Chapter 3
The cage is beautiful, but it’s still a cage.
Twenty minutes. That's what he gave me before the judge arrives.
Twenty minutes to "prepare myself" while he handles whatever bloodshed we left at the cathedral.
The elevator ride to his penthouse felt like ascending to my execution, Tommy driving us here in silence before returning to deal with the chaos below.
Now I stand in the center of what must be the living room, turning slowly to take in the impossible luxury surrounding me.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across three walls, Chicago sprawling below like a kingdom I'll never touch again.
My wedding dress, grandmother's dress, hangs in tatters around me, torn lace trailing as I move toward the glass.
Bulletproof. Of course it's bulletproof. My fist bounces off without even leaving a mark.
The sprawling penthouse unfolds before me in vertical opulence.
Italian marble beneath my bare feet, cold and unforgiving.
Paintings that belong in museums, not private homes.
A kitchen that could feed fifty, though I doubt he hosts dinner parties.
Every surface gleams with the kind of perfection that money can't just buy. It commands.
I clutch Mother's rosary tighter, the wooden beads my only anchor in this sea of excess. Her prayers couldn't save her from this world. They won't save me either. But the familiar weight in my palm keeps me from shattering completely.
The elevator requires a keycard. The one beside it, marked SERVICE, requires the same.
I try both anyway, pressing the call button until my finger aches.
Nothing. The stairs I finally locate are behind a door that won't budge no matter how hard I pull.
Even the terrace door, leading to what must be a spectacular view, remains locked.
Forty floors up. No way down except through him.
The silence stretches as I start exploring systematically.
Twenty minutes isn't enough time to search properly, but I try.
My stomach growls, but I won't eat his food.
Won't drink his water. Won't use anything in this prison that isn't absolutely necessary.
My throat burns with thirst, but I ignore it.
This is the only control I have left: what I allow into my body.
The silence presses against my ears. No traffic sounds penetrate the bulletproof glass. No voices from other apartments. Just me and the soft hum of climate control, recycling the same trapped air over and over.
By the time I've searched what I can reach, I know he'll return any moment.
The master bedroom with its California king and silk sheets I'll never touch.
Guest rooms that have never hosted guests.
A library lined with first editions that makes my heart jump.
A gym that smells of his sweat and violence.
Each room more beautiful than the last. Each room another bar in my cage.
In his office, I notice the details that scream mafia more than wealth. A map of Chicago with territories marked in red, a photo of him with his brothers all in dark suits at what looks like a funeral, a crystal decanter with amber liquid that probably sealed blood deals.
The Irish won't take this quietly. Blood will spill because of me. Whatever happened at the cathedral after he carried me out, his brothers positioned like soldiers, Dante's hand on Liam's throat, the chaos erupting as we left, it's only the beginning.
The Ming vase is in my hands before I realize I've picked it up. Some dynasty, some century, probably priceless. The weight feels good. Solid. Real.
I hurl it at the wall with every ounce of rage in my body.
The shatter is magnificent. Porcelain explodes across marble, thousand-year-old pottery becoming worthless shards. The sound echoes through the penthouse, sharp and final. For one glorious second, I've destroyed something of his.
"Feel better?"
I spin. He's leaning against the doorframe, watching me with those dark eyes. How long has he been there? How did I not hear him enter? There's a speck of blood on his white cuff. Someone else's blood from whatever happened after he left me here.
"I'll break everything in this place," I promise, already reaching for another priceless object.
"Break whatever you want." He pushes off the doorframe, moving toward me with that predator's grace. "I'll just buy more."
The casual dismissal of my destruction makes me want to scream. Of course he can buy more. Men like him always can. Why does his casual wealth make my stomach flutter when it should disgust me?
I back away, but there's nowhere to go. He's between me and the door, and the windows at my back might as well be prison bars.
"You've been watching." It's not a question. There must be cameras everywhere. "Watching me like some caged animal in your private zoo."
"Always watching," he confirms, still approaching. "Did you really think I'd bring you here and not monitor every move?"
