Chapter 38
38
EMILIA
I woke to silence.
Not the kind I was used to—the heavy, watchful quiet of the Conti penthouse or the eerie stillness of Rocco’s estate. This was different. This silence was too clean. Too curated. Like someone had taken the world and pressed mute.
The sheets beneath me were soft. Egyptian cotton, maybe. The kind of luxury that whispered old money and whispered it in Russian.
I sat up slowly, blinking against the morning light that filtered through gauzy curtains. My head throbbed faintly, like I’d had too much wine the night before, but I knew that wasn’t it. I hadn’t had anything. I remembered the chapel. The tunnel. The woods.
And then… nothing.
I did a body scan, my breath caught in my throat.
Clothes: still on. My black dress from the night before, wrinkled but intact. No bruises. No soreness. No signs I’d been touched. My shoes were gone, but that was it. My hair was a mess, and my lipstick had faded, but I was whole.
I exhaled slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just enough to let in fear.
Where the hell was I?
The room was opulent—ornate crown molding, gold accents, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace. The bed I sat on was massive, the headboard carved from dark wood and inlaid with what looked like mother-of-pearl. A vanity sat in the corner, its surface covered in delicate perfume bottles and a silver hairbrush. A pair of velvet chairs flanked a fireplace that wasn’t lit.
It was beautiful.
It was a prison.
I slid off the bed and padded across the room, my bare feet silent on the polished floor. I pressed my ear to the door.
Voices.
Men. Arguing. The sharp cadence of Russian, fast and clipped, filled the hallway beyond. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—anger. Frustration. One voice was deeper, louder. The other was tight, controlled, like it was trying not to explode.
I stepped back, heart pounding.
The doorknob turned.
I froze.
The door creaked open, and I braced myself to run, to fight, to scream.
But instead of a guard or a gunman, a girl—maybe sixteen, maybe younger—peeked around the doorframe.
She blinked at me, wide-eyed. “Oh! Hi!”
I stared.
She stepped inside like we were old friends, her long dark braid swinging behind her. She wore a soft pink sweater and jeans, and she carried a tray with a teapot and two cups.
“What…” I started, my voice hoarse. “What is this?”
She smiled brightly. “Tea. You looked like you might need it.”
I blinked. “No, I mean—where am I?”
“Oh,” she said, setting the tray down on the vanity. “This is my brother Nikolai’s house.”
I stared at her. “Nikolai.”
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s the nice one. The one screaming outside the door? That’s Aleksander. He’s the… not-nice one.”
My stomach dropped.
Romanov.
I was in the Romanov house.
The girl must’ve seen something shift in my face because she tilted her head. “You’re Emilia, right? Dante Conti’s wife?”
I didn’t answer.
She didn’t seem to need me to.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding to herself. “Alek really pissed Nik off by kidnapping you. Especially after everything he’s done to your husband. Nik’s been yelling at him for like… an hour.”
My legs gave out, and I sank onto the edge of the bed.
I was in the Romanov house.
And apparently, the only thing keeping me alive was a sibling rivalry.
Before I could ask anything else, a man’s voice shouted something in Russian from the hallway.
The girl turned toward the door. “In here!”
The door burst open.
A man stormed in, tall and broad and furious. He had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like a thunderstorm. He wore a black sweater and slacks, and he looked like he could kill someone with a single glance.
He looked at the girl. “Yelena, what the hell are you doing in here?”
She grinned. “Bringing tea.”
He barked something in Russian—sharp and scolding.
She rolled her eyes. “Relax. She’s not going to bite me.”
He muttered something else, then turned to me.
Yelena gave me a little wave. “Bye, Emilia. Don’t try to run. The dogs are faster.”
She skipped out of the room.
The man—Nikolai, I assumed—watched her go, then turned back to me his expression unreadable. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed felt like a held breath. He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, like he was waiting for me to say something first.
I didn’t. I was too busy trying to decide whether I should throw the teacup at his head or bolt for the window.
He exhaled through his nose. “Are you hurt?”
I blinked. “Besides being kidnapped?”
His jaw twitched. “That wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, I figured,” I said, voice flat. “You seem like the type to prefer polite invitations over chloroform and needles.”
He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t.
“I’ll send someone with food,” he said instead. “You must be hungry.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be sure to leave a five-star Yelp review for the hospitality.”
He turned muttering in russian and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stared at it for a long time, waiting for the lock to turn. It didn’t. Either they were confident I wouldn’t try to escape… or they wanted me to.
I wasn’t sure which was worse.
The tea was untouched.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, my mind racing. I was in Nikolai Romanov’s house. Aleksander’s younger brother. The one Valentina had been in love with. The one who was supposedly the “nice” one.
And yet, here I was. Kidnapped.
I stood, pacing the room. I crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain. The view was… beautiful, actually. A manicured garden stretched out below, framed by trees and hedges and winding gravel paths. It looked like something out of a painting. Peaceful. Deceptive.
I pushed the window open and leaned out.
Second floor. Maybe twenty feet up. Not ideal, but not impossible. Below, a row of thick hedges lined the base of the wall. If I landed right, I could cushion the fall. Maybe.
I glanced over my shoulder. No one in the hallway. No guards outside the door. No cameras that I could see.
I climbed onto the windowsill, gripping the frame with both hands. My heart pounded in my chest, loud enough I was sure someone would hear it. I swung one leg over the edge, then the other, until I was crouched on the sill, staring down at the bushes below.
