A Useful Complication

{Harper’s POV}

I stare at the tall, intimidating man standing before me. My brain struggles to process the sheer absurdity of his claim. The opulent surroundings contrast sharply with the ridiculous nature of this conversation. I look at the dark mahogany furniture, the heavy velvet drapes hanging from the towering windows, and the menacing men in tailored suits standing at the perimeter. It all feels like a surreal fever dream. A genuine, unhinged 'are-you-serious-right-now' laugh bursts from my chest, echoing loudly in the lavish room.

I throw my hands up, my voice dripping with defensive sarcasm. I pace a short circle in front of his massive oak desk. "Let me get this straight. You kidnap the wrong girl, drag her by force to a literal villain's mansion, and then, plot twist, you tell her she is secretly the long-lost daughter of a mafia crime lord. You guys really, truly commit to the theme, do you not?"

The room remains dead silent.

No one laughs with me.

Enzo leans by the heavy wooden door, his posture relaxed, simply watching the spectacle unfold. Moretti’s face remains a mask of carved stone. His broad shoulders fill the space, radiating a dangerous, suffocating energy. He does not flinch. He does not blink. He just stares at me with those piercing green eyes.

"You are Viktor Sokolov’s daughter, and because of this revelation, you are not leaving this estate." Moretti insists with a terrifying, unbreakable calm.

I step forward to close the distance between us, pointing an accusing finger at his broad chest. "My dad was not some shadowy crime syndicate boss. He was just a miserable, deadbeat coward who abandoned us. The man could not even assemble a basic IKEA shelf, let alone run a criminal empire. You have the wrong person. This is a massive mistake."

"My secured legal database explicitly proves your mother’s true name was Hayes-Sokolov." Moretti shuts down my denial instantly, his cold tone slicing through my defense.

He takes a slow, predatory step forward. The polished floorboards groan softly under his weight. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.

His jaw tightens, and his intense green eyes lock onto mine with a chilling possessiveness. "Before, you were simply a complication. Now, you are useful."

I step right back at him, furious and vibrating with adrenaline. The fear is there, clawing at my insides, but raw anger overrides it.

"You have zero legal or moral authority over my life. You cannot keep me here against my will. I am leaving."

"You are currently existing within my territory, a place where you possess zero power." He shuts my rebellion down effortlessly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest.

Then, he delivers the real, devastating blow. He speaks with the casual indifference of someone merely stating the day's weather.

"Your father killed my mother."

The air in the room goes terrifyingly still. I stop breathing. The anger drains out of me, replaced by a sudden, icy dread. I search his face for a lie, a hint of exaggeration, a twisted joke, but I find nothing except cold, hard truth.

"Viktor Sokolov murdered her five years ago. So I will kill him. I do not care who stands in the way. I do not care who has to die." The lethal promise in his voice makes my blood run cold.

The weight of his words settles over my shoulders like a lead blanket. He is not playing a game. He is executing a war, and he just drafted me onto the front lines without my permission.

Enzo chimes in from the doorway, breaking the heavy silence to dryly note the situation. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking genuinely amused by the astronomical odds of my capture. "Mistakenly kidnapping the exact right girl for a blood vendetta is impressively bad luck."

Panic claws at my throat. I point a shaky finger at Moretti, taking a frantic step backward toward the exit.

"I am not staying here. What you are describing is not a guest arrangement. It is a literal prison. I demand you let me go right this second!" I loudly refuse to stay, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

Moretti turns his back on me, ignoring my frantic protests. He addresses his men with a flick of his wrist. "Drag her upstairs."

Two heavily armed guards step out from the shadows instantly. They move with terrifying coordination. Large, calloused hands grab my arms, securing me in a vice-like grip.

"Get your hands off me!" I yell, twisting and thrashing against their hold.

They ignore my struggling, hauling me out of the office. My heels drag across the pristine marble floors. I kick backward, aiming for their shins, but they do not even flinch. They march me up a grand, sweeping staircase, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. We march down a long, dimly lit corridor lined with antique portraits. They shove me into a ridiculously lavish, overwhelmingly large bedroom. I stumble forward, catching my balance just as the heavy wooden door slams shut behind me.

The distinct, chilling sound of a lock turning clicks into place.

Trapped.

I pace the expansive room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I take deep, jagged breaths. The walls are covered in ornate, silk wallpaper. A massive four-poster bed sits in the center of the room, draped in heavy emerald fabrics. A crystal chandelier hangs from the painted ceiling, casting fractured light across the antique Persian rug. It is beautiful, but it is a cage. I decide right then that I am not going to sit around quietly like a decorative, kidnapped houseplant waiting for a mob war to break out. I am not leverage. I am Harper.

I inspect the room frantically. I check the heavy oak door. Locked tight. I check the adjoining marble bathroom. No secondary exits, just a giant soaking tub and gold fixtures. My eyes scan the perimeter until they land on a high, grand window at the far end of the room.

I run over and unlatch the heavy glass panels. Pushing them open, I lean over the stone sill and look down into the darkness. The drop is steep, at least two stories high. The exterior wall is made of rough, stacked stone blocks. It looks treacherous. The wind howls, whipping my hair across my face. I stare at the dark courtyard below. I realize it is incredibly risky, but a potential broken leg is vastly superior to being mafia leverage in a blood feud.

