Chapter 6
LUCA
The security feed from Giuliana’s suite plays across my office monitor in high definition, showing her standing at the window for the third time today, staring out at the grounds like a bird calculating the distance to freedom.
For the past week, I’ve watched her explore every inch of this house she’s allowed in.
But not to learn her new surroundings.
No, it’s with the precision of someone trying to figure out an escape plan.
She’s more crafty than I anticipated. Yesterday, she tested every door handle on the second floor under the guise of “getting lost.” This morning, I watched her examine the window latches while Maria changed the bedding, her fingers running along the frame like she was checking for weaknesses.
According to Danny, during her supervised evening walks in the garden, she’s been asking seemingly casual questions about the security staff—how many guards work each shift, when they change over, innocent-sounding queries that reveal she’s mapping our protocols.
“You’re watching her like she’s planning to assassinate you,” Danny says from behind me, his reflection appearing in the monitor screen, “not like she’s a grief-stricken woman missing her life.”
I don’t turn around. “She’s planning something.”
“She’s trying to survive.” Danny moves to stand beside my desk, his considerable frame casting a shadow across the keyboard. “There’s a difference, boss.”
The disapproval in his tone grates against my nerves like sandpaper. “Spit it out, Danny.”
“Dimitri got rough with her at the warehouse. Rougher than necessary.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “The bruising on her face is finally starting to fade, but I saw her wince when she reached for something at dinner last night. Pretty sure she’s got bruised ribs.”
I finally look up at him, noting the judgment in those green eyes. “She’s fine. A few bruises won’t kill her.”
Danny scowls. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” I’m already bored.
A muscle in Danny’s jaw jumps. “The point is she’s not a threat. She’s a veterinarian who saved injured animals for a living. Having Dimitri manhandle her like that was—”
“Necessary.” I close the laptop with more force than required. “She needed to understand the consequences of resistance. Dimitri provided that lesson efficiently.”
“Efficiently,” Danny repeats, the word heavy with disgust. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
I stand, adjusting my suit jacket to indicate I’m done with this conversation. “Your moral objections are noted and dismissed. Giuliana is here for a specific purpose, and if a few bruises help her understand her position, then they serve that purpose.”
Danny opens his mouth to argue further then thinks better of it. Smart man. Instead, he shifts his weight and changes the subject. “She’s asking about her father again. Every single meal, like clockwork.”
Typical. But if Danny thinks I’m going to cave then he has another thing coming. “And what do you tell her?”
“That he’s alive and being cared for. Same as you instructed.” He pauses. “How long are you planning to keep her from seeing him?”
“Until the alliance with Torrino is secured.” I move toward the door, already anticipating tonight’s dinner conversation.
“Antonio gets to spend these weeks knowing his daughter suffers because of him. And when the time comes for the final act, he’ll watch her die first. That’s when the lesson becomes complete. ”
“That’s cold, even for you.”
“That’s justice,” I remark. “Antonio Conti will lose everything he values before I end him. That’s what he deserves for what he took from me.”
At precisely seven o’clock, I enter the dining room where Giuliana already waits, wearing another dress I selected.
It’s emerald silk that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes.
The bruising along her left cheekbone has faded to a yellowish shadow, barely visible under whatever makeup Maria helped her apply.
But I notice the careful way she holds herself, the slight hesitation before she takes a full breath.
Dimitri’s enthusiasm definitely cracked at least one rib.
Good. Pain is an excellent teacher.
“Luca,” she says, not standing. A small act of defiance that amuses rather than angers me.
“Giuliana.” I settle into my chair at the head of the table as staff members appear to pour wine and serve the first course. Tonight it’s seared scallops with some reduction. The chef assured me it was exceptional. “You look lovely this evening.”
“How’s my father?”
Direct, as always. No small talk, no playing the game. I appreciate the efficiency even as I plan to use it against her.
“He’s being cared for,” is my response.
“That’s not an answer.” Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, and I note the white of her knuckles against the crystal. “I need to know if he’s okay. It’s been a week.”
“He’s alive.”
She leans forward. “Is he hurt? Is he being fed? Does he know I’m here?”
