Chapter 11 Giuliana
GIULIANA
I’m losing my mind.
The realization doesn’t come as a shock anymore.
It’s been building ever since Luca caught me in his private office and revoked my garden privileges as punishment.
How long has it been now?
Five days?
That sounds right.
Five days confined to my suite with nothing but my tortured thoughts and the four walls closing in around me.
Five days of pacing the same thirty-foot circuit until I’ve worn an invisible track in the Persian rug.
Five days of staring at the ceiling, counting the decorative moldings—forty-seven—and the crystals in the chandelier—two hundred and thirty-eight—because my mind needs something, anything, to focus on besides the spiraling panic.
Five days of eating meals I don’t taste, restless sleeping plagued by nightmares, watching the hours blur together until I can’t remember if it’s Tuesday or Friday or if time even matters anymore.
I haven’t seen Luca since that confrontation in his study.
The one where I asked what happens to me after the alliance is secure and he deflected the question, which told me everything I needed to know about my lack of guaranteed survival.
It was also the one where he stood close enough that some traitorous part of me responded despite knowing better.
Since then, nothing. Just isolation and silence and the slow dissolution of my sanity.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump.
The lock clicks, and a new maid enters.
She’s younger than Maria, probably early-twenties, and she reminds me of a skittish foal.
She’s been bringing my meals for the past few days, always moving quickly and leaving as fast as possible.
“Your breakfast, miss,” she says quietly, setting the tray on the table by the window.
I watch her from where I’ve stopped mid-pace, noting the way she keeps glancing at me like I might shatter if she looks too long.
Maybe I will. Maybe I already have.
“Is Maria alright?” I hear myself ask. I haven’t seen her in days and it worries me.
The maid’s hands still on the tray. Her face goes pale. “I…I don’t know, miss.”
But she does know. I can see it in the fear written across her features, in how quickly she backs toward the door.
Something terrible happened to Maria. But I’m also not surprised. She had to know that was a possibility. Especially once I said something to Danny. I honestly thought it had been a test at first. A test by Luca to see if I would try to escape at the first opportunity.
“She was stupid,” I continue, my voice sounding strange and distant in my own ears.
“To think Romano’s offer was real. Or that anyone in this world keeps their promises.
” I swallow hard. “Or maybe she wasn’t stupid.
Maybe she was just desperate enough to believe in rescue, even from someone who’d probably kill her at a moment’s notice. ”
The maid practically flees, and I’m alone again.
I don’t touch breakfast. I haven’t had much appetite lately. Instead, I return to my pacing, counting steps this time because my mind is fragmenting and I need the structure, need the numbers, need something concrete to hold onto.
One. Two. Three. Four. From the bed to the window. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. From the window to the door. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. From the door to the bathroom. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen—
The lock clicks again.
I freeze mid-step, my heart lurching into my throat. The maid returning? Luca? Or has the moment finally come with whatever fate awaits when my usefulness expires?
But it’s Danny who enters, his green eyes sweeping the room.
He takes in the untouched breakfast tray, the rumpled bed, me standing frozen in the middle of the room with my hair uncombed and still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He looks…concerned?
“Dr. Conti,” he says carefully, and I realize I must look as unhinged as I feel. “How are you doing?”
The laugh that escapes me sounds manic even to my own ears.
“How do you think I’m doing, Danny? I’ve been locked in this room for five days.
I’m counting ceiling fixtures and wearing paths in the carpet, and I can’t remember what day it is or whether my father is even still alive. How the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
Danny raises an eyebrow, and I can’t bring myself to care. I used to not swear this much, but apparently captivity is eroding more than just my sanity.
His expression softens, and he takes a cautious step closer, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “The boss noticed you weren’t doing well,” he says gently. “He’s reinstating your garden walks.”
“Reinstating.” The word sounds foreign. “How generous of him to return a privilege he took away as punishment for…what was it again? Looking at photographs in an unlocked room?” I say sarcastically.
Danny holds up his hands. “I’m not here to defend his decisions,” he says quietly. “I’m just here to offer you a way out of this room.”
I stare at him, looking for the trap, the angle, the catch that makes this more cruelty disguised as mercy. But Danny’s expression is genuine, his concern evident.
