Chapter 4
Vittoria
I wake up to cold concrete pressing against my cheek, the scent of damp wood, and something metallic clogging my nose. My head pounds like someone took a bat to it, and when I try to move, my body protests, stiff and sore.
Where the hell am I?
Did they drug me again?
Of course they did. I remember them dragging me out of the room where the pianist was and bringing me here. I was screaming, fighting them off, but they must have gotten tired of it.
The next thing I remember is smoke everywhere, choking on it, and then... nothing.
The Pianist. He was the one who saved me that night. And stopped me on my early morning jogging path again. It’s clear now—he was indeed following me, or even worse, stalking me.
Why would he kidnap me? What does he want?
Does Enzo know about this?
Considering what he told me that first night I met the pianist, could this all be part of his plan?
No. Enzo wouldn’t throw me into the hands of a clearly depraved man like this.
Something else is amiss.
I push myself up and blink against the dim light.
The room is small and bare. A basement, judging by the exposed beams and the musty scent of dust and mildew.
There’s a bed with a thin mattress in the corner, a metal chair, and a small table.
No windows—just a single door, solid and reinforced with steel.
Panic claws its way up my throat.
I stagger to my feet, heart hammering, and make my way to the door. Locked. Of course. My fingers fumble against the handle, shaking, useless.
No, no, no.
I bang my fists against it, my voice cracking. “Let me out! Hello? Let me the fuck out!”
Nothing. Silence presses in and swallows the echoes of my own voice. My breath comes fast, too fast. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
Then, footsteps. Heavy and measured.
The lock clicks and the door swings open.
He steps inside like he owns the air in my lungs.
My stomach drops.
I never assumed he wouldn’t be one of those people who wouldn’t go to any length to get what they want, but I thought we’d established something real in those brief conversations. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was always wrong.
Getting kidnapped by the same man who once saved me from a predator should feel impossible. But when his stare cuts through me like a scalpel, I know this is real.
"You don’t have to do this. Please." My voice sounds foreign—distant, metallic, like it’s been stripped from my body and stitched onto me.
He doesn’t react. Just watches.
"I—" My mind scrambles for something, anything. “Why are you doing this?” My voice is hoarse, disbelief tightening around my throat like a noose. “Do you really think my husband would just sit back and do nothing while I’m treated like this? If you think you’ve gotten away with this, think again. He’ll come for you.
He’ll burn this place to the ground, and he won’t stop until you’re nothing but ash. ”
Still nothing.
“Are you suddenly deaf? I said I want out of here!” I shout.
And the bastard laughs like he’s heard this threat a thousand times before and it never fazed him. "Your husband?" he scoffs and shakes his head. "I’m not worried about him. Let him come. He’ll find a grave already dug, and I’m the one holding the shovel."
“I want to speak to my husband.”
He still doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink.
Fear licks at the edges of my anger, but I shove it down. I can’t afford to let him see it.
“I said I want to speak to my husband, right now!”
He cocks his head, like my request is nothing more than a joke, and I realize—he is never going to take me seriously. Kidnapped victims don’t get choices. They don’t get to speak. But then again, I’m not like anyone else.
He moves past me, claiming the space. The door stays slightly ajar—a taunt, a test. Run, and I might make it a few steps before someone outside puts a bullet in my skull. He knows it. I know it.
"You wanna know why you're still breathing?"
I swallow, my throat dry, but I don’t look away.
"Because, whether I like it or not, you matter to someone. If you didn’t, you’d just be another loose end." He leans in slightly. "And we both know how people handle loose ends."
“Help! Someone, please help me!”
“You should stop screaming.” His voice is calm. “No one can hear you.”
My skin prickles. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Can’t I?”
“This is illegal. You can’t just—”
He chuckles, and a depraved part of me wants to hear it again.
“Illegal?” He steps closer, and suddenly my mind feels like it’s short-circuiting.
Are his eyes supposed to be this brown? Rich and deep, like spilled coffee, dark enough to swallow me whole.
His lips are full, the kind of lips that could make any woman forget her name, and I catch myself wondering what they’d feel like against mine.
What the hell?
His lashes flicker as he stares at me, eyes lingering like a touch, dragging me closer to something I don’t want.
The longer he holds my eyes, the harder it is to keep my thoughts clear.
Every inch of him pulls at me, like fine wine, rich and intoxicating, and suddenly, all I can think about is how badly I want him to touch me.
Shit. Hell, no. This can’t be happening.
I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away, but his presence is somewhat enchanting, pressing in on me.
He’s still talking, but I’m barely listening. “Tell me, who exactly do you think is going to arrest me?”
I glare up at him. “You are committing a crime.”
He shrugs. “Depends on how you look at it, Vittoria.”
“You know my name, yet I don’t know anything about you.”
His smile makes him look dangerous in a kind of animalistic way, enough for me to second-guess my words. Do I even want to know his name?
He’s still watching me with that unreadable expression, like he’s weighing the worth of every breath I take.
“You’re going to be here for a while, so I suggest you save your breath,” he says, ignoring my question.
