Chapter 3 I'm sprawled across my bed, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to laugh at some ridiculous dance trend. The weak evening sun streams through my windows, painting golden patterns across the cream carpet. Taylor Swift's "Cruel Summer" plays softly in the background, just loud enough to fill the empty silence of the house. Three weeks since that dinner party, and life has settled back into a deceptive normalcy-except for the increased security I've pretended not to notice. The black SUVs parked three houses down that change position but never leave. The gardeners with suspicious bulges under their jackets. The way our regular staff has been quietly replaced with men whose eyes never stop scanning. Mom and Dad are at their charity gala-Mom probably micromanaging every detail while Dad works the room with that practiced charm that makes people forget how dangerous he can be. I've seen the way hardened men go pale when Francesco Renaldi's smile doesn't reach his eyes. The annual Children's Hospital fundraiser runs late every year, which means they won't be home until after midnight. Usually, I'd have begged to join them-glittering dresses, free champagne, and the chance to practice reading people is my kind of night-but Dad insisted I stay home. "Not this year, tesoro," he'd said, his tone brooking no argument. "It's better this way." Marco is...somewhere. He's been different lately-more secretive, more intense. I catch him watching me sometimes with this worried look, like he's seeing threats I can't imagine. The circles under his eyes have darkened, and twice I've caught him sleeping in his car outside my lecture hall. Whatever he and Dante discovered the night of the party has changed things. The casual texts from Dante have dried up. No more impromptu security "checks" that somehow always coincided with my schedule. Just silence, and it stings more than I care to admit. I check my messages again. Nothing. Three weeks of nothing. But tonight, I don't mind the solitude. These are rare moments when I can just be Sofia instead of a Renaldi, when I can pretend the world outside my bedroom door isn't filled with power plays and carefully maintained alliances. When I can forget the way Dante looked at me on the terrace, like he was fighting a war inside himself. When I can let down the constant vigilance that comes with my last name. I stretch, arching my back to work out the knots from hours of studying and procrastination. My Advanced Encryption final is tomorrow, and Professor Alvarez expects nothing less than brilliance. "You've got a gift," he told me last week. "Don't waste it." If only he knew the real-world applications I've already found for his teachings-like the three backdoors I've coded into our family's security system. Just in case. My sheets rustle as I roll off my bed, heading for the bathroom. But I freeze mid-step, every muscle suddenly tense. The hair on the back of my neck stands up-that primal warning system Marco's always telling me to trust. Something feels wrong. I glance at my phone-7:43 p.m. The housekeeping staff left at six. Security does perimeter sweeps, not interior checks, unless there's an alarm. No one should be moving inside the house right now. But there it is again. A sound that shouldn't be there, like someone trying very hard to be quiet and almost succeeding. A soft scuff against hardwood. The nearly imperceptible squeak of the third stair-the one that always betrayed me when sneaking out. I hold my breath, straining to listen beyond Taylor's voice. The security system should have alerted me to any visitors. I've personally upgraded it three times since Marco's cryptic warning about "staying vigilant." There should be no one here but me. My heart pounds against my ribs as I grab my phone, fingers trembling slightly as I check my family's locations-a safety measure Marco drilled into me until it became a habit. No one's anywhere near the house. The blue dots showing my family are scattered across the city-Mom and Dad at the Plaza, Marco somewhere in Brooklyn, probably with Dante. I switch to the security app, scanning quickly through camera feeds. Nothing on the front drive. Nothing on the back entrance. Nothing on⁠- Wait. The feed for the east wing shows a clear view of the garden, but the timestamp is wrong. It's showing 7:15, not 7:43. I swipe through the other cameras. All running on loop. All compromised. I turn down the music, straining to hear...there. Footsteps on the stairs, pausing every few steps as if testing whether they've been detected. Not the heavy tread of our security team-these are measured, cautious. Professional. The sound sends terror galloping through me, a cold sweat breaking across my skin. My pulse hammers in my throat, so loud I fear they might hear it. Stay calm. Assess. Plan. Marco's instructions from a lifetime of drills flash through my mind, but panic claws at my throat, making it hard to breathe. This isn't a drill. This isn't a theoretical scenario with my brother watching over me. This is real. I rush to my closet, retrieving the gun Marco insisted I keep behind my winter sweaters. