"Good girl."
The words did something to her stomach. Warm and wrong.
On day 21, it happened.
Adrian came in at 2AM. Hair wet from snow. Shirt untucked. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"They hit my warehouse," he said. "Your father's men."
"I'm sorry," Naya said.
"Don't be sorry," Adrian said. He laughed but it was bitter. "This is what we do. We destroy each other."
He was close. Too close. Naya could smell snow on him. Could see the gray of his eyes.
"Adrian," she said.
He looked at her mouth. Then her eyes.
For three weeks they had been careful. Enemies. Prisoner and captor.
Tonight the line broke.
He kissed her.
It wasn't soft. I was angry. Desperate. Like he was trying to prove something.
Naya should have pushed him away. She should have screamed.
Inside her head it was chaos. This is wrong. He’s the enemy. But God, his hands are the first thing that haven’t hurt in weeks. If this is a mistake, then let me be wrong just tonight. Let me forget my last name for 5 minutes.
Instead, her hands fisted in his sweater and she kissed him back.
Because he was the first person in years who looked at her and didn't see Don Marco's daughter. He saw Naya.
Because she was tired of being afraid.
Because one night wouldn't change anything.
She was wrong.
