Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matteo
I watch her face carefully as the question settles between us, cataloging every micro-expression, every telltale sign.
The answer is written in her reaction—the way she flinched from my touch, the defensive set of her shoulders, the careful distance she maintains even now.
Someone has hurt her. Badly. What I had imagined to be true yesterday has just been confirmed.
"I'm not going to pressure you," I say, keeping my voice level, controlled. "I need you to understand something, principessa. I will never hurt you. Not in that way, not in any way that isn't asked for."
She stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning in my words. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I keep my promises. The good ones and the bad ones."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths and careful boundaries. Finally, I reach for the bedside table and pull out a phone and a piece of paper.
"Make me a list," I say, setting both items on the bed within her reach. "Everything you need. Clothes, toiletries, books, whatever will make this situation more bearable."
She eyes the phone suspiciously. "What's this?"
"A direct line to me. It can only call and text my number. Consider it... customer service."
Despite everything, her mouth quirks slightly at that. "Customer service for kidnapping?"
"I prefer to think of it as hospitality management."
She picks up the pen, testing its weight. "And if I write 'freedom' at the top of the list?"
"Then I'll explain why that particular item isn't available for delivery."
"How about 'a one-way ticket to anywhere but here'?"
"Also, temporarily out of stock."
This time she actually smiles, and something dangerous shifts in my chest. This woman—this captive who should hate me, fear me, curse my name—is trading barbs with me like we're old friends. It's unsettling in ways I don't want to analyze.
A knock at the door saves me from examining that thought too closely.
"Enter," I call.
Luca appears, his expression carefully neutral but urgent. "The prisoner is awake."
"Finally." I stand, straightening my shirt. The captured Moretti soldier has been unconscious for hours, and I need answers about their security breach. "How long has he been conscious?"
"About ten minutes. Rafael is with him now."
I nod, then turn back to Alessia. "Make your list. I'll be back soon."
"Where are you going?" she demands, and I catch something almost like concern in her voice.
"Business." I move toward the door, then pause. "Don't even think about trying to leave this room."
"You can't keep me locked up forever," she fires back, her defiance sparking to life again.
"I can and I will." The words come out harder than I intend, but the thought of her wandering my estate, vulnerable to threats both external and internal, makes ice form in my veins. "This conversation is over."
I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me with perhaps more force than necessary. The lock engages with a satisfying click.
In the corridor, I find Romeo and Marco waiting—two of my most trusted soldiers, men who've served the Romano family for over a decade.
"She doesn't leave this room," I tell them, my voice carrying absolute authority. "She doesn't go anywhere without my explicit permission. She doesn't speak to anyone except you two and Isabella. Clear?"
"Clear, boss," Romeo responds, while Marco nods his understanding.
"Good. I want one of you on the door at all times. The other can rest, but never both of you. And if she tries anything—and I mean anything—you contact me immediately."
I pause, then add, " And have the kitchen send up a coffee—a single shot of espresso with a dash of milk. Have it delivered every morning."
They exchange a quick look but don’t question me. They know better.
Our conversation from last night lingers in my mind—the way she spoke about sneaking espresso as if it were rebellion, a scrap of freedom in a cage Lorenzo built for her.
That thought alone stops me cold. Remembering details, indulging them, is dangerous. It edges too close to something I can’t afford.
She's just a pawn, I remind myself. A strategic asset. Nothing more.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying.
Alessia
The room feels smaller somehow after Matteo leaves, the walls pressing in despite the luxury surrounding me. I stare at the phone and paper he left behind, torn between gratitude for small mercies and fury at the casual way he's decided my fate.
I can and I will.
His words echo in my head, delivered with the kind of absolute certainty that brooks no argument. It should terrify me—this complete control he's assumed over my life. Instead, I find myself thinking about the gentleness in his voice when he promised not to hurt me.
Heat pools low in my belly at the memory, and I shake my head sharply. Stockholm syndrome. That's all this is. Some twisted psychological response to captivity that makes me confuse control with care.
