Chapter 5
NIKKI
The room they've taken me to is enormous, easily bigger than most Los Angeles apartments.
But I still hate it. Every pristine white wall, every piece of uncomfortable-looking furniture.
There's a glass wall, spanning the entire far side, overlooking some stupidly perfect, meticulously manicured garden.
But no laptop, no Wi-Fi, and definitely no phone.
Enzo took it from me like he was disarming a bomb, while I screamed like it was one.
I pace back and forth, my rage escalating. Barefoot, because apparently, they think I'm not a flight risk if I don't have shoes. Or maybe they just prefer their prisoners to be perpetually ready for a pedicure.
“Okay, Nikki,” I mutter, prowling along the wall. “You’re officially in a hostage situation. Captor: one brooding villain with cheekbones and great hair that should be illegal. Weapon of choice: emotional chaos and outdated Wi-Fi protocols. There’s got to be a way out of this.”
I tap the window. Doesn’t budge. I crouch to check for a lock. Nothing. It’s seamless. Shit. Even the garden beyond looks manicured to trap, not soothe.
There's a soft knock on the door. I freeze mid-stride, my heart leaping into my throat. Then I roll my eyes, an automatic, performative gesture even though no one's watching. This is my life now. Performance art for an audience of one. Maybe zero if things don't go my way.
"If that's room service," I call out. "I want a double shot espresso, a warm croissant, and a Glock. Preferably in rose gold."
The door opens, smooth and silent. Great, it's the Enzo guy again.
Tall and still utterly silent. He's carrying a tray, as if this is a normal Tuesday afternoon tea party.
He glides to the sleek little table near the glass wall and sets the tray down, the soft clink of porcelain on glass the only sound. He says nothing, just stands there.
"You don't talk much, do you?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, mimicking his rigid posture. "Is that part of the whole mafia aesthetic? The strong, silent type? Or are you just naturally cold-blooded? Like, did you come out of the womb refusing to engage in polite conversation?"
Still no answer. He turns and walks out without a word, the door closing behind him with that soft, final click.
"Good to see you! Come back to visit soon!" I call after him, my words pitched just loud enough to penetrate the thick wood. "Next time bring some oat milk! What is this, 2005? Who uses dairy creamer these days?"
I hurry to the table and check out the food. A perfect little plate of fruit, a pastry, a tiny cup of coffee that probably tastes like dirt. God, what I wouldn't give for a large cup of American coffee right now.
I touch nothing.
This is how they get you. They feed you to soften you up. Make you think you're not a prisoner when you absolutely are. This is psychological warfare and I'm not falling for it.
Not yet.
I push the tray aside with a disgusted sigh and stand again, resuming my pacing. The silence is a physical presence, pressing in on me.
"I didn't ask for this," I say out loud, hoping he can hear me and to break the silence. I hate silence, I'm not meant to be alone. It always makes the panic louder. "I was filming myself. That's it. One stupid video. One accidental, stupid reel." My voice catches slightly on the last word.
The door opens again, but this time it's not Enzo.
It's him.
The dangerous one with the sexy voice I would love if he wasn't the one who decided I don't get to leave.
"There you are," I say, my words dripping with sarcasm, a performance for his benefit. "Welcome to my fabulous prison. Want a tour? I can show you the toilet that flushes with more enthusiasm than your entire staff."
He closes the door behind him. No smile. No pleasantries. Just straight to business, as if this is some meeting I willingly agreed to attend, some brand partnership I reluctantly signed. He is all cold, efficient authority.
"You're adjusting," he states.
"You mean I haven't started gnawing through the walls yet? Or attempting to communicate with pigeons? Yeah. Gold star for me. What's my prize? A participation trophy made of ancient Roman coins?"
He walks to the glass wall, the same one I was just staring out of, and stands there. I half expect him to light a cigarette for effect, and start monologuing about fate and consequence.
"I want my phone back," I say. "Right now. This whole hostage situation is cute and all, but I'm done playing along."
He lifts a brow, like I’ve asked for a pony instead of my most basic human right.
"You’re not getting your phone," he says simply.
"Excuse me? You can’t just take it. That’s theft. It’s mine.”
"You used it to put my operation in jeopardy. That makes it my phone now."
I fold my arms and tilt my chin, channeling every ounce of righteous influencer rage. "Then wipe it. Do your little hacker thing. But give it back. It’s not just a phone, it’s how I work. How I live."
His voice is maddeningly calm. "It’s how you broadcast. And until I know you're not going to do it again, it stays far out of reach."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "I’m being punished? No screen time until I learn my lesson?"
He doesn’t even flinch. "You're angry," he says, as if it's a profound revelation.
