Chapter 5 Giuliana
GIULIANA
The driver is a silent man in his fifties with silver hair and the kind of face that’s seen too much to be surprised by anything.
He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t make small talk.
He just holds the door open and waits for me to climb in with my single suitcase.
I spent most of last night packing and repacking that suitcase, trying to decide what parts of my old life I could fit into one bag.
Clothes, obviously.
My mother’s locket.
The worn copy of All Creatures Great and Small that made me want to become a veterinarian in the first place.
Photos of happier times.
But everything I left behind—my furniture, my books, the coffee maker that only worked if you hit it just right—feels like pieces of myself being amputated.
The legal documents arrived via email at midnight, sent by someone named Robert Callahan, Esq., whose email signature included about fifteen different credentials and a law firm name that my frantic googling had shown they defend corporations from fraud charges.
I’d sat at my kitchen table, staring at the screen of my laptop, reading clause after clause that essentially signed away my autonomy.
The party of the second part (hereafter referred to as “the Wife”) agrees to reside at the primary residence of the party of the first part...
The Wife acknowledges that all financial assets, property, and future earnings shall be subject to the discretion of the party of the first part...
The Wife consents to reasonable restrictions on communications and travel as deemed necessary for security purposes...
“Reasonable restrictions.” The phrase had made me laugh, a sound that came out more like a sob. There was nothing reasonable about any of this.
But I’d signed.
Clicked the little boxes, typed my name in the designated fields, watched the documents process and disappear into whatever legal void makes contracts binding.
At 12:55 a.m., I became Luca Marchetti’s property in every way that Chicago’s particular interpretation of marriage law would allow.
Now, watching the city move past me through tinted windows, I wonder if Dad is still alive.
The thought has been circling my brain since I woke up this morning.
Is he okay?
Are they feeding him?
Has Luca hurt him more, or is the beating from a few nights ago the extent of his punishment?
The questions multiply with each passing mile, and I have no way to get answers.
The drive takes forty minutes, heading north along the lake until the city gives way to sprawling estates hidden behind walls and ancient trees.
When we finally turn through a set of iron gates that look like they could stop a tank, my stomach drops.
The Marchetti estate isn’t a home—it’s a fortress disguised as a mansion.
Twenty-foot walls surround the property, topped with razor wire that gleams in the morning sun.
Security cameras swivel to track our progress as we drive up a winding road lined with manicured hedges.
Armed guards in dark suits stand at regular intervals, their hands resting casually near concealed weapons.
Each one turns to watch as we pass, their eyes assessing me with the look of wolves evaluating fresh meat.
The main house looms at the end of the drive.
It’s three stories of gray stone and tall windows, beautiful in the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Elegant. Imposing. Utterly devoid of warmth.
The driver parks in a circular courtyard dominated by a fountain featuring some Greek god I don’t recognize, opens my door, and gestures for me to follow him.
My legs feel shaky as I climb out, and every movement sends a dull ache through my ribs.
I clutch my suitcase like it’s a life preserver.
A man approaches from the direction of the house, and even without introduction, I know this must be someone important in Luca’s organization.
He carries himself with the kind of authority that comes from power, not just physical strength.
He’s fucking huge, maybe six feet five inches tall and probably two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle beneath a well-fitting charcoal suit.
His brown hair is buzzed close to his skull, military-style, and his green eyes study me with an expression that manages to be both kind and utterly professional.
Then his gaze catches on my face—the split lip, the bruise across my cheekbone—and something flashes in those jade eyes.
Horror?
Regret?
It’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it, his expression smoothing into careful neutrality.
“Dr. Conti.” His voice is a low rumble that probably sounds soothing when he’s not explaining the terms of your captivity. “Welcome to the Marchetti estate. I’m Danny Grasso. I work for Mr. Marchetti. I’ll be showing you around and explaining how things work here.”
“Where’s my father?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “Is he okay? Can I see him?”
Danny’s expression softens slightly, which somehow makes everything worse. “Your father is safe and being cared for. Mr. Marchetti will discuss visitation arrangements with you at an appropriate time.”
