Suddenly, the low growl of a high-performance engine split the hush of the Silvercrest night.

A sleek black Panthera Nero glided through the open gate, its headlights sweeping across the manicured hedges.

Alessandra’s breath caught.

The silhouette of the car struck something in her memory—a glimpse from another lifetime.

But no, she told herself firmly, these cars were everywhere in Milan’s Financial District. Just another rich man’s toy. Nothing to do with her.

The vehicle rolled to a stop at the curb. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the driver’s door swung open, and Felicity Vance stumbled out, her face drawn tight with panic.

She didn’t look like the elegant woman who’d welcomed Alessandra to her townhouse dozens of times. She looked hunted. “Felicity!”

Alessandra called, already hurrying down the steps. “What—?” Felicity yanked open the rear door, breath ragged.

“No time. Help me get him inside!” Her voice was raw with desperation.

Alessandra reached the car, peered into the shadows—and her stomach lurched.

A man slumped in the back seat, his head lolled against the window. Even unconscious, he radiated something that made her skin crawl—power, or danger, or both.

For an instant, the hard planes of his face looked achingly familiar. That harsh beauty, all angular lines and something more primal beneath the surface. But she couldn’t place it. Not with the way he sagged boneless, the feverish flush staining his skin.

She glanced back toward the front of the car. The driver’s side door stood ajar, empty.

Whoever had accompanied Felicity was already gone, or maybe they’d never been there at all.

A ripple of unease crawled down her spine.

She slipped an arm under his shoulders. He was heavy, too heavy.

Felicity grabbed his other arm, hauling with grim determination. Then Felicity’s phone shrieked—an electronic trill that made Alessandra’s heart lurch.

“Dannazione! (D*mn it!)” Felicity snapped, dropping his arm. He slumped deeper into the seat. She stumbled away, answering the call in a low, furious hiss.

Left alone, Alessandra swallowed hard and looked down again.

The stranger’s eyelids flickered. He groaned, voice rough with something that sounded suspiciously like pain. “Acqua… (Water…)” he rasped, breath coming in shallow pulls. “Per favore… acqua… (Please… water…)”

Felicity’s boyfriend? The thought was as absurd as it was terrifying. But there was no time to question it.

Felicity’s voice was climbing into a full-blown argument, her hand chopping the air as she paced along the curb. “Aspetta! Arrivo subito! (Wait! I’m coming right now!)” she barked into the phone, her tone a frantic snarl.

She snapped it shut and whirled, eyes wild. “Bella—emergency! Get him inside, per favore! (please!) I have to go!”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She spun, bolted toward the street, and started frantically waving at a passing taxi. “Felicity! Wait! What do I—?”

Alessandra’s protest died as the cab door slammed and the car sped away, taillights flaring red in the dark. Silence crashed back in, thicker than before.

She turned back to the car just as a hand—hot, impossibly strong—clamped around her wrist. Her breath stopped. His eyes snapped open. Not lucid—worse.

They blazed with an unnatural, feverish light. Recognition coiled at the edges of her mind, her wiuld be boss! She didn’t know this man persoally. Didn’t want to.

“Acqua… (Water…)” he croaked again, the word a rasping plea. “Sì… sì, acqua. (Yes… yes, water.)” Her voice shook.

She leaned into the footwell, rummaging through Felicity’s discarded tote bag until her fingers closed around a half-full bottle of Veridian Spring water.

She twisted the cap with clumsy hands and lifted it to his lips.

He drank greedily.

Water spilled down his chin, soaking the open collar of his Brioni shirt.

His gaze—sharp and bewildering—fixed on hers. For a moment, he looked almost human.

“More?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. Just stared.

She swallowed hard and set the bottle aside. “Vieni… ti aiuto ad entrare— (Come… I’ll help you inside—)”

His hands moved too fast to see.

One locked around the back of her neck, the other cinched her waist in a bruising grip.

He hauled her into the car, onto his lap, before she could even scream. Her cry burst out and was swallowed the next instant as his mouth crashed down on hers.

Not a kiss—an invasion. Hot, desperate, tasting of water and something chemical-sweet beneath the lingering scent of expensive cologne. Her mind fractured around a single, horrifying realization.

He’s drugged. She twisted, fighting him with everything she had. Nails raked his throat. Her fists pounded his shoulders. He grunted, his grip only tightening. His hand fumbled at her waistband, searching.

Panic became something electric.

She groped blindly behind her, fingers brushing over smooth leather, something cold and heavy.

The crystal paperweight Felicity kept wedged between the seat cushions. She seized it and slammed it into the base of his skull.

THUNK.

He froze, a guttural sound spilling from his throat. His eyes flickered, lost focus. Then his body slumped sideways, all that terrible strength leaking away.

She shoved herself backward, scrambled free, and staggered out of the car. The door slammed shut behind her with a hollow thud that felt too loud.

For a long moment she just stood there, gasping, heart battering her ribs.

The air smelled of rain and panic and him. She pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting down a sob.

What had Felicity dragged her into? A vibration buzzed against the gravel. Her gaze dropped to a phone lying near the curb, screen glowing in the dark. Not hers. Damien’s.

The name blinking across the display made her stomach turn: Seraphina Rossi. She hesitated. Run? Call for help? Touching this phone meant crossing a line she didn’t understand.

But doing nothing felt worse. Her hand shook as she picked it up and swiped to answer. “Pronto? (Hello?)” she whispered.

“Chi parla? Questo è il telefono dell’Alpha! (Who is this? This is the Alpha’s phone!)” The woman’s voice was clipped, sharp with suspicion. Alessandra’s throat closed.

Her name would give too much away. But if she stayed silent— “Parla! (Speak!)” the voice snapped again.

“Hai il telefono dell’Alpha e non dici chi sei? Cosa vuoi? (You have the Alpha’s phone and don’t say who you are? What do you want?)”

Her lungs burned. No choice. “Sono Alessandra Rossi, (I am Alessandra Rossi,)” she managed, her voice trembling.

“La persona che avete intervistato oggi. (The person you interviewed today.)”

“Sei tu?! (It’s you?!)” Shock cracked through the line. A pause thick with calculation. Then: “L’Alpha è con te. Dimmi l’indirizzo. Subito. (The Alpha is with you. Give me the address. Now.)”

She swallowed, rattled off the Silvercrest District address.

The call ended without another word. Dio, what have I done? She leaned against the car, fighting to steady her breathing, and watched the 'Alpha' through the window—unmoving, the dark hair she couldn’t place falling across his forehead.

She told herself it was over.

Even as every instinct whispered she had just invited a storm she didn’t understand.