Chapter 5 #2
Now I understand why they call him Il Diavolo—the devil. This isn't savagery or passion. This is something far worse. This is evil wearing an Armani suit, death served with perfect manners.
"Cristo santo," I whisper, my hands shaking as the reality of what just happened settles in.
"Welcome to the war, principessa," he says grimly, sliding his window back up as we pass through the checkpoint.
The Romano estate rises before us like something from a movie—all stone walls, wrought iron gates, and the kind of manicured perfection that speaks of old money and older power. It's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful, elegant and imposing and absolutely impenetrable.
As we pull up to the main house, I count at least a dozen guards positioned around the grounds. All armed, all alert, all wearing the kind of earpieces that suggest military-grade communication equipment.
This isn't just a home—it's a fortress.
The car stops, and Matteo's door opens before I can even process that we've arrived. He emerges with fluid grace, straightening his jacket as if we've just returned from a pleasant drive rather than a running gun battle.
A man approaches—tall, lean, with the kind of coiled tension that marks him as dangerous. He speaks rapidly to Matteo in Italian, gesturing toward the damage on our vehicle and pointing in the direction we came from.
Matteo listens without expression, nodding occasionally, his responses curt and precise. Then he turns back to the car, where I'm still sitting in shocked silence.
"Time to go," he says, extending his hand toward me.
I stare at it, then push the door open myself. The night air cuts across my face as I climb out alone, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His hand drops back to his side, his expression never shifting from that carved mask.
The interior of the Romano mansion is as impressive as its exterior—all dark wood and Italian marble, expensive artwork and the kind of understated luxury that whispers rather than shouts. It's beautiful, intimidating, and utterly foreign to anything I've ever experienced.
Matteo leads me through a maze of hallways, past rooms filled with antique furniture and oil paintings that probably cost more than most people make in a lifetime. Guards nod respectfully as we pass, but their eyes track our movement with professional awareness.
Finally, we stop in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of a long corridor.
"This is your room," he says, producing a key from his pocket.
"My room?" I raise an eyebrow. "Not a cell?"
"My room," he corrects, opening the door and gesturing for me to enter. "You'll be staying with me where I can ensure you will stay put and not do anything stupid."
I step inside and immediately understand why he specified whose room this is.
Everything screams Matteo Romano—from the perfectly made king-sized bed to the expensive suits hanging in the open closet, from the antique desk covered with neat stacks of papers to the small bar stocked with top-shelf liquor.
It's a study in ruthless order, every surface clean and organized, every object in its designated place. Even his books are arranged by height on the built-in shelves.
"Wait here," he says and then turns for the door.
"What am I supposed to do? Just... sit here?" I say, turning to face him.
"Rest. Shower. There should be something of mine that fits you in the armoire.
" He pauses, studying my face. “Try to leave without my permission, and I’ll make sure you regret testing me.” Before I can respond, he steps back and closes the door.
I hear the distinctive sound of a lock engaging, and I'm alone.
I stand in the center of his room for a long moment, trying to process everything that's happened. This morning, I was buying forged pregnancy documents in a Chicago slum. Now I'm a prisoner in a Romano New York stronghold, protected by the man who should be my greatest enemy.
And somehow, despite everything, I feel safer than I have in months.
The realization disturbs me more than I want to admit.
I explore the room methodically, opening drawers and examining the contents, noting exits, sharp edges, anything I could use if I had to. His desk is locked, but everything else is accessible.
The closet contains dozens of suits, all black or dark gray, all perfectly tailored. The dresser holds expensive watches, gold cufflinks, silk ties arranged with military precision. Even his socks are folded into perfect squares.
The man is obsessive about order to a degree that borders on compulsive.
The bathroom is a study in masculine luxury—marble everything, a shower that could fit four people, and toiletries that probably cost more than my monthly allowance used to be. There are towels so thick and soft they feel like clouds, and the soap smells like bergamot and sandalwood.
After forty-five days of living in constant fear, the simple pleasure of hot water and expensive soap in a protected environment feels like absolution.
I stay under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work the tension from my muscles and wash away the lingering scent of fear and violence. When I finally emerge, pink and clean and feeling more human than I have in weeks, I discover my first problem.
My clothes are gone.
The dirty jeans and blouse I arrived in have vanished as if they never existed, along with my bra and underwear.
Wrapped in a towel that swallows me whole, I stand in the middle of his immaculate bedroom and feel the first spark of irritation burn through the fog of exhaustion. He took everything, stripped me down to nothing, and left me dependent on his generosity.
