Even if the person trying to take him was Stefan himself.
CHAPTER 3: STEFAN
I DIDN'T SLEEP.
How could I? Every sound made me jerk awake—footsteps in the hallway, the hum of ventilation, the distant thump of music from the club below that went on until four in the morning. I kept thinking someone would come through that door. Matteo. His security team. Someone ready to hurt me or move me or end this.
No one came.
I spent the night pacing my prison and planning escape routes that all ended the same way: locked door with a keycard reader I couldn't bypass, reinforced windows I couldn't break, walls too solid to damage. No way out. I was trapped as thoroughly as if they'd chained me to the bed.
The room was comfortable enough—decent mattress, working bathroom, climate control that kept the temperature perfect. But comfort didn't change the fact that I was locked in a cage. That I'd failed spectacularly at the one thing my father had asked me to do. That I was now Matteo DeLuca's prisoner with no idea what came next.
By the time pale light started filtering through the small window near the ceiling, I was exhausted and furious and starting to panic despite my best efforts to stay calm.
I sat on the bed with my back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, and tried to think. There had to be a way out. Some weakness in their security I could exploit. Some moment when someone would make a mistake and I could run.
But even if I escaped this room, I'd still be in Inferno. Still surrounded by Matteo's people. Still in the heart of enemy territory with no allies and no plan.
Fuck.
I was so screwed.
The lock clicked.
I tensed, every muscle coiling tight. Ready to fight even though I knew it was pointless. Ready to do something other than sit here like a victim waiting to be slaughtered.
Matteo walked in carrying a tray.
He looked different in daylight—or what passed for daylight through that high window. Less dangerous somehow, though that was probably an illusion. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His hair was damp like he'd showered recently. He smelled like soap and coffee.
He set the tray on the small table. "Breakfast."
I stared at him. At the tray. At the eggs and toast and coffee arranged like this was a fucking hotel instead of a prison.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway." He gestured at the food. "You didn't have dinner last night. You need to keep your strength up."
"For what? So I'm healthy when you kill me?"
His expression didn't change. "I told you. I haven't decided what to do with you yet."
"Then decide." I stood up, fists clenched at my sides. "Either kill me or let me go. Stop playing these fucking games."
"No games." He moved toward the door. "Eat. I'll check on you later."
Something in me snapped.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fear I'd been holding back all night. Maybe it was the casual way he spoke to me like I was a guest instead of a captive.
I grabbed the tray and threw it at him.
Eggs and coffee splattered across his expensive shirt. The plate shattered on the floor. Toast landed in pieces everywhere. Coffee dripped down the wall in brown streaks.
Matteo went very still.
I expected violence. Expected him to cross the room in two strides and put his hands around my throat. Expected broken bones and blood and pain.
