The porcelain plate sat on the small round table, scraped clean. Only a few smears of gravy and a lone sprig of rosemary remained of the roasted chicken. Elena stared at the empty white surface as nausea rolled through her stomach.
She had eaten every bite forcing the food past her tight, dry throat, chasing each mouthful with water while picturing her father in that gray concrete cell. Every swallow was ransom. Every calorie, a bribe to the monster who held their lives in his manicured hands.
With a trembling hand, she pushed the plate away. It clattered against the water glass.
"I did it," she whispered to the empty room. "I ate. Are you happy now?"
She scanned the ceiling corners, searching for the camera she felt certain was there. No lens was visible, but the sensation of being watched pressed on her like a heavy wool blanket in midsummer.
The room was silent. No voice crackled from hidden speakers. Only her breathing and the muffled rhythm of renewed rain outside.
Elena stood. Her legs felt steadier than they had an hour ago. The food, traitorous as it was had restored some energy. The sedative's fog was lifting, leaving sharp, jagged clarity.
She was a prisoner, but this was no dungeon. It was a five-star suite with the lock on the outside.
She began to pace. The plush cream carpet swallowed the sound of her bare feet. From window to door, door to fireplace—she measured her cage. Twelve paces by fifteen.
She stopped at the fireplace. Black marble, cold to the touch. Above it hung an original oil painting: a storm-tossed sea, waves crashing against jagged rocks in violent strokes of dark blue and gray. The chaos was captured perfectly.
She touched the canvas, feeling the texture of dried paint.
Valuable. Thousands of dollars, hung casually in a guest room—a reminder of Dante Rossi's wealth, wealth that rendered her father's fifty-thousand-dollar debt pocket change.
He didn't take me for the money, she realized again, fingers tracing a crashing wave. He took me because he could.
A sharp click from the door spun her around.
Elena snatched the heavy crystal vase once more, clutching it like a shield.
The door swung open.
Not Dante.
A woman entered: short, stout, gray hair in a severe bun that tightened her features. She wore a black uniform with a crisp white apron—servant attire from another era.
Maria carried an empty tray.
She paused at the sight of Elena backed against the fireplace, vase raised. No flinch, no fear, only annoyance.
"Put that down, child," Maria said, her voice thick with a Sicilian accent. "You'll break it, and I'll be cleaning glass from the carpet."
Elena kept the vase high. "Who are you?"
"I am Maria. I run this house. And I have no time for hysterics."
She crossed to the table, inspected the empty plate, and nodded.
"He said you'd be stubborn," she muttered. "But you ate. Good. He checks the plates, you know."
Elena lowered the vase slightly. "Does he check everything?"
Maria met her gaze. Dark eyes, hard but not unkind, etched with fatigue.
"He is the Don," she said simply. "Nothing happens here without his knowledge. Not a dust mote falls, not a flower wilts, not a breath is taken without his permission."
Elena stepped closer. "Please," she whispered. "You have to help me."
Maria gripped the tray tighter.
"Don't."
"I was kidnapped," Elena pleaded, tears rising. "My father sold me, but I never agreed. You can't let him keep me here. You're a good person, please. Just leave the door unlocked. Look away for five minutes."
Maria shook her head, stepping back.
"You think you're the first girl to cry in this room?" she asked quietly. "The first to beg?"
A chill raced down Elena's spine. "There were others?"
Maria glanced toward the empty hallway.
"Listen," she hissed. "You want to survive? See your father again? Stop searching for exits. There are none."
"There's always a way out," Elena insisted.
"Not here." Maria's voice was flat. "Walls three feet thick. Bulletproof glass. Dogs trained to kill. And the men..."
She shuddered faintly.
"Loyal to death. If you run, they hunt you. If I help, he won't just kill me, he'll kill my sons, my grandchildren."
Her face paled; the fear was raw, the terror of a mortal facing a god.
"So you're a prisoner too," Elena whispered.
Maria straightened her apron.
"We are all prisoners of our choices," she said. "I chose safety for my family. Choose it for yours."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Elena called.
Maria paused.
"What happens now?" Elena asked. "What does he want from me?"
Maria's expression softened a fraction.
"Order. A wife who looks the part. One who fits his world."
She nodded toward the cherry-wood wardrobe.
"Clean up. Dress. He dislikes the nightgown—says it makes you look weak."
Maria stepped into the hallway. The door shut. The lock clicked.
Elena stared at it, hope draining away. Maria was no ally, she was merely another bar in the cage.
She turned to the wardrobe.
Pulling the brass handles, the doors swung open.
Elena gasped.
It was full.
Dresses in silk, velvet, cashmere. Blouses of finest cotton. Trousers, skirts, blazers.
Shelves held sweaters, delicate lingerie. Shoes lined the floor, heels, boots, flats—all designer, all new.
She touched a red silk dress. Cool, luxurious. The tag: her exact size.
