Episode 1: Taken

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."

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