The villa was eerily still, the grand hallways echoing with the sound of heavy boots and muffled commands. Adrian's men had already cleared most of the lower floors, moving methodically through rooms, breaking down doors, and checking every closet and crevice.
Then in one of the rooms they saw Marco on the bed with a gunshot wound in his head.
Adrian stood at the center of it all, his eyes dark with a mix of anger and curiosity. His soldiers, grim-faced and silent, searched for signs of what happened , but the villa offered no clues, just bloodstains and bullet casings on the floors.
Then one of the guards, a stocky man named Luca, moved toward a large, ornate closet at the far end of the room. The door creaked open, and inside, crouched behind piles of fine suits and dresses, was a young man, his face pale, eyes wide with terror.
Luca stepped forward, grabbing the boy by the arm and yanking him from the cramped space. The young man struggled, hands flailing, but there was no way out.
"Get your hands off me!" he spat, his voice raw, almost desperate.
Adrian's eyes narrowed as the bodyguards dragged the boy forward, his panic turning to rage. The young man was tall, with dark, disheveled hair and a look of defiance that cut through the fear. The resemblance to Marco was unmistakable—his son.
Adrian didn't flinch. He stood still, watching the boy as he was brought closer.
"Let me go!" Marco's son yelled, his voice cracking with emotion. His eyes burned with fury, and his body trembled with barely contained violence.
"You killed my father! How dare you!"
Adrian's gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking. There was no sign of guilt in his expression, only cold, calculating.
"Sit him down," Adrian said, his voice low and clipped, never once raising his tone.
Luca, still holding the boy's arms firmly, exchanged a quick look with his fellow guards. They nodded, tightening their grip on the young man and sat him on a chair
Marco's son glared at him, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he leaned forward, as though willing himself to overcome the overwhelming fear that gnawed at him.
"What do u want from me," his voice hoarse with anger.
you're coming with me" Adrian said
"Never." Nico spat
Adrian's smile was thin, almost imperceptible. He leaned forward on the desk, his hands steepled in front of him. "No one asked for your cooperation.
The boy tried to stand, but Luca and the other guards pushed him back into the chair with a grunt. He looked back at Adrian, hatred flooding his veins.
"You killed him," Marco's son repeated, voice shaking. "You killed my father, and I will make you pay."
"A very bold lad" Adrian laughed
Adrian rose slowly from the chair he sat, fixing Nico with a cold stare.
"Take him," he ordered simply.
Luca and Matteo each gripped one of Nico's arms, yanking him up roughly. Nico thrashed against them, but it was no use, he was strong, but outmatched by the seasoned guards.
"Let me go!!" Nico shouted, voice hoarse. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
Adrian didn't spare him a second glance as he moved toward the door, his long coat flaring behind him. "You are," he said flatly. "And you'll learn quickly that struggling is pointless."
They dragged Nico through the blood-streaked marble halls of the Lucetti villa, his heels skidding on the cold floor as he fought every step. He cursed them, cursed Adrian, shouted about his father — but the men only tightened their grip.
Outside, the night was thick with mist, the sky dark and heavy with clouds. Adrian's black convoys waited at the edge of the driveway, engines humming softly.
A sleek black Mercedes SUV stood ready— bulletproof, tinted, imposing. The rear door swung open.
"Get him in," Luca growled.
Nico twisted violently, managing to land a sharp elbow in Luca's ribs. For a second, the grip loosened — but Matteo shoved him forward, slamming him hard into the back seat.
"Son of a—!" Nico hissed, struggling to rise again.
But then Adrian was there, standing by the open door.
"Enough," he said, voice calm but laced with steel. His eyes, cold and pale, locked onto Nico's. "You're coming with me. Save your strength."
Without waiting for a response, Adrian slid into the front passenger seat. Luca climbed in after Nico, pinning him between himself and the door. Matteo drove.
The doors slammed shut.
The convoys rolled out into the night.
The drive through the city was silent, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
Nico sat rigid in the backseat, jaw clenched, fury burning in his chest. His wrists were bound now, rough cord biting into his skin.
He glared at the back of Adrian's head — that blonde hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the casual way he sat as though none of this mattered.
"You think this is over?" Nico spat. "You think you can just take me?"
Adrian didn't turn.
"It is over," he said coolly. " You are mine now."
Nico's blood boiled. "Fuck you."
Adrian laughed
By the time the convoy reached the towering Cavalli penthouse in the heart of Milan, dawn was creeping into the sky, a faint gray light spilling across the horizon.
The car pulled into the private garage beneath the building. The doors rumbled closed behind them.
Adrian stepped out first, unhurried, as though returning from an ordinary night out.
"Bring him in," he said without turning.
Luca and Matteo hauled Nico from the backseat. He fought them again, muscles straining, but exhaustion was setting in. His body ached, and the adrenaline was starting to burn out.