Jeans: her size.
Shoes: her size.
She backed away, heart pounding.
"How?" she whispered.
He'd taken her only last night. No time to shop, to measure.
Unless he'd watched her far longer.
The thought crawled over her skin. Dante in some dark office, studying photos of her walking to class, knowing her sizes, her tastes.
This wasn't impulse. The debt was pretext. He'd selected her, curated the wardrobe, built the dollhouse and waited to place the doll.
Even the nightgown, he'd chosen everything.
He was erasing her old self: paint-smeared shirts, worn sneakers—replacing them with this curated uniform.
"I won't wear it," she gritted.
Yet in the wardrobe's full-length mirror, she saw herself: pale, small, vulnerable. A victim.
Maria's words echoed: It makes you look weak.
If she was to fight, she needed armor, not nakedness, not pajamas.
She selected black slacks and an oversized gray sweater being the most covering outfit available plus socks.
In the bathroom, she turned on the shower, not the tub. She wanted to scrub, not soak.
Stripping the nightgown, she kicked it aside. Under the hot spray, she scoured her skin pink with unscented milk-and-honey soap. She washed her hair, chasing away warehouse grime, fear's stench.
Careful around her leg: neat black stitches against pale skin—another mark of his control.
She dried with an impossibly plush towel, dressed swiftly. The clothes fit perfectly. Infuriating.
Brushing wet hair back, she studied the mirror.
Less ghostly now. Color in her cheeks. Dark clothes lent seriousness.
Back in the bedroom, restlessness surged. Walls closing in. She needed action like weakness to exploit.
At the window, she peered down: dogs gone, but a rifle-bearing guard patrolled.
Latch: locked, no keyhole likely magnetic, centrally controlled.
Bedside drawer: Bible, notepad, pen.
The pen was heavy, expensive.
Notepad blank.
Her hand hovered. Instinct: draw—sketch the room, the guard, the prison. Her way of processing.
But she refused to leave soul-fragments here.
Instead, she wrote one word: FREEDOM.
Stared. Then obliterated it with violent scribbles until paper tore.
Drawer slammed.
Bookshelf: classics Dickens, Tolstoy, Hemingway.
She pulled "The Count of Monte Cristo".
Inside cover inscription: To Dante. Patience is the key to revenge. - L.
Jagged handwriting. Lorenzo? Father? Friend?
She replaced it. No interest in humanizing him.
More pacing.
Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.
Isolation clawed her mind. Days? Weeks? Solitary until she shattered?
She sat on the bed's edge, leg bouncing.
Then a mechanical whir, a beep.
Elena leapt up.
From the door: deadbolt retracted with a loud thunk. Handle turned.
She backed toward the window. Maria? Dinner already?
The door opened.
No one.
"Hello?" she called.
Empty hallway: dark wood paneling, warm sconce light.
Door unlocked itself.
A test had to be she thought.
She stepped to the threshold.
Left: empty.
Right: empty.
No guards, dogs, Maria.
Just open door, silent house.
Heart hammering. Mistake? Security glitch?
Or trap? Waiting for her flight to justify punishment—consequences.
But one percent chance...
She crossed the threshold. Red carpet, gold-leaf pattern.
Distant sounds: clinking silverware, murmured voices downstairs.
She crept toward the grand staircase.
At the mezzanine railing, she peered down.
Empty foyer. Massive double oak doors calling freedom right there.
Down stairs, across marble, out...
Then gate, guards, dogs.
Maybe gate open for delivery? Shift change?
One step toward stairs.
She froze.
Eyes on her skin.
Above, opposite balcony: small black camera.
Lens aimed directly.
Red light blinked.
No accident.
He watched. Opened the door to test her obedience.
Anger surged, burning fear.
She gripped the railing, met the lens.
No running. No hiding.
Chin high, spine straight.
She turned from the stairs.
No satisfaction for him.
If he wanted her exploring the cage, she'd explore on her terms.
She walked the opposite hall, deeper into the house.
Past closed doors, portraits of stern dead men.
At hall's end: double doors ajar, flickering light spilling out.
Hesitation. Then she pushed them open.
A library, two stories, floor-to-ceiling shelves, rolling ladders. Crackling fire in massive stone hearth. Leather armchairs.
In one, back to her: a figure.
Cigar smoke curled. Whiskey glass beside him.
Elena froze.
He didn't turn, but his deep, amused voice drifted over the chair.
"I wondered how long you'd take to leave the room."
Slow drag on cigar.
"Forty-five minutes. Longer than expected. Cautious. I like that."
He rose, turning. Black shirt, slacks, crystal glass in hand. Firelight danced in gray eyes like a molten silver.
"Come in, Elena," he said, gesturing.
Not a request.
"We need to discuss the rules of your residency."
She stood in the doorway, gazing at the fire—at the man who owned fire, house, and now her.
She stepped inside.
The trap snapped shut.