I pull out my phone. My fingers shake as I unlock the screen. I navigate to my messages and pull up my chat with my roommate, Madison. I need a digital trail. I need someone to know I did not just vanish into thin air.

*Currently halfway out of a crazy huge mansion window. Might die. Will update.*

I quickly type out the sarcastic, terrifying text. I hit send, watching the little blue bubble appear on the screen. Stowing the phone securely in my back pocket, I prepare myself for the drop.

I swing one leg over the stone ledge. The freezing night air bites at my exposed skin. I grip the cold window frame, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I swing my other leg out, dangling over the sheer drop.

I begin my clumsy, terrifying, adrenaline-fueled descent down the rough stone exterior wall.

I grope blindly with my toes, searching for a protrusion in the stonework. I find a narrow ledge and press my weight onto it. My hands grip the jagged edges of the bricks. I lower myself inch by agonizing inch. The wind pushes against me, threatening to peel me off the wall. My fingers ache. My knuckles scrape against the rough mortar, sending sharp flares of pain up my arms. My shoes slip on the damp stone, my heart leaping into my throat every time I lose my footing. My calves burn with the sheer exertion of holding my body weight against the sheer drop.

I am halfway down. My muscles tremble with exhaustion. My fingers are slipping, slick with cold sweat. I pause to catch my breath, pressing my cheek against the freezing wall.

Then, I hear footsteps.

I freeze in sheer terror.

Below me, Enzo is casually strolling across the moonlit courtyard. The crunch of his expensive leather shoes against the gravel sounds like gunshots in the quiet night. He has his head down, staring at the glowing screen of his cell phone. I hold my breath, praying he keeps walking. Praying the dark shadows hide my dangling form against the imposing architecture.

He stops.

He looks up.

Our eyes meet.

I am clinging to the side of a mafia stronghold like a giant, sweaty spider. My heart stops beating in my chest. I brace myself for the inevitable. The shouts. The blaring alarms. The floodlights blinding me.

Slowly, I lift one trembling hand from the stone, terrified of losing my grip.

"Hi, Enzo." I whisper into the night, my voice barely audible over the howling wind.

He blinks, unfazed by the sight of a hostage hanging off the exterior wall. "Hi."

To my utter disbelief, he just shakes his head, pulls out his glowing cell phone again, and simply keeps walking into the shadows.

I stare down at the empty courtyard, blinking in shock. He did not raise the alarm. He did not pull a gun. He just walked away. I shake off the sheer confusion and force my tired limbs to keep moving. The ground is getting closer. My arms burn with exertion, but freedom is just a few feet away. I focus on the next handhold, the next foothold, determined to escape this nightmare.

[Moretti]

I stand on my private balcony, gripping the wrought-iron railing. I let the biting cold air wash over me, trying to clear my turbulent thoughts. The revelation of the girl's true identity still burns in my veins, igniting a dark fire in my chest. Viktor Sokolov’s daughter. The blood of the man who slaughtered my mother is currently residing under my roof. The irony is bitter. The opportunity is perfect. I stare out over the expansive grounds of my estate, the dark silhouette of the trees swaying in the harsh wind.

Enzo casually strolls up beside me, his footsteps silent on the stone terrace. He leans against the railing, bathed in the pale moonlight. He does not look away from his phone, his thumbs tapping a rapid rhythm on the screen.

Enzo states, his voice devoid of any urgency. "The Harper girl is currently attempting to escape from the guest room window."

I turn slowly, staring at him in sheer confusion. My brain misfires for a fraction of a second, struggling to process his casual delivery of a major security breach.

"You saw her? And you did not stop her?" I demand, my voice low and dangerous. The irritation coils in my gut, hot and sharp.

Enzo shrugs his shoulders with maddening nonchalance. "She said hi. And I said hi back."

I bite back a sudden surge of fierce irritation at my second-in-command's lack of urgency. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I leave him standing there on the balcony, his face illuminated by the soft glow of his screen. I march furiously into the grand hallway. The heavy thud of my boots echoes loudly against the polished marble floors, a rhythmic drumbeat of impending violence. The anger propels me forward. She is not slipping through my fingers. Not tonight. Not ever.

Two of my stationed guards immediately snap to attention as I round the corner. Their spines stiffen at my rapid approach, their hands dropping instinctively to the weapons holstered at their sides.

"Search the grounds. Find her at once." I order, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

One of the guards hesitates for a fraction of a second. His eyes dart toward the grand windows overlooking the dark estate.

"Alive?" He asks carefully, seeking clarification on the rules of engagement.

"Yes." I respond stiffly, grinding my jaw.

I turn and stare out the nearest window, scanning the dark perimeter of the estate. I cannot let this random, sarcastic college girl die out in the cold. She is now deeply tied to my story. She is the key to my ultimate revenge against the man who ruined my life. She will not freeze to death in the snow. She will not break her neck falling from a stone wall. She will survive. She will endure. Not because I care for her well-being, but because I need her. She will not perish. Not until she serves her vital purpose.