CHAPTER 3

ALINA

"Make a sound, and I’ll blow your pretty head off."

I froze, my entire body going rigid. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that it drowned out everything else—the music from the party below, the faint clink of champagne flutes, the muffled laughter. All of it vanished.

The only thing I could feel was the cold press of the gun against my temple.

He was close. So close I could smell the whiskey on his breath, bitter and sharp.

My lungs burned, my lips trembling against the crushing weight of his hand, but I couldn't move. Couldn't even blink.

I didn't dare.

His grip tightened as he leaned in, the hard lines of his body pressing me further against the wall.

"I said," he growled, voice dropping lower, harsher,

"Make a sound, and I’ll paint these walls with you. Do you understand me?"

The gun pressed deeper. I whimpered a strangled sound caught in my throat, nodding frantically beneath his crushing hold.

"Good," he whispered, voice a blade against my skin.

"That's better."

The barrel of the gun slid from my temple, tracing a slow path along the curve of my cheek as he finally loosened his grip on my mouth—but I stayed silent, too terrified to even breathe.

"I can’t believe someone as beautiful as you is the offspring of that filthy pig," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Tell me your name."

I didn’t answer right away. My gaze darted around the room, my mind scrambling for anything—a way out, a lifeline, something to break free.

He tilted his head, a sinister smile playing at the corner of his lips. "What's so captivating, darling, that you're avoiding looking at me? I reckon I’m quite the handsome man. So, when I speak to you, you’d better look at me." His voice dropped, darkening with menace.

"Now, answer my question."

Question?

Oh, right—my name.

"Alina Santini," I say finally, surprised by the steadiness of my voice despite the way my chest tightens.

He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t ask for proof, doesn’t hesitate, which tells me one chilling truth: he already knows exactly who I am.

The lights flicker overhead, casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, I still can’t make out his features completely—only the outline of a figure, tall and imposing, every inch radiating danger. His eyes, though, I can feel them burning into me, cold and predatory, as if he can see right through me.

"Your daddy owes me a lot of money… Alina." His voice is smooth, almost sultry, but laced with menace, each word a carefully sharpened blade.

Daddy.

The word makes me want to laugh, bitter and hollow. He’s never been "Daddy" to me—not even when I was little. He made it clear early on that such terms were beneath him. I was only ever allowed to call him by his name as if the word "Dad" might tarnish his image.

"Now," he said, voice as cold as the steel against my skin, "you're going to do as I tell you."

The gun shifted, the barrel tracing from my temple down, skimming the curve of my cheek. I flinched, a tear spilling free.

The gun's icy barrel lingered just below my collarbone, but it wasn’t the weapon that made my skin prickle—it was his eyes. Cold, storm-grey and unrelenting, dragging over me as if peeling me apart layer by layer, studying every shallow breath, every trembling pulse beneath my skin. Calculating. Waiting.

His face emerged from the shadows, sharp and unforgiving, like something pulled straight from a nightmare. The dim light caught the hard angles of his jaw, the faint scar slashing just above his brow.

His hair was darker than I remembered, his features colder, more brutal—but the storm-grey eyes were the same.

I’d seen him before.

Just a month ago.

I had hidden behind the study door, heart pounding so violently it drowned out the storm of voices on the other side. My father’s voice, sharp with rage, filled the room, echoing off the mahogany walls. But the man facing him—tall, composed, terrifyingly calm—stood unmoved, as though my father’s fury was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Then, without warning, he struck.

A single, brutal blow.

The crack of knuckles meeting flesh was deafening, my father’s head snapping back as he collapsed against the desk with a sickening thud. Blood smeared his mouth as he groaned, dazed, clutching his face.

"Alexander—" he gasped, voice raw with pain and disbelief.

The man seized my father by the collar, yanking him upright with effortless strength, his face inches from my father’s own.

"Alexander Dimitri," he corrected, voice a deadly whisper, ice coiling around each word.

"When you speak to me, you will address me as Mr. Alexander Dimitri. Do you understand?"

And just like that, the name I had only heard in hushed whispers—the name spoken by the maids when they thought no one was listening, murmured in clipped, fearful tones among the guards—had a face.

Alexander Dimitri.

Ruthless. Dangerous. Merciless.

I had gasped, the sound betraying me.

And then he turned.

His storm-grey eyes found mine, piercing through the narrow gap in the door where I hid. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. For a heartbeat, he simply stared, brow furrowing slightly as if committing me to memory.

Then, with a cruel twist of his lips, he winked.

Mocking. Unbothered. As if the violence he'd unleashed meant nothing.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

I turned and ran.

...

Now, those same merciless eyes were on me again. But this time, there was no door to hide behind. No shadows to slip away into.

His lips curled, the ghost of a smirk forming—cold, sharp, and predatory. There was no warmth in it, only the promise of something darker. His voice followed, low and smooth, a silk-coated threat that coiled around me like a noose tightening by the second.

"You're going to deliver a message for me, dove."

I froze.

Dove.

The word used to mean comfort, safety—a gentle nickname my grandmother whispered when she tucked me in at night. But hearing it now? From him? It felt poisoned. Corrupted.

Rage stirred beneath the fear.

"Don’t call me that," I hissed, my voice raw but defiant, the sting of unshed tears making my eyes burn.

His smirk only deepened, a cruel spark flickering in his gaze.

"Oh, really, Dove" His head tilted as he studied me like a cat toying with a trapped bird.

"Look, you—"

"Shhh." His finger pressed against my lips, silencing me with a mockery of tenderness as the gun lifted, tracing a chilling path back to my cheek.

My heart thundered so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"I said... you're going to deliver my message, dove," he hissed, his voice dark and low, like a predator savouring its prey.