Chapter 9
NIKKI
Ican't sleep. Instead, I lie on the ridiculous designer mattress in this prison-chic suite, staring at the ceiling and praying for a miracle. All I get in return is a nagging feeling my life is over, and a case of existential dread.
By morning, I'm up before the sun, hair a messy bun, tangled from tossing and turning. I pad barefoot across the cold, polished floor and yank open the heavy curtains. The view is exactly the same as yesterday. A green, boring lawn, trimmed hedges, and a fountain so symmetrical it could be a screensaver. It’s all too perfect, as if I’m a patient in a luxury rehab center run by the mafia.
Another day in paradise, except to me it's my own personal hell.
Enzo brings breakfast, setting the tray down in a sacred ritual, precise and silent, then backing away like I'm a rabid raccoon about to spring. Probably fair. My mood is definitely bordering on rabid.
"Can I get some eggs with a side of justice?" I ask, my words too loud in the quiet room. "No? Just toast? Okay then. Fine. I guess I'll just chew on my despair instead. It's got a lot more flavor anyway."
He leaves without speaking. Whatever. I wasn't in the mood for small talk anyway. Or fake smiles. I'm tired of fake.
I poke at the perfectly arranged fruit, then sniff the coffee. It smells... normal. Too normal. Maybe he's trying to trick me. I push the whole tray away, then drag it back. Hunger beats pride.
The hours crawl by. The sun moves across the glass wall, painting squares of light on the floor. I pace. I stare at the ceiling. I try to remember the layout of the villa. Details. I need details. This is all I have now to fill my time while I'm slowly going insane.
By noon, I'm back in the dining room, after being summoned by Enzo. Rafe's already there, seated like a goddamn monarch at the head of the impossibly long table. Dark suit, darker stare. He's exactly where he wants to be, in control.
"You summoned, my Lord?" I ask, as I flop into the chair across from him.
I make sure my movements are fluid, confident.
No begging today. It didn't work anyway.
"Should I curtsy, boss man, or just roll my eyes dramatically?
Because I'm pretty good at the eye-rolling these days.
It's a natural reaction to this whole situation. "
He doesn't smile. Of course not. I don't think his facial muscles do that. Maybe they're surgically removed when you join the mafia. A prerequisite for the job. No smiling allowed or we'll cut your finger off.
"We need to talk about your future," he says, pushing a thin folder across the table toward me. It slides silently on the polished wood.
"Oh, good," I reply, picking up the folder.
"Because I was just wondering how I might build my brand from inside an old villa slash jail cell.
Is this a new collaboration? Maybe a 'QueenNikki x Italian Mafia: Hostage Chic Collection'?
Or is this more secret info on me? Do you realize you're leaning into stalker territory?
It's creepy. You should hear what happened to my last stalker. "
I’m running my mouth again. Like that’s going to protect me. But the truth is, every word could be my last if I say the wrong thing.
"This is a contract," he explains. "You have two options.
Option one, we stage your return. You go back to your life, but under our terms. Controlled posts.
Monitored movement. No references to this place.
No questions about your disappearance. You become a compliant public figure with a limited platform.
Safe and protected. Watched at all times.
You follow a script we provide for everything. "
Curious, I open the folder. Inside are pictures of me. Old ones, new ones. Pictures I didn't know he had. My face, but empty.
"Well, this is… disturbing," I manage, the word feeling too small for the monstrous thing he's describing. To be me, but not me. To be a ghost of my former self, dancing to his tune.
"It's effective," he counters. "You play the role we script for you. You become a beacon of carefully controlled normalcy. And in exchange, you get your name back. Your face. Your platform, in theory. Your partial freedom."
My throat tightens. "So, I become your poster girl for silence. Your perfectly behaved prisoner, just outside the bars. A brand ambassador for quiet obedience."
"Exactly. You have visibility. Influence. That makes you uniquely valuable if we control the narrative. Otherwise, you’re just a liability to eliminate.”
"And the other option?"
"We make you disappear. Permanently. You cease to exist as Nikki Ricci.
We relocate you under an alias. You get a fresh start in a controlled country with clean documents, a new history, and absolutely no online presence.
No risk. No trace. But also, no old life.
No one'll ever know who you are or were. "
My stomach twists, a cold, hard knot. I stare at the pages.
There are photos of me with different hair colors, different styles.
Fake IDs with different names, different birthdates.
A rental lease for a small apartment in Portugal.
A flight itinerary I never booked. It's all so real.
So meticulously planned. Even the handwriting on the rental agreement looked eerily neat, like someone had practiced being me.
"You already planned this?" I ask. The thought that he had this prepared, ready to deploy, long before I ever stepped into his car, freaks me out. I was twenty-four hours from being 'disappeared' permanently.
"It's a contingency plan," he says. "Not a preference. But a necessary consideration for anyone who compromises my security. We keep options like these prepared. You’re not the first problem I’ve had to erase. You just happen to be the prettiest one.”
I sit back. "Let me get this straight. I either become a glorified chatbot for the Italian Mafia, or I stop being myself completely. I vanish off the face of the earth."
"Unfortunately, that's the cost of what you saw. Of what it could expose."
"I didn't ask to see it," I protest for the millionth time. "I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask for any of this."
"That doesn't matter to the people who want you gone," he says. "The ones who'd find you and use you against me. We've already gone over this time and time again. Your preference is irrelevant to their motivations."
My mind races, frantically searching for a third option, a loophole, anything.
There's nothing.
"And if I say no to both?" I ask quietly.
"You don't get a third option."
I close the folder. My hands are trembling, but I keep my expression neutral. Don't give him anything. Don't show him how much this shatters me.
"I need time," I say. I need time to think. To plot. To find a way out of this impossible choice.
“You have twelve hours. After that, the people watching this situation will stop asking me what I plan to do with you and will start making decisions of their own.”
“The Black Scorpion assholes?”
“Yes.”
I rise too, pushing my chair back with a soft scrape. My legs feel a little shaky, but I hold myself tall. "Thanks for the meeting. Super enlightening. I'll be in touch."
I walk back to my room, each step heavy.
He's right.
There's no option that gives me back what I had. The carefree, narcissistic life of QueenNikki. That girl is gone. She vanished on the Amalfi Coast. Never to be seen or heard from again.
But maybe, just maybe, I can make him think I've picked one of his options. Long enough to stall. Long enough to find a real way out. Long enough to rewrite this script. I need to do whatever is necessary to buy myself time.
He doesn't know the things I've gone through in my life. The things I've pulled myself out of to get where I'm at now.
I'm not ready to give up yet.
A cold resolve settles in my chest, replacing the fear.
I’ll play along. Smile on camera, post on cue. But behind the scenes? I’m writing my own damn script.
And spoiler alert, Rafe Valentino.
You’re not the hero of this story.
I am.