Chapter 3
Cecilia
The next evening, I eat in silence at the long, lonely table where my father and I usually dine.
It’s an effort to swallow, the tang of anxiety replacing all other flavors.
Too much has happened since yesterday. Instead of giving me peace of mind, seeing my stalker, confirming he wasn’t just a product of my imagination, has somehow made things worse.
He’s a real threat now, a predator who could be pacing the basement underneath my feet as we speak. Or not—I still don’t know if the man I saw at the recital is the same one who broke into our backyard.
Either way, I’m about to find out.
“I’ll be out in ten,” Cesare’s commanding voice rips through the silence as he appears in the arched doorway.
We were supposed to have dinner together, like we always do when Father is away.
He says a girl my age shouldn’t be spending most of her time alone, cooped up in her room with no one to talk to.
Don’t I know it…
“Cazzo! Please, forgive me for being so late. Had a bunch of shit to take care of.” Cesare unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat next to me, unwrapping a napkin and placing it in his lap.
“How are you? Feeling any better?” He throws me a kind, familiar smile that melts a little tension from my shoulders.
The cutlery clinks softly against my porcelain plate as I put it down. “I’ve been looking for you all day. A text would’ve been nice.”
He throws me an apologetic look as a second plate of food arrives. “I know, I’m sorry. But I’m here now. Talk to me—how has your day been? Heard Giuseppina made tiramisu.”
I blink, watching him pick up the knife and fork. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” he asks.
“You’re making small talk when you know very well I need answers about last night.”
Silence floats between us. His jaw tightens before he cuts into his steak—hurriedly, like he’s either nervous about something or he’s needed somewhere else.
“Have you told Father about what happened?” I insist.
This time, he nods, chewing. “Yes. He was relieved to know you were safe.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. My father’s tight leash around my throat isn’t meant to protect me.
It’s all about control, about making sure I don’t step out of line, like I’m some dog he’s worried will chew up the furniture.
I think, in part, Cesare knows that, but even so, you’ll never hear him say a bad word about his Don.
He’s a well-groomed consigliere, after all.
“So, is he coming back from Rome then?” I ask.
“He will be. Soon.”
Each word from him feels like pulling teeth. Frustration squeezes my throat, making my feet restless. I uncross my legs and then cross them again, pausing to gather myself. Impatience is never in my best interest, Ms. Donatello taught me.
“The prisoner,” I drawl, pinning him down with my gaze, leaning slightly forward in my seat. “Has he talked? Did he say who he is or what he wants?”
Cesare’s hands pause cutting the meat, turning to the side as he looks out into the hallway, as if to check for anyone who might hear us. Then, he resumes eating. “We’re still working on it. You know these things take time.”
I frown. “Still, you must have discovered something.”
His lips form a thin, regretful line. “You want answers, I know…but your father said—”
“My father said…? Is that why you’re not telling me anything? He forbade you?”
He looks away pensively, discomfort swarming in those blue eyes.
It’s always between me and his Don. In our world, dark, twisted loyalty to the man who holds all the cards trumps everything else, so I should expect it.
But when it comes to Cesare, sometimes, I just want to close my eyes and pretend he isn’t working for the Cosa Nostra.
“I’m very sorry,” he sighs. “Can we please drop it and talk about something else?”
I can’t believe him…
For a split second, my nostrils flare, and then I remember the walls have ears before I shout something I might regret. I’ve been playing this role for too many years to let my mask slip. So, I swallow the hurt, like always.
I lean back in my chair, my shoulders heavy with disappointment. “I thought you trusted me.”
“I do trust you—it’s not about that, and you know it. It’s about following direct orders not to involve you in any of this. If he hadn’t asked that of me, of course I would’ve told you. Please,” he says softly, like it hurts him, “don’t ask me to betray him like this.”
I shake my head in disbelief. A lump forms in my throat, and I wish there was something I could say to convince him.
On the one hand, I understand Cesare. He was an orphan my father plucked out of the system.
He practically raised him, saved him from a life of abuse, and Cesare feels like he owes him everything.
On the other hand, I can’t help but feel a tang of resentment. For once, I just wish someone made me their priority.
