The diner’s flickering neon sign buzzed like a dying insect, casting erratic shadows across the rain-slicked pavement. Lila Carter exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the stainless steel coffee machine as she wiped it down for the third time that hour.

Another empty night.

Her father’s warning echoed in her skull: "The Morettis don’t forget, Lila. And neither should you."

As if she could forget. The Moretti crime family was the boogeyman of her childhood—the reason her bedroom window had bulletproof glass, the reason she’d spent her sixteenth birthday in a safe house. But that was before her father’s infamous raid, before Vincent Moretti Sr.’s body was paraded across the news in a body bag.

Now, two years later, she was just a nobody waitress in a nowhere diner. Safe.

Or so she’d thought.

The bell above the door chimed.

Lila didn’t look up. "We close in ten—"

Cold air slithered in, carrying the scent of expensive cologne and something darker—gun oil. Her spine stiffened.

Three men stood inside the doorway, their silhouettes sharp against the dull yellow lighting. The one in front removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes like fractured ice.

"Late for a coffee run, gentlemen," Lila said, fingers tightening around the rag.

The leader’s mouth curved. "We’re not here for the coffee."

Recognition punched through her gut. She’d seen that face before—in crime scene photos, in the courtroom sketches after her father’s testimony. Vincent Moretti Jr. The heir to the empire her father had burned to the ground.

Her pulse became a wild thing.

Vincent stepped closer, his Italian leather shoes silent on the linoleum. "Lila Carter," he mused, as if tasting her name. "You look just like your mugshot."

Her jaw clenched. That damn underage drinking arrest—her father’s greatest shame. "What do you want?"

His gloved hand reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. She flinched.

"Justice," he said simply.

Then chaos erupted.

One of his men lunged behind the counter, clamping a hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other yanked the landline cord from the wall. Lila kicked backward—her sneaker connected with a shin—but the grip only tightened.

"Easy, wildcat," Vincent murmured, pulling a pistol from his waistband. He tapped the barrel against the cook’s window. Old Joe looked up, his wrinkled face paling.

No. Not him.

Vincent’s breath was warm against her ear. "You come quietly, he lives. You fight..." He cocked the hammer. "Capisce?"

Tears burned her eyes as she nodded.

The next moments blurred—the icy slap of rain as they dragged her outside, the leather seats of the idling Mercedes sucking the heat from her skin. Vincent slid in beside her, his thigh pressing against hers as the locks engaged with a hollow thunk.

Lila swallowed bile. "My father will hunt you."

Vincent laughed, low and humorless. "Let him." He nodded to the driver. The car peeled onto the highway, the diner shrinking in the rearview mirror.

She stared at the city lights smearing past the window. Think. Escape routes. Weaknesses. But all she could focus on was the way Vincent’s ring—a heavy silver crest—tapped against the door handle in a slow, taunting rhythm.

"You’re quieter than I expected," he remarked.

Lila turned her head slowly. "What did my father do to you?"

Something dangerous flickered in his gaze. "Not just me." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He framed my family for mass murder. Had my mother shot in front of me. Made sure my sister vanished in foster care." His knuckles whitened around the gun. "So tell me, principessa... does the police commissioner read you bedtime stories about how he butchered an entire family?"

Her stomach lurched. She’d seen the evidence boxes in her father’s study—grisly crime scene photos, files stamped CLASSIFIED. He’d always said it was to "remember the monsters."

But what if the real monster was closer to home?

The car took a sharp turn into an underground garage. Vincent grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Welcome to hell, Lila Carter." His smile was all teeth. "Hope you survive the tour."

The elevator ascended in silence, its mirrored walls reflecting Lila's disheveled appearance back at her—pale face, rain-tangled hair, diner uniform wrinkled from struggle. Vincent stood beside her, his posture relaxed as if he escorted her to a business meeting rather than captivity.

She counted floors to steady her breathing. Twenty-three... twenty-four...

"You're shaking," Vincent observed.

Lila clenched her fists. "I'm calculating."

His chuckle was dark. "How many ways you can kill me with a butter knife?"

"Among other things."

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to reveal a penthouse that belonged in an architecture magazine—sweeping glass walls, black marble floors, a chandelier like frozen lightning.

Vincent nudged her forward. "Home sweet hell."

Her sneakers squeaked on polished stone. "All this for little ol' me? You shouldn't have."

"Cost less than your father's summer house." He tossed his keys onto a side table. "Which, fun fact? Used to be my family's vineyard."

Lila froze. That property had been a gift from the city after Dad's "heroic" case.

Vincent stalked to a liquor cabinet, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. He held one out to her.

She didn't take it. "Planning to get me drunk first?"

"Planning to show you proof." He set her glass down hard enough to slosh liquor onto the counter. "But we'll do this your way."

With a snap of his fingers, a projector hummed to life. Grainy surveillance footage filled the far wall—a younger version of her father accepting a briefcase from a known drug lord.