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop it. I've trained at the range countless times, but this isn't an exercise. My fingers ghost over the safety as I back toward the window, throwing it open with my free hand. The late summer air hits my face as I look down. The drop looks daunting now, though I've scaled this roof countless times sneaking out to parties. Three stories up, but there's that sturdy trellis and the garage roof below. A car passes on the street outside. Normal. Ordinary. If I screamed right now, would anyone hear? Would anyone help? Or would they hurry past, not wanting to get involved in whatever happens behind the walls of the Renaldi estate? I glance back at my door, heart hammering so violently I can feel each beat in my fingertips, blood rushing in my ears. Should I confront them? Hide? I've memorized exit routes for every room in this house, have practiced escape scenarios with Marco until they became autopilot. But now, faced with real danger, I feel like a child again-scared and unprepared. I think of the knife taped under my desk. The panic button installed in my headboard. The self-defense classes Dad insisted on since I was eight. None of it seems adequate against the footsteps approaching my door. My hands shake as I text Marco: someone's in the house. My phone lights up instantly with his call. "What the fuck do you mean someone's in the house?" Marco demands, his voice sharp. I hear car engines revving in the background, the squeal of tires. "Our security system⁠-" "Has been compromised," I whisper frantically, already climbing out onto the roof. The tiles are slick under my feet, still damp from an earlier rain. My socks slip on the smooth surface, and my heart lurches as I nearly lose my balance. The gun digs into the waistband of my jeans, an unfamiliar weight. "I checked the app-it shows all systems normal, but the feeds are on loop. They're inside and moving with purpose. Not thieves. This is⁠-" "Targeted," he finishes, his voice deadly calm now. The calm that means he's already planning violence. I hear him barking orders to someone-probably Dante-his voice muffled as he covers the phone Then, crystal clear: "Where are you right now?" The edge in his voice makes my stomach drop. Marco doesn't scare easily. "My room. I'm going out the window. Meet me at our spot?" Our childhood hideout, where we'd retreat when things got too intense at home. The old treehouse in the woods, our sanctuary since we were kids. "No," Marco's response is immediate. "Too obvious. They'll have studied our patterns, our property. Head for the Castellanos's guesthouse across the lake. I'll meet you⁠-" A floorboard creaks right outside my door-that loose board I usually avoid because it gives me away when I'm sneaking in late. My breath catches in my throat, and I can feel a panic attack starting to build, black spots swimming at the edges of my vision. I'm half out the window, one leg still inside, too exposed. "Sofia?" Marco's voice holds real fear now, the kind I've never heard from my unshakeable big brother. "Talk to me." "They're here," I whisper, panic making my voice shake. The doorknob turns slowly, deliberately. My fingers fumble with the gun's safety, but terror makes me clumsy. "Marco, I'm sorry, I'm so⁠-" My bedroom door bursts open, the force sending my framed photos crashing to the floor. Glass shatters, and I catch sight of the family portrait from Dad's birthday-all of us together, happy, safe-now broken on the carpet. The lamp topples, casting strange shadows across the walls. I scream, scrambling fully onto the roof, but strong hands grab my hair, yanking me backward with such force that pain explodes across my scalp. Tears spring to my eyes as I'm dragged through the window like a rag doll. The gun clatters uselessly to the carpet as I fight with every ounce of strength, clawing, kicking, connecting with something solid. I hear a grunt of pain, a curse in a language I don't recognize. One small victory as I catch one glimpse of masked figures-three of them, all in black. "Target is resisting," one says into a comm device, voice emotionless. "Subdue her," comes the cold reply. "Intact merchandise only. No visible damage." Merchandise. The word sends fresh horror through me, more terrifying than any violence. I try to scream again, but a gloved hand clamps over my mouth, fingers digging painfully into my cheeks. I bite down hard, tasting leather and something metallic. The man swears, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench away, lunging toward my bedside lamp. If I can just reach the panic button beneath it⁠- A chemical-soaked rag covers my face before I make it two steps. The scent is sharp, medicinal, wrong. My limbs feel suddenly heavy, unresponsive. Through the spreading darkness, I catch snippets of conversation. "Package secured." "Perimeter breach on east wing. We need to move." "Calabrese will be pleased." Calabrese. The name registers dimly through the chemical fog. I try to hold onto it, to fight the darkness dragging me under, but it's like trying to hold water in cupped hands. Someone lifts me. My head lolls helplessly against a hard shoulder. I try once more to struggle, but my body won't respond. My last coherent thought is that I never told Dante how I feel, that I might never get the chance to see those storm-gray eyes again or finish what we started on the terrace. The last thing I hear is Marco screaming my name through the phone as darkness claims me. His voice fades, replaced by static and the heavy footfalls of my captors. "Target acquired. Extraction in progress." Then nothing. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...