This was a terrible idea.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself.
And that’s when I heard it.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
I froze.
A window on the first floor creaked open, and Nikolai’s head popped out, his expression a mix of disbelief and fury.
“Ты с ума сошёл?” he snapped in Russian. “Are you insane?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, he disappeared from view.
A minute later, strong hands grabbed my waist and hauled me back through the window like I weighed nothing.
I landed in a heap on the floor, tangled in my own limbs and the hem of my dress, blinking up at him as he loomed over me.
He was breathing hard, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes blazing.
“Were you really about to jump?” he demanded.
“I was considering it,” I said, brushing hair from my face. “You know, for the thrill.”
He stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “You could’ve broken your neck.”
“Better than sitting around waiting to find out if I’m being ransomed or murdered.”
He muttered something else in Russian—probably a curse—and ran a hand through his hair.
I sat up slowly, brushing myself off. “Why am I here?”
He didn’t answer right away.
I stood, facing him. “Seriously. What the hell is this? Your brother kidnaps me, dumps me in your house, and now what? I’m supposed to sip tea and wait for Dante to start World War III?”
“It’s complicated,” he said finally.
I crossed my arms. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
“No,” he said immediately. “You’re not a target.”
I raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“This wasn’t my idea,” he said again. “Aleksander… he’s reckless. He acts without thinking. I didn’t know he’d taken you until you were already here.”
I stared at him, waiting for the rest. For the part where he explained why I was still here. Why I hadn’t been returned the second he found out. Why I was standing barefoot in a stranger’s palace, my heart pounding like a war drum and my body still humming with adrenaline from the escape attempt.
“And yet,” I said, voice sharp, “here I am. Still locked in your house like a fucking souvenir.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not locked in.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I miss the part where I was allowed to leave? Because last I checked, I was climbing out a window.”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was trying not to snap. “I didn’t know you’d try to run.”
“You kidnapped me,” I snapped. “What did you think I was going to do? Order room service and take a nap?”
His jaw ticked. “I told you—I didn’t kidnap you.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, “you’re keeping me. Which is just as bad.”
He didn’t flinch. Just looked at me with those storm-cloud eyes, unreadable and cold. “I’m keeping you safe.”
I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “You Romanovs have a really twisted definition of safety.”
He didn’t respond. Just watched me, his expression unreadable.
I turned away, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. My heart was still racing, my palms still damp. I could feel the weight of the house pressing in around me—the ornate walls, the heavy curtains, the silence that wasn’t really silence at all.
It was a trap.
And I was the bait.
“Why now?” I asked, spinning to face him. “Why take me now? After everything? After Rocco? After the gala? What’s the point?”
He hesitated.
And that was all the answer I needed.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “You’re trying to use me.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not like that.”
“Then how?” I demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks a lot like leverage.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Aleksander thinks Dante is a threat. He’s trying to send a message.”
“By stealing his wife?” I said, incredulous. “That’s not a message. That’s a declaration of war.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m trying to fix it.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Fix it? You think this can be fixed?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he said, voice tight. “That’s the only thing that matters right now.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to play the hero when you’re the one holding the keys.”
He didn’t respond.
I turned away, my hands trembling.
I didn’t want to cry.
I didn’t want to scream.
I wanted Dante.
I wanted his voice in my ear, his arms around me, his rage burning hotter than mine. I wanted the safety of his fury. The certainty of his love.
I wanted home. I don’t know when I started to think of Dante as home but here we were, and all I wanted was him.
And I was trapped in a gilded cage, surrounded by enemies who smiled like friends and brothers who kidnapped women to make a point.
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands clenched in my lap.
Nikolai stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale morning light.
“I’ll have food sent up,” he said after a long moment. “And clothes. You’ll be more comfortable.”
I didn’t answer.
He turned to leave, but paused at the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
I looked up at him, my voice flat. “Then let me go.”
He didn’t respond.
Just closed the door behind him.
The food came twenty minutes later. A silver tray with eggs, toast, fruit, and tea. No guards. No threats. Just a quiet knock and a polite servant who didn’t make eye contact.
I didn’t touch it.
I sat by the window, staring out at the garden below, watching the wind move through the hedges like a whisper. I wondered if Dante knew. If he was already tearing the city apart to find me. If he’d burn the Romanovs to the ground just to get me back.
I hoped so.
I needed him to.
I needed to believe that someone would come for me.
Because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait.
I looked at the window again.
At the bushes below.
At the sky above.
And I started to plan.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I lay curled on top of the pristine sheets in the Romanov bedroom, my eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, tracing the gold filigree with the kind of obsessive focus only fear could sharpen. The chandelier above me swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. No movement. Just the weight of silence pressing down on my chest like a stone.
I hadn’t touched the food.
I hadn’t changed out of my wrinkled dress.
I hadn’t cried.
Not because I wasn’t scared—I was. But fear was familiar now. It lived in my bones, curled around my spine like a second skin. I’d learned to wear it like perfume. Subtle. Lingering. Dangerous.
I kept waiting for Dante.
For the sound of boots on marble. For the crash of a door kicked open. For the heat of his fury to burn this place down.
But the hours passed, and nothing came.
No messages.
No rescue.
Just the slow tick of a grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional murmur of Russian voices outside my door.