As I sit here, pondering my feelings, Bruno, his driver, enters the dining room. Cesare leaves his napkin on the table, pushing his chair back with a faint groan.
“Sadly, I have to cut our dinner short tonight. Again, I’m…sorry,” Cesare tells me, wincing at the word he’s already used twice since he arrived. “I mean it. This sucks—I suck. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Bene?”
I shrug, watching him. “You seem to be sorry about a lot of things lately.”
I don’t miss the subtle flinch of his eyes, as if my words wound him.
This whole thing wounds me too, but I refuse to feel anything other than anger right now.
Maybe this way, he’ll come to his senses.
I’ve been losing too much sleep and sanity over my stalker to pretend like he isn’t hurting me more by keeping me in the dark.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Cesare tells me. “There was a problem with a shipment, and I’m needed at the docks. Text me if you need anything, alright? Enzo!” he calls out, and a guard comes running after a few moments. “I’m leaving you in charge while I’m gone.”
“Yes, sir,” Enzo says, then looks at me and nods.
Cesare mutters something else to him, quietly, as if he doesn’t want me to hear. I make up the words ‘her’ and ‘basement’, and I grimace, my mind constructing the rest of the sentence for me. He’s ordering him not to let me out of his sight so I don’t seek out the new prisoner.
My eyebrows shoot up. I hadn’t even considered doing that, though I’m surprised Cesare thought I’d be willing to attempt sneaking out. Not because I wouldn’t want to, but because there would be consequences if I were caught.
One of the few times I stood my ground against my father, he slapped me, locked up my study, and kept me in my room with no food for two days. It wasn’t the hunger that made me weep, but that he had no problem being away from me for that long, especially since we had just lost my mother.
Within minutes, Bruno and Cesare are gone, and I remain alone at the table with more questions than answers. The steak has gone cold, and I’ve completely lost my appetite.
It’s in that moment my gaze unintentionally wanders to my right, where the hallway is. I know where that leads—to the basement and the tunnels sprawling from it.
My pulse quickens as the unknown calls out to me. The house seems to thrum with its own heartbeat, much like a sentient giant wanting to trust me with its darkest secret: the identity of the man it holds there.
Between the narrow walls of that corridor, specks of dust float in the dying sunlight, marking the path to the forbidden door with eerie calmness. It’s like a meadow adorned with flowers, a deer’s paradise before the wolf comes out of the shadows and snatches her.
I can’t go down there. Of course, I can’t.
Cesare would feel furious—betrayed. And my father… God, if he found out…
And yet, I still find myself standing, taking a few unsure steps in that direction.
“Everything alright?” Enzo asks, reminding me he’s here.
I turn to him, taking him in—his bulky form and the gun tucked into the waist of his jeans.
He’s a young guard, closer in age to me than any other.
Not to say that he’s gullible, because he’s not, but if there’s something in it for him, he’ll usually bend the rules a little when asked.
Cesare should’ve picked someone else for the job.
“Sure, yeah,” I say, sucking in a breath.
“You don’t look fine.” He frowns, taking a step forward. “My girl goes pale like you when she hears gunshots.”
“Y-Your girl, as in Isabella, the one you met two months ago?”
He nods, his mouth twisting with a proud smile. “Sì, that’s her.”
I shouldn’t know that about him—the guards aren’t supposed to talk to me about their lives, but Enzo never shuts up during my therapy or piano practice drives, filling my ears with things about his love life, soccer, and his protein shakes. Thank God.
“I’m fine, Enzo. Really. But since you mentioned her, are you still meeting Isabella on Thursday morning?”
“Nah. I’m supposed to take you to your piano practice. Tried to get Bruno to take you, but he’ll be with Cesare.”
God. Am I really doing this?
Maybe this is wrong.
Maybe I should listen to Cesare and stay away from that basement.
Then again, I’ve been listening to men all my life, and all it seems to be getting me is an unwanted marriage contract. I’m tired of being in the dark about everything, tired of letting others decide the trajectory of my existence like I’m nothing…
“Well,” I say, offering a small shrug, “if you help me out with something tonight, maybe I can help you back.”
“How?” Enzo’s question is hesitant, careful, but it’s also curious. And it’s enough to tell me if I press the right buttons, he’ll cave.
He’ll help me get what I want.