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The rain lashed against the windows of the centuries-old villa in Palermo, Sicily. Lightning tore through the sky like a warning, but inside the candlelit room, silence held its breath.

She sat by the fireplace, her saree damp, clinging to her like second skin. The rich maroon fabric was far from what belonged in this cold, foreign land. So was she.

Aarvi Mehra, 25, Delhi-born, soft-spoken but fire-hearted. She was supposed to be in Milan for her fashion internship. One wrong turn. One wrong taxi. And now… here.

Her captor stepped inside.

Luca De Luca. The devil carved in flesh.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in a custom black suit that cost more than her entire closet. The shadows clung to him like obedient slaves. The air thickened as his boots echoed toward her.

“You’re quiet today,” he said in that silky, accented voice that could make sin sound holy.

“I didn’t know kidnapped girls were supposed to be talkative,” she replied, voice steady despite the thunder in her chest.

Luca smirked. “You weren’t kidnapped. You were… intercepted.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” he walked closer, pouring himself a drink. “Kidnapping implies you were not meant to be here. But I think fate wanted you right here… with me.”

Aarvi stood up, folding her arms. Her bangles jingled lightly. “Why me?”

“Because you looked like you didn’t belong in that city. You looked like a storm hiding under sunlight.”

“That’s poetic. Are all mafia men this dramatic, or just the Italian ones?”

Luca let out a low chuckle. “Only the ones who fall for women they shouldn’t touch.”

Silence.

Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

He wasn’t supposed to say that.

He wasn’t supposed to feel that.

She had spent five days in this villa. He hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t touched her. But every glance between them was like a blade sliding slow against skin.

Dangerous.

Addictive.

He set his glass down and came closer, so close she could see the scars on his knuckles, the faint stubble on his jaw.

“You should hate me,” he murmured. “You should scream and cry. Why don’t you?”

“I don’t cry in front of devils,” she whispered.

“And I don’t fall for goddesses,” he countered.

Their eyes locked.

Outside, thunder roared.

Inside, something else cracked wide open.

***

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his presence. His scent—musk, sandalwood, sin. His voice played in her head like a song on loop.

He had fed her well. Let her roam inside the mansion. Talked to her every day. But never let her go. Never told her why.

Until tonight.

He wanted her.

Not just her body.

Her chaos. Her soul.

She should be terrified. But all she felt was the tug. The heat. The curiosity.

What kind of man abducts a woman and then treats her like porcelain?

What kind of woman begins to feel… safe in the lion’s den?

***

The next morning, she found him in the garden. Shirtless. Practicing with a knife.

God help her.

Every inch of him was carved from war. Scars. Muscles. That tattoo of a raven across his chest.

She watched from the balcony, heart in freefall.

He looked up, caught her staring.

“Join me,” he said.

She blinked. “With what? I don’t have a knife.”

“I’ll give you one.”

“I might stab you.”

“I might enjoy it.”

Her breath caught. But she walked down anyway.

He handed her a dagger.

“Teach me,” she said.

“Careful what you ask for, bella.”

Their fingers touched. Static.

He stood behind her, guiding her hand. “The blade doesn’t fear blood. Neither should you.”

“I’m Indian,” she whispered. “We’ve bled enough.”

His jaw flexed.

They locked eyes again.

“You remind me of fire,” he said. “Beautiful. Warm. Deadly.”

She smiled. “And you remind me of darkness.”

“You scared?”

She turned to him, close enough to feel his breath. “No. But maybe you should be.”

***

That night, the storm returned.

So did the ache.

She walked to his study, barefoot. She didn’t knock.

He was at the bar again, drinking.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” she asked.

He turned. Surprised. Then pleased.

“Neither do you.”

“Do you ever plan to let me go?” she asked, voice calm.

He didn’t reply immediately.

Then, “I should.”

“But you won’t.”

“No.”

She walked to him. Slowly. A goddess walking into the mouth of death.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the first thing in my life that feels alive,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve drowned cities in blood. Built empires from bones. But nothing… nothing ever touched me like you did in five days.”

Aarvi swallowed. “I don’t understand you.”

“You don’t have to. Just feel this.”

He kissed her.

And the world split open.

His lips were fire and famine. His hands roamed her spine like he was memorizing a prayer. She gasped, clutched his shirt, her maroon saree slipping off her shoulder as if it, too, wanted to surrender.

But just when things were about to go too far, she pulled back.

Breathless. Eyes burning.

“This… this doesn’t make it right,” she said.

“I know.”

“I should hate you.”

“I hope you do,” he whispered, brushing her cheek. “Because love born from hate… it never dies.”

***

The next day, she disappeared.

His guards were knocked out.

No forced entry.

No ransom note.

Only her gold bangle on the pillow, wrapped around a single note:

You can cage a bird, Luca. But never clip its wings.

He broke the glass in his hand.

And smiled.

***

Six Months Later – Jaipur, India

Aarvi stepped out of her boutique, her maroon lehenga swaying with the desert wind. She was home. Alive. Free.

But never the same.

She saw him before he spoke.

Leaning against a black SUV.

Suit. Stubble. Same damn smirk.

Her heart skipped.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” Luca asked.

She didn’t answer. Just stared.

He walked to her. “You haunt me, Aarvi. Even Palermo feels cold now.”

“I warned you,” she whispered.

He came closer. “Then haunt me forever.”

“I won’t be yours.”

“I don’t want to own you,” he said. “I just want to burn with you.”

Their breaths tangled.

The sun set behind them like a blessing.

She stepped forward, placed her palm on his chest.

And kissed him.

Not like a victim.

Not like a lover.

But like a queen who chose her hell.

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THE END

Word count: ~1,100 words.