I neatly cut my scallop in half, letting the silence stretch between us like a wire pulled taut. “He knows you’re safe. That’s all he needs to know for now.”
Her face pinkens. “I want to see him,” she enunciates slowly.
“I’m aware,” I respond, mocking her cadence.
“Then let me. Please.” The word costs her something. I can see it in the tension of her jaw, the way her throat works around the syllables. Giuliana Conti doesn’t beg easily, which makes it all the more satisfying when she does.
“No.”
She sets down her wine glass carefully, too carefully, like she’s afraid she might shatter it otherwise. “What do I have to do to earn that privilege?”
“Stop looking for escape routes would be a start.” I meet her gaze across the table, watching her eyes widen slightly as she realizes I’ve been monitoring her activities. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you testing the windows? Timing the guard rotations? Mapping which doors are locked?”
Color rises in her cheeks—embarrassment or anger, possibly both. “I was just—”
“Planning.” I lean back in my chair, swirling wine in my glass. “You were planning, which suggests you haven’t fully accepted your situation yet.”
Red splotches appear on her face. “My situation is that I’m a prisoner.”
“Your situation is that you’re my fiancée. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She gestures around the opulent dining room with barely controlled fury. “Because from where I’m sitting, the gilded cage is still a cage.”
I allow myself a small smile. “At least you recognize it’s gilded. Some women would be grateful for the luxury.”
Giuliana scoffs. “Some women aren’t here because their fathers made mistakes that got innocent people killed.” She pauses, and I see her gathering courage for the next question. “Last week, you mentioned Viktor Torrino. You said I needed to play the devoted fiancée for a territorial alliance.”
I acknowledge my head. “I did.”
“Why does a territorial alliance require a wife? Why not just negotiate like normal businessmen?”
The question reveals more intelligence than I expected from someone in her position.
Most people, terrified and desperate, wouldn’t think to question the underlying power dynamics.
But Giuliana’s mind is still looking for leverage even when she has none.
“Viktor Torrino is old school,” I explain, deciding there’s no harm in her understanding the politics that will govern her life. “He values tradition and family connections. A marriage demonstrates stability, long-term commitment, the kind of alliance that can’t be easily dissolved.”
“So I’m a political prop,” she says flatly.
“You’re a symbol of my commitment to creating a legacy that lasts rather than just accumulating power.
” She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze distant.
“Viktor has been consolidating territory on the North Side while I control distribution channels. Together, we create a monopoly that’s essentially untouchable by law enforcement or rival families. ”
“And when the alliance is secure?” Her gaze is sharp now and on me, those expressive eyes narrowed.
There’s a pregnant pause. She’s asking about her future, about whether she has one beyond her political usefulness. Smart girl.
“Then you’ll have served your purpose,” I say, because cruelty is the point of this entire exercise.
I need her to understand that hope is a luxury she can’t afford. But she doesn’t need to know just yet my final plan for her.
I need her to think whatever she wants until I snuff out her pathetic life.
But something flickers in her expression.
Not fear, not despair, but something else.
Like she’s filing away this information for later use.
Like she’s already figured out what I’m not saying.
“Access to veterinary journals,” she says suddenly, changing tactics. “You won’t let me see my animals, you won’t let me contact anyone from my previous life. But veterinary journals are just educational material. There’s no security risk.”
She’s already asked this. “No.”
She slams a hand on the table in frustration. “Why not? What possible threat could medical journals pose?”
“The threat isn’t the journals themselves.” I set down my wine glass and lean forward. “The threat is you maintaining any connection to who you were before. Every skill you keep sharp, every piece of your old identity you preserve, makes you harder to control.”
“So you want to erase me completely.”
“I want you to understand something, Giuliana.” I’m getting tired of her piss poor attempts at negotiation.
“Every skill you preserve, every connection you maintain to your old life, is a threat to the control I need. So no—no journals, no phone calls, no pieces of who you were. That version of you is a luxury neither of us can afford.”
She flinches as if I’ve struck her, and I feel smug.
This is what Antonio Conti’s betrayal has earned his daughter.
A slow, methodical dismantling of everything she was, everything she hoped to be.