That was zero help whatsoever and the noncommittal answer makes me feel sick. “What does that mean?” I demand. “I need to know if he’s—”
“He’s alive and his injuries are being treated,” Danny says firmly, cutting off my rising panic. “That’s all I can tell you right now. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He turns and walks toward the house, leaving me no choice but to trail behind him like an obedient dog.
I try to keep pace despite the ache in my ribs, not wanting to show weakness.
The front doors are massive things, probably ten feet tall and made of dark wood carved with intricate patterns.
They swing open as we approach, and I catch a glimpse of someone in a dark suit pulling them from the inside.
Another guard, another set of eyes tracking my every movement.
I want to cower.
I only remember the impossible size of the man who beat me two nights ago, his smaller features lost to me.
Is that him?
Is he here?
The thought frightens me.
The entry hall takes my breath away despite my fear.
Black and white marble floors stretch toward a sweeping double staircase that curves up to the second floor.
Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted with some elaborate fresco of clouds and angels.
Original oil paintings line the walls, looking like something that belongs in museums, not private homes.
“The estate covers twenty acres,” Danny explains as we walk, his footsteps echoing on the marble. “The main house has forty-two rooms, including your private suite. There’s a gym, a pool, a library, and extensive gardens. You’ll have access to most areas, with certain exceptions.”
We pass through hallways lined with more priceless art, rooms furnished with antiques that probably have historical significance I’m too terrified to appreciate.
Everything is beautiful and cold.
A dentist’s office is more inviting than this.
“Here are the rules.” Danny stops in front of another set of doors.
His voice takes on a bureaucratic tone that makes my skin crawl.
“No phone calls to the outside world. No internet access except under direct supervision in the library, and all browsing will be monitored. No leaving the estate grounds without armed escort. No contact whatsoever with your previous life—that includes friends, colleagues, or anyone from before.”
My breath catches. “You can’t just—people don’t do this anymore,” I sputter, unable to get my thoughts together. “This is kidnapping.”
My ribs throb as my breathing picks up. The bruises Luca’s man gave me are a constant reminder of what happens when I fight back.
“This is marriage,” Danny corrects, his voice not unkind. “According to the documents you signed last night, Mr. Marchetti has legal authority over household security decisions. Everything I’ve described falls within his rights as your husband.”
“We’re not married yet,” I shoot back. What did I get myself into?
Danny raises a heavy brow. “The legal paperwork is filed. The ceremony is a formality.” He opens the doors, revealing a living room bigger than my entire apartment was. “Your suite is on the second floor. Maria will show you up and help you get settled.”
A woman materializes from a side hallway—late thirties, maybe, with black hair pulled back in a severe bun.
She’s wearing a simple black dress that indicates she’s part of the “domestic staff” and her dark eyes roam over me with something that might be sympathy.
Her gaze lingers on my bruised face for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, and I see her lips purse almost imperceptibly.
Then she smooths her expression into professional blankness.
“Ms. Conti,” she says, her accent placing her somewhere in Eastern Europe. “I am Maria. I will be attending to your needs. Please, follow me.”
Danny’s phone rings before I can protest.
He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, and steps away to answer. “Yes, boss?”
It’s Luca. I strain to hear the conversation, desperate for any information about what’s happening.
What is he is planning?
Is my father really okay?
“She just arrived,” Danny says, his voice low, his back to me as he walks a few feet away. He rocks his weight to the balls of his feet as he listens to Luca. “Yes, I’ve explained the rules.” A pause. “She’s not going anywhere. Does she really need to be locked in?”
My heart stutters. Locked in.
They’re going to lock me in my room like a prisoner.
Like something to be caged and contained.
Danny listens to whatever response Luca gives, and his shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh that tells me everything I need to know about the answer.
When he turns back to me, his expression is carefully neutral.
“Maria will show you to your room.” His eyes move toward Maria as an indication I should follow her. “Dinner is at seven. Mr. Marchetti expects you to join him.”
It’s not a request.
Maria gestures toward the staircase, and I follow her on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.