“Fresh air,” I say flatly. “That’s the mercy? Supervised walks in a garden surrounded by twenty-foot walls?”
“It’s something,” Danny replies. “More than these four walls.” He pauses, shifting his weight in a way that suggests he’s about to say something he might regret.
“And…we get injured birds on the estate sometimes. They fly into the windows. Hawks, sparrows, whatever. They usually just die in the bushes. But if you wanted to treat them, I could arrange for basic supplies.”
I blink at him, not understanding. “Birds?”
Danny looks uncomfortable, blowing out a breath. “You’re a vet. You need something to do besides count ceiling fixtures. The estate has plenty of injured birds that could use help.” His voice is careful. “Seems like a practical use of your skills.”
“Luca approved this?” The question comes out sharp, disbelieving.
“He said to keep you functional,” Danny replies, which isn’t exactly an answer. “Fresh air, purposeful work—that falls under keeping you functional.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes me think this bird rehabilitation idea might not have come from Luca at all. Somehow I think Danny might be stretching a vague instruction into something more humane than his boss intended.
But I’m too desperate to question it too closely.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask instead. Shut up, Gigi! “Why help me?”
Danny’s throat bobs. “Because someone should,” he finally says in a low voice. “And because well, watching you count ceiling fixtures until you lose your mind doesn’t sit right with me, orders or no orders.” He looks up, discomfort radiating off him in waves.
The admission that he’s going against what he thinks Luca wants, even in this small way makes me want to cry.
“Thank you,” I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Danny says, but his voice is kind. “Just take the offer, Dr. Conti. Get some air. Find something to focus on besides these four walls. That’s all I’m asking.”
I should refuse and tell Danny I don’t need scraps of unauthorized kindness. I should maintain my dignity and my defiance.
But I’m so tired. So broken. And the thought of leaving this room, of having something to do besides count and pace and spiral—it’s more tempting than I want to admit.
“Okay,” I manage to say. “Okay. Yes.”
I’m in the garden for the first time in five days, and it feels like coming up for air after nearly drowning.
The October afternoon is cool and overcast, threatening rain but holding off for now.
The gardens stretched out before me, meticulously designed with geometric symmetry.
The hedges are trimmed to perfection, with imported stone paths winding neatly through flower beds curated with deliberate elegance.
Even nature here is controlled, dominated, forced into submission.
Just like me.
But it’s outside. It’s air and space and the absence of those four walls that have been suffocating me.
Cruz, the young guard who used to escort my evening walks, stands a respectful distance away.
He nods at me but doesn’t speak.
He just maintains his professional surveillance while I try to remember how to breathe normally.
I wander the stone paths aimlessly at first, just moving, just existing in space that isn’t my prison while clutching a bag of medical supplies that Danny procured for me and a carrier for any birds I spot.
The garden smells like dying leaves and damp earth, autumn settling over Chicago.
In another life, this would be my favorite time of year.
Now it just marks time passing—weeks of captivity stacking up with no end in sight.
That’s when I see it.
A sparrow, small and brown, huddled beneath one of the carefully trimmed hedges.
One wing is extended at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.
It’s trying to hide, to make itself small and invisible, but I can see the rapid rise and fall of its tiny chest, the fear and pain written in every trembling feather.
Creatures as trapped as I am.
I exhale. “Oh.”
I kneel beside it slowly, my hands moving with the muscle memory of hundreds of similar situations.
The bird tries to flutter away but can’t, the broken wing making flight impossible.
It’s trapped here, dependent on mercy it has no reason to expect.
Just like me.
The psychological pressure of captivity is breaking me in ways I didn’t anticipate.
It’s not the physical restrictions or even the fear for my future that’s cracking my composure.
No, it’s the emotional whiplash.
The way Luca treats me.
The memory of his hands on me, rough and desperate, that I can’t stop replaying despite my self-disgust.
I’m falling apart, and there’s no one here to catch me.
“Hi there,” I murmur to the sparrow, stroking its head with one gentle finger as tears track down my cheeks. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I feel bad for lying to the bird.
Nothing here is safe.
Not the bird, not me, not whatever fragile grasp on sanity I’m desperately trying to maintain.
“Talking to yourself, or to the bird?”