They forced him into the private elevator. The ride up was tense, the air thick with unspoken threat. Nico's chest rose and fell in sharp breaths, his mind racing.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Adrian's penthouse —
Luca shoved Nico forward. He stumbled but caught himself, glaring at Adrian with every ounce of hate he had left.
Adrian glanced at him, expression unreadable.
"Welcome to my home," he said, voice low.
They dragged him down the hallway, through the tall doors and paintings hung on the wall Nico barely registered it — his mind was clouded with rage, grief, exhaustion.
Luca unlocked one of the rooms.
Luca shoved Nico in roughly. He stumbled, caught himself, and spun toward the door just as it slammed shut in his face.
Click. The sound of the lock turning echoed in the silence.
He was alone.
Nico paced like a caged animal, heart racing, every muscle in his body tight with fury. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, eyes burning.
His father was dead. And now he was here — locked in the house of the man who killed him.
Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. He didn't know.
Then — footsteps outside. The metallic clink of keys.
The door opened slightly, and a tall man entered — broad-shouldered, well-dressed, with sharp eyes. Stefano — Adrian's right hand. Older than Luca, calmer, but no less dangerous.
In his hands, a silver tray — a plate of roasted meat, soft bread, fruit. A bottle of water.
Without a word, Stefano set the tray down on the small table by the wall.
"You need to eat," Stefano said, his tone clipped but not kind.
Nico didn't move. He stood against the far wall, chest heaving, glaring at the tray like it was poison.
"Tell Cavalli to go to hell," Nico spat. His voice was hoarse from hours of shouting. "I'm not touching anything he gives me."
Stefano raised an eyebrow. "Starving yourself won't change your situation."
Nico's glare didn't waver. "I'd rather starve than eat it."
For a moment, Stefano studied him. Then he gave a short, humorless chuckle and turned toward the door.
"As you wish."
He stepped out. The door shut behind him, the lock clicking once more.
Nico slid down against the cold wall, fists clenched, stomach twisting painfully. The smell of the food hung in the air, maddening.
But he wouldn't eat.
Hours passed, the silence of the room thick and suffocating. Nico's hunger gnawed at him, but he refused to give in. Every time his stomach growled, the pain only fueled his anger. He wasn't going to let Adrian have the satisfaction of seeing him weak.
He couldn't stop thinking about his father, about Marco — about the betrayal. Every inch of his body screamed for revenge.
Later that evening, after the door had remained shut for what felt like hours, it opened again. This time, Adrian stood in the doorway with Stefano at his side.
Adrian's pale gaze swept the room, noting that the food tray remained untouched. His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile. "Hmmmm," he said calmly. "Take him. Clean him up. He looks like a stray dog."
Stefano gave a short nod. "Yes, sir."
Before Nico could react, two more guards appeared behind Stefano. They entered the room swiftly. One of them grabbed Nico by the arm. Nico struggled, but weakness from exhaustion and hunger dulled his movements.
"Get your hands off me!" he spat, trying to pull free.
Stefano leaned down slightly, his voice low and even. "You can fight all you want. It won't change a thing."
Dragged from the room, Nico was taken down another long corridor. This one led to a different part of the penthouse—a guest wing, though it was still fortified and controlled. The guards opened a heavy wooden door, revealing a large, luxurious bathroom with polished marble floors, gleaming fixtures, and a modern shower.
"Get him in," Stefano ordered.
They forced Nico into the bathroom. One guard cut away his dirty shirt with a sharp blade, while another ran the water in the large shower. Hot steam filled the air. Stefano handed him a clean towel and fresh black clothing—simple but high quality.
"Shower" Stefano said coolly. "And eat something. You'll need your strength."
The guards backed off slightly, giving Nico privacy, but stayed close enough to intervene if he tried anything.
After a long moment, glaring at them, Nico relented. His skin crawled under the grime and dried sweat. He was still furious—but even anger couldn't hide the fact that he needed to get clean.
He stripped and stepped into the hot spray. The water hit his bruised body, and for a moment, he nearly crumpled under it—fatigue, grief, rage, all hitting him at once. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing the clean clothes Stefano had left, he was taken to another room—a sitting room, tastefully decorated, with dark leather chairs and a low table. On the table sat different kinds of assorted food of —pasta, grilled meat, bread, fruit, wine.
Nico refused to sit. He stood by the window, arms crossed tightly, face pale but defiant.
A few minutes passed. Then Adrian entered.
He was alone this time—no guards, no Stefano. Dressed in a black shirt and tailored pants, Adrian looked every inch the man in control. He walked in slowly, his eyes settling on Nico.
"You look better," he said mildly. "A little less pathetic."
Nico didn't answer. His eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a hard line.
Adrian glanced at the untouched food. "You should eat."
Nothing.
He took a step closer. "Have a sit and eat ."
Still, Nico remained silent. His body was tense, jaw clenched.
Then he sat down and started eating, rushing the food because he was hungry.
And Adrian just sat there watching him