Lila's throat tightened. "This is doctored."

Vincent advanced\, tapping the screen where the date stamp read *2009*. "You were what\, twelve? Bet Daddy told you he was 'working late' that night."

Her nails bit into her palms. That was the year he'd missed her middle school play.

Another video flashed up—her father standing over Vincent Sr.'s body, planting a gun in the dead man's hand.

"No." The word tore from her. "He wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't frame an innocent man?" Vincent's voice dropped to a razor's edge. "Wouldn't let my mother beg for her life before putting two in her chest?"

A third video: a teenage girl—Vincent's sister?—being dragged into a CPS van, screaming his name.

Lila's knees threatened to buckle. "I didn't know."

Vincent was suddenly in her space, his breath hot against her temple. "Now you do." He grabbed her wrist, dragging her toward a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. "See those lights? Your father's 'justice' built that skyline on my family's bones."

She wrenched free. "So what's your play? Torture me until he confesses?"

Vincent's smile chilled her blood. "Better. I'm going to make you help me destroy him."

End of Episode 2

Episode 3: Cage of Gold (Preview)

Vincent reveals his "hospitality" has limits when Lila attempts escape

A shocking ally emerges from his criminal empire

Lila woke to the scent of espresso and the sound of someone moving through the penthouse. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the marble floors gold. For one disorienting moment, she forgot where she was.

Then the handcuff around her wrist clinked against the bedpost.

"Sleep well, princess?" Vincent's voice came from the doorway. He held a steaming cup in one hand, a manila folder in the other. The morning light caught the silver streaks in his dark hair, making him look almost... human.

She yanked at the restraint. "Is this really necessary?"

"After you tried to stab me with a salad fork last night?" He set the coffee on the nightstand just out of her reach. "Yes."

Lila glared at the folder. "More doctored evidence?"

"Better." Vincent unlocked the cuff with a small key. "Your father's current dirty work."

She rubbed her wrist as he dropped the folder in her lap. Inside were photos of a warehouse fire, police reports marked CONFIDENTIAL, and—

"That's Senator Greyson's daughter!" Lila's finger trembled against the photo of the missing college student.

"Was." Vincent's jaw tightened. "Your father made her disappearance go away. Just like he did with my sister."

The coffee turned to acid in her stomach. She knew that look in the senator's eyes from too many victim families she'd met through her father's work. That particular brand of shattered hope.

"Why show me this?"

Vincent leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her. "Because today, you're going to help me find the others."

His cologne wrapped around her - bergamot and something dangerous underneath. Lila forced herself to hold his gaze. "And if I refuse?"

"Then more girls vanish while you play the loyal daughter." He straightened, tossing the key in his palm. "Get dressed. We leave in twenty."

The walk-in closet he indicated held designer clothes in her exact size. She ran her fingers over a silk blouse, nausea rising. How long had he been planning this? Watching her? The surveillance photos taped to the mirror answered that question - Lila at her college graduation, Lila jogging in the park, Lila laughing with friends at a café.

Her reflection paled in the glass. "You're just like him. Willing to destroy anyone for revenge."

Vincent's reflection appeared behind hers, dark and imposing. "The difference, sweetheart?" He plucked a black dress from the rack and held it against her shoulders. "I'm trying to save lives while your father buries them."

The car ride passed in tense silence. Vincent drove them to the financial district, to a gleaming skyscraper with MORETTI ENTERPRISES embossed on the lobby doors. Employees nodded respectfully as they passed, though Lila noticed how their eyes skittered away from Vincent's grip on her elbow.

The private elevator opened directly into an office where a striking woman in a white pantsuit waited. Her blood-red lips curved at the sight of Lila.

"Ah, the commissioner's daughter." Her French accent curled around the words like smoke. "I told you she'd be pretty, Vincent."

"Claire." Vincent's warning tone made the woman chuckle. "Lila, meet our lead investigator. She's been tracking the trafficking ring your father protects."

Claire circled Lila like a shark. "Do you know how many girls your papa's friends take each year? Two hundred? Three?" She tapped a manicured nail against Lila's cheek. "But you were safe in your gilded tower, no?"

Lila slapped her hand away. "Show me proof."

Claire's smile turned razor-sharp. She led them to a wall of monitors displaying shipping routes, bank transfers, and— Lila's breath caught— security footage from her father's private office. There he was, shaking hands with a man Interpol had listed as a top sex trafficker.

The room tilted. She gripped the desk edge. That was last Tuesday's tie he was wearing. The same day he'd lectured her about campus safety.

Vincent's hand settled on the small of her back. Steadying. "Still think we're the monsters?"

Lila stared at the screen where her father accepted a briefcase full of cash. For the first time, doubt unspooled in her chest. What if everything she knew was a lie?

Claire smirked at her hesitation. "Welcome to the rabbit hole, petite souris." She tapped a key, pulling up a new file. "Now let's show you how deep it goes."