Page 7 of Savage Devotion

At midnight precisely, I return to the hotel. The service entrance allows me back inside unnoticed. I change quickly in a storage closet, becoming Francesca Castellano again—the obedient daughter, the potential bride, the mafia princess with perfect posture and a hollow where her future should be.

I return to my suite at the Hotel Imperial feeling emptied yet composed.

The room surrounds me as I kick off my heels, reaching behind to unzip my gown, feeling the cool air kiss my bare spine.

Then, a tiny sound… so subtle I almost dismiss it… makes my blood freeze.

The suite's darkness suddenly feels heavy.Occupied.

I never get the chance to scream.

A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, leather against my lips, while another injects something cold into my neck. My limbs turn to water almost instantly, consciousness wavering as I'm lifted effortlessly against a hard male chest.

"She's secured," a voice says in accented English. "Moving to extraction point."

My body won't respond, but my mind races frantically behind the chemical haze. This isn't a random kidnapping. The sharp movements, the professional tone, the careful handling—this is planned. Sanctioned.

Father.

The thought cuts through the fog like a blade. Had he noticed my absence? Is this punishment for my small rebellion?

No. This feels different. Bigger.The Volkov men watching me all day.

As they carry me through service corridors, my head lolling against muscled shoulders, I catch fragmented images: the flash of an emergency exit sign, the cold night air raising goosebumps on my exposed skin, the black SUV waiting with its engine purring.

"Careful with the merchandise," someone orders as I'm secured in the vehicle, my body arranged like an expensive doll. "He will kill you if she's marked."

Merchandise.

The word scorches through my fading consciousness like acid.

In my world, people become possessions, bargaining chips, assets to leverage. I've watched my father trade loyalty for territory, blood for influence, women for advantage.

Now it seems I've become another commodity in his portfolio.

I struggle to stay conscious, to memorize the route of the vehicle, to find something, anything, that might help me later.

But the drug pulls me under, deeper and more suffocating.

I surface briefly during a transfer. Strong arms moving me again, the scent of expensive cologne and male skin as I'm carried.

A voice mentioning London.

Another needle prick, another descent into blackness.

The last sensation I register is a man's voice close to my ear, accent Italian, words like dark velvet: "Sleep well, princess. You'll need your strength."

Darkness claims me completely.

***

I wake to silence and silk sheets against naked skin.

For one disoriented moment, I think I'm back in my Vienna hotel room.

But the quality of light is wrong. It's filtered through what must be blackout curtains, turning the unfamiliar room into a dreary shadowy gray. The bed beneath me is massive, sheets slipping against my body like a lover's touch.

This isn't a cell, but unmistakably a prison.

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