I'm reaching for the pen to start my list when there's a soft knock at the door.
"Mrs. Moretti?" A male voice calls. "I brought some food."
The door opens to reveal a young man carrying a silver tray, probably in his late twenties with dark hair and kind eyes. Behind him, another man stands guard—older, more weathered, watching everything with professional wariness.
"Romeo," the younger one says with a shy smile, setting the tray on the desk. "And that's Marco."
Marco nods but doesn't speak, positioning himself by the door like a sentinel.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the scent of perfectly prepared pasta hit my senses.
But it's what else is on the tray that stops me cold.
A small espresso cup, the coffee inside dark and rich, with just a dash of milk swirled on top. Exactly the way I described it to Matteo in the darkness last night.
He must have told them, because Romeo sets it down carefully on the table, as if following an order straight from his boss.
I wrap my fingers around the porcelain, the warmth sinking into my palms. The aroma curls up toward me, familiar, comforting but infuriating all at once.
I feel warmth spread through my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the coffee’s temperature.
In all my months of marriage, Lorenzo never once remembered how I liked…
well, anything. Never cared enough to notice what brought me small moments of joy.
But this man—this dangerous stranger who’s holding me prisoner—listened to a whispered confession in the dark and made sure I had exactly what I wanted.
I try not to let it affect me, try to maintain the emotional distance that keeps me sane. But my hands shake slightly as I lift the cup, and the first sip tastes like comfort and consideration and things I can’t afford to want.
“Good?” Romeo asks from the door.
"Perfect." I let the cup warm my fingers a beat longer, holding the porcelain like a shield. My smile is small, practiced; the kind you give when you want someone to think they've surprised you.
Romeo shifts his weight; Marco stays a statue by the arch. The difference tells me more than either of them would say aloud. Matteo must have told them —and that is something to file away. Men remember orders. Men remember favors. Men have soft spots.
"How long have you worked for Don Romano?" I ask, not because I need to know, but because I am mapping the man in front of me. I watch Romeo over the rim, counting heartbeats and micro-shifts in his face. "You seem devoted to him."
"Eight years." His voice softens and he closes the space half a step, polite protocol softened into something gentler. "He's been good to me."
"I can see that." I set the cup down, tilting my head and dropping my lashes so my eyes seem smaller, more tired. Vulnerable enough to draw pity, unguarded enough to invite trust.
"It must be nice, having someone who actually cares. Who protects instead of—" I let the sentence hang like bait. Let him pick the hook.
"Instead of what?" Romeo asks, and the weight in his voice shifts to something more personal.
"Nothing." I let my gaze slide away, the motion practiced. "Things were different at the Moretti house. They weren't… kind to women." His jaw tightens.
His hands twitch at his sides — the reaction of a man who's been handled gently for years. That twitch is a notch on the map. Marco's immobility is another. One of them bends. One does not.
"Don Romano won't let anyone hurt you," Romeo says quietly. "He made that very clear."
"Did he?" Hope sharpens my tone, but only as an instrument. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering on purpose. "It's just… being locked in this room reminds me of—" My breath hitches; the display is perfect for drawing a man in. "I'm sorry. You're just doing your job." "
No, it's—" Romeo glances toward Marco, then steps a little closer. "Is there anything we can do? To make you more comfortable?"
Exactly what I want. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes lowering as if I'm deciding, then edge forward until his jacket brushes mine.
"I don't want to get you in trouble," I whisper.
"But I've been in this room since yesterday, and the walls feel like they're closing in.
" I let my voice falter, close enough now that he can hear my pulse.
"Do you think… would it be possible for me to step outside?
Just for a few minutes? You could watch me the entire time. "
He hesitates — the moment I've been angling for — and I store the twitch of his indecision like a key.
Romeo's expression immediately becomes conflicted. "I... Mrs. Moretti, I don't think..."
"Please," I press, letting my hand rest lightly on his arm. "Just five minutes. Fresh air, a chance to see something other than these four walls. I promise I won't cause any trouble."