His statement is like it’s already been decided. Like, I don’t get a say.
Rage boils over. I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He might as well be carved from stone.
“You’re a monster. Fuck you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not tonight.”
Before I can react, he grips my wrist and spins me around.
My back hits the mattress before I can scramble up, and then he’s on me, pinning me down.
“Get off me!” I thrash, but it’s useless. He’s stronger and faster. His weight presses me into the bed and my breath stutters.
“Behave.” His voice is calm, almost bored.
The click of metal snaps through the room, and I realize, too late, what he’s done.
Handcuffs.
Cold steel bites into my wrist as he chains me to the bedpost.
I go still, my pulse hammering. “You son of a—”
He slaps the side of my thigh, hard.
Shock floods my system and my skin burns where his palm landed.
I gasp, torn between fury and something different, something I refuse to name.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re not going anywhere, princess.”
Then he straightens and, for the first time, offers something that almost resembles kindness—an introduction.
“My name is Dario Bellini,” he says, his tone casual, like we’re at a dinner party instead of a fucking basement prison. “And you, Vittoria, exist on my terms now.”
Then he’s gone, just like that, leaving me breathless, humiliated, and cuffed to a fucking bed.
The stillness stretches for what feels like hours on end. My chest rises and falls too fast, my mind racing to make sense of what just happened.
Then, like a dam breaking, the tears come.
I hate it. Hate that I’m crying, hate that I’m weak enough to let this get to me. But the fear, the confusion, the sheer helplessness of it all—it drowns me.
My wrists ache against the cuffs as I curl into myself and let the darkness take me.
***
When I wake again, the room is different.
It is brighter. Warmer. The walls are bare, painted in a muted gray, the furniture minimal—a bed, a small wooden dresser, a chair tucked neatly in the corner.
A single window cuts into the far wall, revealing nothing but a stretch of dense trees, their branches shifting with the wind.
There's no sign of a road, no rooftops, no landmarks. Just isolation.
Food sits on the small table. A plate of pasta, still steaming. A bottle of water. And next to it, neatly folded, a set of clothes.
I stare at it, my stomach twisting.
A peace offering?
No.
A leash.
I swallow hard, my throat raw, and force myself to sit up. My wrist aches where the cuffs dug into it, but at some point, he must’ve unlocked them.
I rub at the sore skin, then look back at the food. My stomach growls, traitorous.
I shouldn’t eat. Shouldn’t accept anything from him.
But hunger doesn’t give a damn about pride.
I reach for the fork, hesitating, before stabbing into the pasta and shoving a bite into my mouth. The taste of garlic and butter coats my tongue, and I hate how good it is.
I eat like someone might take it away, wiping the plate clean before reaching for the clothes. Soft fabric, casual but expensive. A fresh start, or another way to make me comfortable in my cage?
The door creaks open, and I tense, muscles coiling tight.
Dario leans against the frame, watching me.
“Good girl.”
Rage and something worse churn in my gut, but I say nothing, and I swallow them. They don’t belong here, not in front of someone like him. I have to keep my head, play my part, and keep him in control.
My mind slips away from the moment, and I think of the reason I’m here.
My husband.
I met him when I was barely more than a girl, swept up in his charm before I even understood what it meant to be wanted by a man like him.
He had this way of making it seem like nothing else mattered when he looked at me.
It wasn’t just his confidence—it was the way he carried himself, like he already owned the world and was only deciding what to do with it.
I remember the first time we met. Some women talk about love stories set in bars, restaurants, places drenched in candlelight and charm.
Mine wasn’t like that. My husband found me, or maybe I pulled him into my life by daring fate.
Either way, when we met, I was drowning in debt, newly homeless.
He’d just walked out of a business meeting, heading somewhere important—until his car ran me over.
It wasn’t even serious. A few scrapes, nothing more. But he insisted on taking care of me.
That’s how he is. Or how he used to be. Caring. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt that side of him, but things can change, can’t they? If I try harder, if I make him see me again, he’ll save me. That’s what he does.
He’s my anchor, the one constant in my life.
Not every woman gets to be with a man like him. He’s the one who knows how to make everything right, even when it feels like the world is spinning out of control.
The way he looks at me... it’s like I’m the only one who matters in his eyes.
Sure, he can be demanding, but it’s only because he cares so much.
He’s just so passionate about everything, and I’ve always admired that.
Sometimes, I think maybe I’m the one who needs to try harder.
He’s taught me so much about strength and confidence.
Without him, I wouldn’t be the person I am now.
No one understands him the way I do. People can judge him all they want. They don’t see the man I do—the one who’s always there when I need him, who’s never truly let me down.
There are times, of course, when his temper gets the best of him, but that’s only because he loves me. He’s protecting me, even if I don’t always see it at the time.
Maybe they don’t see how much he’s given to me, how much he’s made my life better. But I do. I’m grateful. I’ll always be grateful.
I just need to do this one thing for him. Do what he asks of me.
And then, he’ll come for me. He’ll pull me out of this like he always does. Because he always keeps his promises. He will save me. He will make everything right again.
I have to believe that.