His Stolen Flower

Margherita woke to the sound of her own heartbeat, slow and thunderous in her ears.

Her head throbbed as though someone had poured molten lead behind her eyes. The room was dark, hazy with the scent of liquor and sweat. A slow, pulsing rhythm thudded through the walls—music, muffled and distant.

She couldn’t remember where she was—or why her wrists wouldn’t move.

When she tried again, the coarse bite of rope into soft skin answered her.

Tied.

Her hands bound above her head.

For a few stunned seconds, she didn’t understand. Then memory returned in pieces—girls, music, laughter, a glass raised in toast—and then nothing.

She blinked hard, forcing her vision to clear. A low amber light glowed from a wall sconce, illuminating a room lined with crimson velvet and a mirrored ceiling that made everything look too close, too intimate.

A private suite.

Her breath caught.

She was still in the club. Or at least, she hoped she was.

Her bare legs were tangled in silk sheets; her black dress—short, glittering faintly under the lamplight—had ridden high on her thighs. The straps dug into her shoulders, one nearly torn. Her makeup was smudged, the faint floral scent clinging to her skin. Her high-heeled shoes lay discarded near the foot of the bed, one toppled on its side.

Idiot, she thought bitterly. You let them talk you into this.

Isabella had said she looked breathtaking. Emilia had winked and said it was about time she acted her age. Simona, her guardian and self-proclaimed savior, would’ve fainted if she’d seen the dress—but Simona wasn’t supposed to know.

Margherita had wanted one night. One night to feel like a girl, not a pawn in her guardian’s wicked games.

Now she was tied to a stranger’s bed.

Her pulse quickened. She twisted against the ropes, skin scraping. The effort made her dizzy. Her mouth was dry as dust, her head heavy with whatever had been in that last drink.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped inside.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark shirt half unbuttoned to show tattoos rippling over his chest and throat. A gold chain glinted against his skin.

“Oh, bella,” he drawled, swaggering toward her. “Finally awake.”

Her heart lurched. “Who are you?”

He tilted his head, feigning hurt. “You don’t remember? We were dancing. You were fire in my arms.” His fingers grazed her cheek, lingering too long. “I’m Maso. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

Margherita recoiled. “What do you want?”

He grinned, the kind of grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I think that’s obvious.” His hand slid down her side, brushing her hip. “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure we both enjoy it.”

“Then untie me.”

“Can’t. You looked like the type who enjoys a little spice.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed quietly, leaning close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Feisty. I like that.”

The kiss came without warning. She turned her face sharply, and his lips landed on her cheek instead. His hand clamped on her jaw. She jerked her head again and bit his lip.

He hissed, tasting blood. “You little bitch.”

A sharp knock rattled the door.

He ignored it, grabbing her chin harder.

Another knock—louder, insistent.

Margherita screamed. “Hel—” The sound scraped her throat raw, more breath than voice.

“Shut up!” He clamped a hand over her mouth before she could finish.

The knock came again, followed by a voice from the other side—low, controlled, dangerous.

Maso froze. The color drained from his face.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, yanking the sheet and stuffing a strip of it into her mouth. Then he stalked to the door, half shouting, “What the fuck do you want—”

The door crashed open.

Maso went sprawling backward as three men in dark suits stormed in. The one in front didn’t shout or rush; he didn’t need to. His mere presence filled the room—tall, deliberate, a man built of quiet menace.

“Boss—?” Maso’s voice cracked. “I—didn’t know you’d—”

The man kicked him in the ribs. Maso folded, gasping.

He crouched, gripping Maso’s hair, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Didn’t expect me to find you here?” His tone was cold, almost curious. “Where’s the money?”

Maso stammered, pleading. “I just need time—please, Ezio—”

Ezio straightened, his expression unchanging. “Time’s a luxury, and you’ve run out.”

A flick of his hand, and his men were on Maso—dragging him up, beating him with quiet efficiency.

Margherita shrank back, her chest rising in short, shallow breaths. Her limbs felt far away, her head swimming.

Ezio turned toward her. His gaze swept over her once, unreadable.

“Well,” he said, voice edged with wry amusement, “I didn’t know you were entertaining company, Maso.” He looked back at the bloodied man. “Bit of a kink, huh? I hope you got her consent at least.”

When he approached her, she went rigid. She flinched when his hand brushed her cheek, and for a moment she noticed the glint of silver—several rings catching the low light, heavy and worn, the kind that marked a man who’d done hard things with those hands.

“Easy, fiorellina (little flower),” he murmured, his voice low and rough-edged, like gravel softened by smoke. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He pulled the cloth from her mouth, his touch careful. “If I free you, you don’t scream. Deal?”

She nodded weakly, too tired to resist.

The ropes fell away. Her hands dropped to her sides, raw and trembling.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and she wanted to slap him for it—but her strength was gone. The world was dimming, her vision tunneling to a narrow point.

He said something she couldn’t hear. Then darkness pulled her under.

***

Ezio watched the girl slump sideways against the pillows, her breath shallow but even. The ropes lay coiled beside her, the silk sheet tangled around her knees.

She was dressed for the hunt—short black dress, glitter catching faintly in the lamplight—but something about her was… off. Too polished. The makeup was smudged, not smeared; her nails manicured; her perfume expensive, not cheap and sweet like the usual kind that clung to the club girls.

His first thought had been that Maso had brought in a prostitute to impress someone. But prostitutes didn’t wear tailored silk or diamond studs. They didn’t carry purses made of the finest leather.

“Boss?” Dario’s voice came from the doorway, casual as ever.

Ezio glanced back. “Get him out of here.”

Dario, his second-in-command, nodded to their men, watching Maso’s limp body being dragged away. Then, he pointed at the bed. “What about her?”

Ezio turned and cursed under his breath. “Shit.”

The girl lay motionless, her brown hair spread across the pillow, skin pale beneath the lamplight. He approached again, pressing two fingers to her throat. Pulse—faint, but steady.

“Still breathing,” he muttered.

Dario lifted a purse from the floor, found a wallet, and tossed it over. “Check it.”

Ezio caught it and flipped open the ID card. “Margherita Altieri,” he muttered, his brows lifted slightly.

Dario whistled. “Altieri—as in Domenico Altieri? The one who got whacked seven years ago?”

Ezio’s gaze stayed on her face. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t know the old man had any family left.”

Ezio didn’t answer. He was studying her features: the shape of her mouth, the faint crease between her brows, even in sleep. There was no mistaking the bloodline—he’d seen that look before, years ago, when Altieri’s name still meant something.

She stirred faintly, lips parting, a small sound escaping.

Dario smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re rescuing damsels now?”

Ezio sighed, picking up her shoes one by one. “Don’t start.”

Then, he slung the unconscious woman over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing.

“Altieri or not,” he muttered, “you’re coming with me.”