"I'm furious. I've been kidnapped, and emotionally traumatized, all while being deprived of proper skincare and human rights. So yes, I'm a little annoyed. Just a touch. Not a big deal though. I'm sure I'll be fine."
His eyes flick to mine, cool, measured. Like he's cataloging my emotions for a report, analyzing my data points. He sees everything. And it unnerves me.
"It’s good that you’re angry," he says.
My sarcasm fails me. "Excuse me? Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because it sounds incredibly condescending."
"If you weren't angry," he continues, ignoring my interruption, "I'd assume you were either stupid or complicit. Neither of which would be useful to either one of us."
"Wow. What a glowing endorsement. I feel so seen. So valued. Is there a survey I can fill out later? Five stars for the world-class kidnapping experience."
He finally turns fully to me. There's something profoundly unsettling in the way he looks at me. Like he's dissecting me from the inside out, peeling back layers, searching for weaknesses. It feels invasive, a violation of the deepest kind.
"You're not in danger if you cooperate," he says, a promise and a threat intertwined. "But make no mistake. This isn't optional. Your compliance is required."
"Oh, I figured that out when the locks clicked shut and your driver developed selective hearing," I reply. "I'm not an idiot."
"This could've ended differently," he continues. "You could've remained in your carefully constructed world. But you inserted yourself into something you don't understand."
"I didn't insert anything," I snap. "I filmed myself.
On a yacht. Like a normal, narcissistic twenty-something who monetizes her fake life because that's the easiest way to pay her bills.
I didn't know what I was recording. And even if I did, I didn't care.
You think I want to be part of your crime syndicate drama?
Your dark, brooding empire? I'm an American who is only here for a few days, then I'm on to Spain, then Portugal.
I don't care what you do in Italy. Truth is, I won't remember half of this trip, or the yacht or even what you look like a month from now.
All these places blend together after a while.
What I do is a job, just like anything else.
It might be a stupid job to you, but it pays my rent. "
The silence stretches again, heavier this time. Then he says, his tone softer, almost reflective, a dangerous warmth creeping into his tone. "That might be the first truly honest thing you've said since you arrived here, Nikki Ricci."
"Yeah, well, you kidnapped me, so don't expect tears and confessions right now," I snap, fighting to regain my composure. "I'm not about to share my deepest feelings with my captor."
"I don't need confessions," he says, stepping closer. Too close. The air shifts, crackling with an unspoken tension. He looms over me, a powerful force. "I need silence. From you. And from anyone you might've alerted."
"Then turn off the cameras, if there are any," I challenge, "and let me go. I promise you, I'll never post again. I'll go off grid. I'll join a convent. There's plenty to choose from in Italy. Whatever you want. Just say it and let me go."
"No one's coming for you. Not your assistant or PR agent.
They'll move on to the next disposable talent.
Not your eight million followers, who'll mourn your absence for a week, perhaps two, before they find a new distraction.
They won't even know you're truly missing until it's far too late to matter. "
Something in my chest cracks. The carefully constructed wall around my emotions, the one I'd built with years of likes and filters, splinters. I try to hide it, try to push it back.
"You don't know that," I whisper.
He doesn't blink. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting only my own terror. "Yes, I do."
I glare at him. "People are going to notice I'm gone, you know. I don’t just disappear without it making headlines. My team, my followers, they’ll know something’s wrong."
He leans against the wall, casual in the way only a man holding all the power can be. "We’re handling it."
"Handling it?" I echo, every hair on my neck standing up.
"We’ve got someone managing your accounts. Enough scheduled content, enough polished captions to keep up the illusion. Your fans won’t notice and your assistant has been… reassured all is fine."
My mouth goes dry. "You're pretending to be me? How fucking dare you! You can’t be me!"
He meets my stare without flinching. "Until we figure out what kind of threat you’ve created, yes."
I take a step back. "That’s insane. I swear to God, if you screw up my brand…"
"It’s smart. You built your brand to be effortless, remember? No one questions a digital detox when it’s framed with the right filter."
I take a shaky breath, then another, trying to steady myself, trying to find a footing on this shifting, treacherous ground. "So, what now?" I ask, the sass returning. "You keep me here until I'm Stockholm Syndrome Barbie? All obedient and grateful? Is that the grand plan?"
He doesn't answer my question. With a quiet pivot, he walks to the door. He's already bored with me.
"You'll have dinner delivered at seven," he says, his hand already on the handle. "If you behave."
I snatch the throw pillow from the chaise lounge and hurl it at his retreating back with all my strength. It hits the doorframe behind him with a soft thud.
Damn, I missed.
I stroll over to the chaise lounge and plop down hard. The plush fabric offers no comfort. I want to cry, but I won't. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. I refuse to let him see me completely broken.
Instead, I whisper into the suffocating silence of the lavish room. "Someone will find me. They have to."