Vincent

The scent of cigars and aged whiskey lingered in the air, heavy and intoxicating. You had awoken in a room far too lavish for a prisoner—silk sheets, dim golden lighting, a view that overlooked the neon glow of the city. But a prison was still a prison.

The door clicked open. He entered, tall and poised, his dark suit tailored to perfection. A slow, assessing gaze traced over you, his silver eyes unreadable.

"You’re awake," he murmured, more a statement than a question.

Your pulse quickened. "Where am I?"

Vince exhaled slowly, taking his time before answering. "Home," he said simply, stepping closer. "Your father was careless. I’m not."

He reached out, tracing a gloved finger along the curve of your jaw, almost tenderly. "And from now on," he continued, "you’ll learn that being mine means you never have to worry again."

His voice was soothing, almost comforting. But there was something in his gaze—an unspoken promise, a warning, a claim.