The armoire he mentioned holds only his suits—fine wool, tailored within an inch of perfection, all cut for a man who doesn’t know what it is to be denied anything.
I pull a black silk shirt from his closet. It slips over my skin, falling to mid-thigh, the fabric whispering against me in a way that feels far too intimate without underwear. Every brush of it reminds me I’m exposed, vulnerable, dressed in his clothing like a kept thing and I hate it.
The realization claws at me. Forty-five days of pretending, of surviving on lies, of being shuttled from one cage to another, and now this. Another prison, only more gilded this time. Another man dictating how I live, what I wear, who I am.
My pulse spikes with anger.
I look around his room—the gleaming surfaces, the perfectly aligned books, the cufflinks squared into neat little rows. Everything screams of control, of a world bent to his will
And suddenly, all I want is to break it.
What would it feel like to leave my mark here, to tear through his carefully constructed perfection and remind him that not everything bends to Romano command?
The thought takes root, dark and satisfying.
I start small—opening a drawer and leaving it ajar, nudging a book out of its height-ordered row. But the longer I move through his room, the harder it is to stop.
The fury that’s been simmering for weeks—through every fake smile, every forged document, every sleepless night of waiting to be caught—boils over.
I yank open more drawers. Socks, once folded into perfect squares, rain to the floor. His cufflinks scatter like coins across the dresser. Ties unravel from their neat rows and dangle from chairs like nooses.
For forty-five days, I’ve been pretending, obeying, surviving on scraps of choice. Now, in this one room, I can rebel. My chaos bleeding into his order, a reminder that I am not just a pawn in his game.
I tear through the space, shoving papers aside, leaving everything skewed and undone. Every small act of destruction is a release, each mess louder than the scream I’ve kept locked in my chest since Lorenzo died.
I search as I wreck—my eyes sharp for anything useful. Weapons, communication devices, anything that could help me if this tentative protection he's offering disappears. But Matteo is too smart for that. The room contains nothing dangerous or useful.
By the time I'm finished, his perfect bedroom looks like a hurricane has swept through it. Clothes everywhere, papers scattered, every surface disrupted from its careful arrangement.
I breathe harder than I should, chest tight, pulse racing. And while my head is pounding and the bump on the back of it is pulsating, for the first time in weeks, I feel something close to satisfaction.
When I sink into his leather chair to wait for him, my heart is still pounding—not from fear this time, but from finally letting go of it.
That’s when I hear the knock at the door.
“Um, hello?” A female voice calls through the door. “I brought some food.”
The door opens to reveal a young woman about my age, balancing a tray. Long dark hair, soft features, hazel eyes that widen as she takes in the wreckage I’ve made of Matteo’s pristine room.
“Oh my,” she says, stepping inside and nudging the door closed behind her. Two guards remain stationed outside. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “Matteo won’t like this.”
“I couldn’t care less what my abductor likes,” I say flatly, folding my arms.
She sets the tray carefully on a corner of the desk, finding a patch of space I haven’t claimed with chaos.
“I’m Isabella,” she says, extending her hand after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Matteo’s sister.”
I hesitate before shaking it. “Alessia.”
There’s warmth in her eyes—genuine, unforced. Something I haven’t seen in many women in our circles.
"I figured you might be hungry," she continues, lifting the silver dome from a plate of pasta that smells like heaven. "And thirsty." She produces a bottle of wine from the tray. "Nothing too strong—you look like you've had enough excitement for one day."
I accept the glass she pours, noting how she seems to catalog every detail of the room's chaos without comment. She's observing, assessing, but not judging. At least, not obviously enough for me to see it.
“So,” she says, sitting across from me, “how are you finding the place?”
"Luxurious," I reply dryly, gesturing to the mess around us. "Though I may have made some interior design improvements."
Isabella laughs—a genuine sound that lights up her entire face. "I can see that. My brother does like his order."
"Your brother likes his control."
She doesn’t argue. “True.”
I swirl the wine in my glass. “And you?”
“I survive in it,” she says simply.
I study her face, seeing intelligence there, along with something that looks like genuine concern. For the first time since this nightmare began, I'm talking to someone who doesn't seem to have an agenda beyond basic human kindness.
But she's also Matteo's sister. His family. And in this world, family loyalty runs deeper than blood—it runs to bone.
Still, if I'm going to survive this, I need allies. And Isabella Romano might just be the best one I can find.
“Here’s to survival, then,” I say, lifting my glass.
Her mouth curves in a small smile as she clinks hers against mine.
“To survival.”