His cologne hits me as he gets closer. Bergamot and something darker, more dangerous. The scent overwhelms my senses, makes my head swim. I press back against the bulletproof glass, wishing I could melt through it, fall forty floors, end this before it really begins.
He stops just out of reach, studying me. "You didn't eat."
"I'll starve first."
"No, you won't." His certainty makes my skin crawl. "You're too smart for that. Too practical. You'll fight me, principessa, but you won't destroy yourself to do it."
I hate that he's right. Hate that he knows me well enough to predict my limits. "How long have you been planning this?"
"Long enough." He reaches past me, his body caging mine without quite touching, and adjusts something on the window.
The tint changes, darkening the glass until the city disappears.
Now it's just us, reflected endlessly in the black mirror.
"The judge will be here any moment. Just as the afternoon light turns golden. "
My blood turns to ice. "What judge?"
"The one who'll make you mine in every way that matters. Legal. Binding. Forever."
The judge looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
His hands shake as he arranges papers on the coffee table, not meeting my eyes.
Smart man. He knows what kind of monster he's serving today.
Knows this is family business, the kind that ends in blood or bondage.
Not a priest. Luca found someone more flexible with morality than Father Molina would ever be.
"I won't do it." I stand rigid beside the window, as far from them as I can get. "I won't say the vows."
Marco crosses to me in three strides. The gun appears in his hand like magic, cold barrel kissing my temple with deadly intimacy. His body presses against my back, solid and inescapable. I hate that I can feel every ridge of muscle through his suit, hate that his scent makes my pulse race.
"You will," he growls against my ear, his breath hot on my neck.
The judge gasps, crosses himself. But he doesn't leave. Doesn't protest. Just clutches his legal documents tighter and waits for his cue. Everyone in Chicago knows better than to defy Marco Rosetti.
"Begin," Marco orders.
The judge's voice quavers through the opening words. Legal language mixed with ceremony, sacred vows profaned by the gun at my head. I try to focus on Mother's presence watching me, but all I can feel is cold steel against my skin and the heat of Marco's body caging mine.
"Do you, Marco Antonio Rosetti, take this woman…"
"I do." His voice doesn't waver. The gun doesn't move.
The judge turns to me, sweat beading on his forehead. "Do you, Valentina…"
I spit in Marco's face.
His free hand shoots out, tangling in my hair, yanking my head back. The gun presses harder. I focus on the gun, not on how his fingers feel tangled in my hair, not on the heat of his body pressed against mine.
"Say. It." Each word drops between us like a stone. "Or I'll have sweet little Alice here within the hour. Would you like to watch her take your place at this altar? She's only nineteen, principessa. Still believes in fairy tales."
The image flashes through my mind. Alice in grandmother's dress, Alice with Marco's ring, Alice trapped in this gilded cage. My baby sister who still uses strawberry shampoo.
My breath catches. He wouldn't. But looking into his eyes, I know he would. There's nothing he wouldn't do to get what he wants.
"She does," I whisper.
"That's not how it works," the judge protests weakly.
"It is today." Marco's grip in my hair tightens. "Continue."
The rest blurs together. The judge rushing through the ceremony, desperate to escape.
Marco forcing my left hand open, prying my fingers apart one by one while the gun stays steady at my temple.
The ring slides on easily. The metal is warm from his pocket, the weight of it immediately foreign on my finger.
I try to pull away but his grip turns punishing, holding my hand up so the diamonds catch the light.
"Perfect fit," he murmurs, thumb stroking over the band like he's sealing it to my skin. "As I knew it would be."
Papers produced, signed, witnessed by the judge who keeps crossing himself.
The ring is beautiful. Of course it is. Platinum band with diamonds that catch the light like trapped stars. I hate that it's beautiful. Hate that some traitorous part of me wants to admire how perfectly it fits.
The judge practically runs for the elevator once it's done. Marco doesn't lower the gun until we hear the elevator descending. Only then does he release my hair, step back, tuck the weapon away like it was never there.
"That wasn't legal," I say, voice hoarse. "Forced at gunpoint…"