Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Alessia
"You belong to me now, principessa. What happens to you will be decided by me alone."
The words echo in the darkness long after the door closes, each syllable settling into my bones like ice. I'm alone now with the shadows and the weight of my own fear, trying to process what just happened.
Matteo Romano. Il Diavolo himself.
I should be terrified—and I am—but there's something else threading through the fear. Something I don't want to examine too closely. The way he looked at me, the way his voice dropped when he called me principessa, the controlled power that seemed to radiate from him like heat.
Focus, Alessia.
Survival first, complicated feelings later.
I test the zip ties around my wrists again, feeling the plastic bite into my skin. They're tight, professionally applied. Whoever tied these knows what they're doing. The chair I'm bound to is heavy, bolted to the floor—no chance of tipping it over or dragging it anywhere useful.
My eyes are adjusting to the dim light seeping under the door, and I can make out more of my surroundings now.
The space feels like a converted warehouse—concrete walls, industrial fixtures, nothing designed for comfort.
Cold, impersonal, a room meant for control rather than living.
No windows that I can see, just the single door he disappeared through.
But I'm not completely alone.
Voices drift from somewhere beyond the door—male, speaking in low tones that suggest they think I can't hear them. I strain to catch fragments.
"...boss says no one touches her..."
"...just water and food..."
"...wait for orders before anything..."
So I'm protected, at least for now. Whatever Matteo Romano wants from me, it requires me to be alive and unmarked. That's something, I suppose.
I catalog everything I can see, every detail that might be useful later.
Two guards, from the sound of it, probably armed.
The door opens outward—I caught that when they entered.
Industrial lighting overhead, controlled by switches somewhere I can't reach.
The faint smell of motor oil and something chemical, like cleaning supplies.
Of course, this is professional—I figured that out the second I saw Matteo Romano's face. But knowing something and feeling its full weight are different things. Here, trapped and alone, the reality of what I'm truly up against settles into my bones.
The thought makes my stomach clench. How long before someone realizes I'm missing? Don Emilio expects me back for the memorial, but that was probably hours ago now. He'll assume I ran, maybe. Or he'll start asking questions I can't afford to have answered.
Either way, I'm on my own.
Like always.
The familiar weight of isolation settles over me like an old coat, and with it come the memories I've been trying so hard to keep buried. Forty-five days of playing the grieving widow, of spinning lies and maintaining facades, of living in constant fear that someone will discover the truth.
And now I'm here, in the hands of Lorenzo's enemies, and all those carefully constructed lies might finally be crumbling around me.
The sound of the door opening snaps me back to the present, back to the warehouse room and the zip ties cutting into my wrists.
I blink hard, pushing away the memories, the phantom taste of blood and fear.
Two guards enter, different ones from before, but cut from the same cloth. Armed, professional, utterly impersonal in the way they look at me. One carries a bottle of water and what looks like a sandwich wrapped in paper. The other keeps his hand near his gun.
They approach carefully, like I'm a wild animal that might bite. Given my recent attempt to take off their boss's finger, that's probably fair.
"Eat," the first guard says, setting the food and water on a small table just within my reach. His voice is gravelly, accent somewhere from the East Coast. "Boss says you need to keep your strength up."
I eye the offerings with suspicion. "How thoughtful of him."
The guard shrugs. "He wants you healthy."
"For now."
"For as long as it serves his purposes."
Honest, at least. I can respect that more than false comfort.
They retreat to positions by the door, clearly intending to watch me eat. Or try to, anyway—the zip ties make it interesting. I manage to get the water bottle to my lips, but the sandwich requires more dexterity than my bound hands can manage.
"Little help?" I ask, holding up my wrists.
"Boss says the ties stay on."
"Then I guess I don't eat."
They exchange glances. These aren't decision-makers, just soldiers following orders. But they're also clearly uncomfortable with the idea of their boss's "guest" starving on their watch.
After a moment of silent communication, the gravelly-voiced one approaches with a knife. "Hold still."
He cuts the zip tie on my right wrist with practiced efficiency, but leaves my left hand secured to the chair.
I flex my free fingers, working feeling back into them, and notice he steps well out of reach before I can try anything stupid.
He only freed my right arm, leaving the other tied tight to the chair, a reminder that freedom here is always partial, always controlled.
Smart man.
I unwrap the sandwich—turkey and cheese on what looks like decent bread—and take a bite. It tastes like cardboard, but that's probably the fear talking. Food is food, and I need to maintain my strength.
While I eat, I study the guards more carefully.
Both armed, both alert, but they're comfortable in this space.
This isn't their first time babysitting someone in this room.
The one who cut my ties is older, maybe forty, with scars on his hands that suggest he's seen real violence.
The younger one by the door can't be more than twenty-five, still eager to prove himself.
Veterans and rookies. Standard pairing in organizations like this—the experienced one keeps the newbie from making mistakes, the newbie provides backup and fresh eyes.
I'm cataloging exit routes and weapon possibilities when the door opens again. This time, it's Matteo himself who enters, carrying a manila folder and what looks like medical equipment.
My heart kicks against my ribs, and I hate that my body reacts to his presence.
He's changed clothes since our first meeting—still all black, but now it's casual pants and a fitted sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.
The scar along his jaw catches the light, and I can see more of his tattoos now that his sleeves are pushed up.
Dark ink winds around his forearms, intricate designs that probably tell stories I don't want to know.
He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful—every detail immaculate—every hair precisely in place, the black sweater fitting him like it was tailored this morning, his movements deliberate, his tone measured and smooth as if even his voice has been sharpened for command. Perfect in a way that feels dangerous."
"Gentlemen," he says to the guards, not taking his eyes off me. "Give us some privacy."
They file out without question, closing the door behind them. The silence that follows is heavy with tension and unspoken threats.
"Feeling better?" he asks, setting the folder and equipment on the table.
"Much, thanks. Nothing like a kidnapping and imprisonment to really clear the head."
His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Still sharp-tongued, I see. Good. I'd hate for you to lose your spirit so quickly."
"What do you want, Romano?"
"Matteo," he corrects. "And I want the truth."
"About what?"
"About a lot of things. But let's start with something simple." He opens the folder, revealing what look like medical forms. "We need to verify something, principessa."
The endearment sounds different now—less threatening, more... intimate. Which is somehow worse.
"Verify what?"
He looks at me with those cold gray eyes, and I see the exact moment he drops any pretense of civility.
"Your condition." He moves toward the door. "The doctor will be in shortly to run some tests."