Chapter 37 Camilla
I wake up to the smell of coffee and something cooking.
For a disorienting moment, I think I'm somewhere else. My father's house, maybe, or a hotel. Somewhere safe and normal where breakfast smells mean ordinary mornings instead of psychological warfare.
Then I remember where I am.
The confusion crashes back instantly, heavy and suffocating.
I've been hiding in this guest room for two days, trying to sort through the wreckage of my thoughts.
Trying to separate what's real from what was manipulation, what I actually feel from what I was conditioned to feel.
Trying to figure out if the woman who pushed Renato during those training sessions was me or just another performance.
I still don't have answers.
But I'm tired of being alone with my own spiraling thoughts. Tired of processing and analyzing and trying to make sense of something that might never make sense.
Maybe that's why I find myself padding downstairs in bare feet, drawn by the smell of coffee and the sound of something sizzling in a pan.
I stop in the kitchen doorway and freeze.
Renato stands at the stove, shirtless in grey sweatpants, his back to me as he works.
His hair is damp from a recent shower, messy in a way that's completely unlike the controlled businessman I've come to know.
There's a grace to his movements. The kind of competence that comes from years of repetition.
He's actually cooking.
Not supervising staff, not having someone else prepare food. Actually, standing at a stove making breakfast with his own hands.
The domesticity of it all warms me more than it should.
I watch him crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them with what looks like cream, add herbs with the experience of someone who knows exactly what he's doing. His shoulders are tense despite the casual clothes, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
He also looks... good. Attractive in a way that has nothing to do with expensive suits or sexy charm. Just a man in his kitchen, hair messy, making breakfast.
I hate that I notice. Hate that my body responds to the sight of him even as my mind is still sorting through betrayal and manipulation and weeks of lies.
He pours the eggs into a heated pan, adjusting the temperature with the kind of attention most people reserve for important tasks. There's something almost meditative about his focus, like this simple act of cooking is the only thing keeping him grounded.
I wonder what he needs grounding from.
What's been keeping him awake.
Whether he's been as lost as I have these past two days.
"Good morning," I say finally.
He goes very still for just a moment before turning around. His dark eyes find mine across the kitchen, and I see something flash in them—relief, maybe, or hope, or just exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"Good morning." His voice is careful, neutral. "I made coffee. And extra eggs, if you're hungry."
"You cook?"
"When I need to." He turns back to the stove, giving me space to decide whether to stay or retreat. "The staff has the day off."
"You dismissed them?"
"Thought you might want privacy. Normal privacy, not the locked-door kind."
The distinction makes something twist in my chest. He's trying, in his own clumsy way, to give me what I asked for. Space and normalcy and the freedom to choose.
Even if every instinct he has probably screams to control the situation.
I move into the kitchen, settling onto one of the bar stools. The marble countertop is cool under my arms, grounding in its solidity.
"Where did you learn to cook?" I ask, genuinely curious.
He plates the eggs before answering. "My mother taught me. When I was young. She knew how to make something good out of very little." He pours espresso into a small cup, adds just a touch of sugar without asking, and slides it across to me. "We didn't have much when I was growing up."
I accept the coffee, noting how he prepared it exactly how I like it. As if we do this every morning. As if this is normal instead of surreal.
"We lived in a shitty apartment with a hot plate and a window that didn't close properly.
" He brings over two plates, setting one in front of me before taking the stool beside me.
Close, but not too close. "She'd work twelve-hour days cleaning houses, and then she'd come home and make sure I knew how to feed myself. "
"That must have been hard. For both of you."
"It was survival." He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, just stares at his plate. "Sometimes, when the houses she cleaned had chickens or bought eggs in bulk, she'd slip a couple into her bag. Just two or three, nothing they'd notice missing."
I watch his face as he talks, seeing something vulnerable beneath the exhaustion. This isn't a story designed to manipulate me. It's just memory, raw and honest.
"It would be the best meal we'd had all week. Eggs became... I don't know. Comfort. Safety. The closest thing to luxury we could afford."
"She stole for you."
"She stole for us both." He finally meets my eyes. "I'm not telling you this for sympathy. You asked how I learned to cook. That's the answer."
I take a bite of the eggs. They're perfectly prepared—creamy, seasoned well, the kind of thing you'd get at an expensive restaurant. But there's something else in them too. Care. Attention. The muscle memory of someone who learned this skill out of necessity and never forgot.
"They're good," I say quietly.
"Thanks."
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It should be awkward, the captor and his former prisoner sharing breakfast like normal people. But somehow, it's not. It's present. Real in a way nothing else has been since this nightmare started.
"You look tired," I observe.
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"Guilty conscience?"
"Among other things." He drains his espresso in one swallow. "Hard to sleep when the only thing that matters is something you can't control."
The honesty catches me off guard. No deflection, no casual dismissal. Just admission that he's as lost in this as I am.
"Is that what I am? The thing you can't control?"
"You're the thing I won't control. There's a difference."
I set down my fork, the eggs suddenly sitting heavy in my stomach. "That's not fair. You can't put that distinction on me like it absolves you."
"I'm not putting anything on you. I'm just being honest about where we are." He stands and takes his plate to the sink. "You asked me to stop lying. That's the truth."
I watch him rinse the dish with the same careful attention he gave to cooking. Everything he does is controlled, like he's afraid that if he lets go for even a moment, everything will fall apart.
"What have you been doing?" I ask. "While I've been upstairs processing."
He's quiet for a long moment, his back still to me. "Do you really want to know?"
"I asked for honesty. That includes the ugly parts."
He turns around, leaning against the counter, and I see something dark flicker in his expression. "I've been tracking down the man who was supposed to buy you. Khalid Al-Zahrani. A businessman from Dubai who collects women like art."
"And?"
"I'm going to kill him. Tonight."
The casual way he says it chills me. But also something else. Something that feels almost like satisfaction.
"Only him?" I ask carefully.
"Yes. The man who paid five million down on fifteen million total, thinking he could own you." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's describing a business transaction instead of murder. "He's been sitting in a luxury hotel in Rome for three days, waiting for you to be delivered to him."
The image takes away my appetite. A man in an expensive suite, sipping champagne, waiting for me to arrive like a package. Planning what he'd do with me once I was his property.
"Tell me about him," I say quietly.
Renato studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine whether I really want to know.
Then he tells me about the compound in Dubai where Al-Zahrani keeps his collection of women.
The isolation periods. The training. How he likes them compliant, broken in gradually.
How he specifically requested an Italian aristocrat because of the "breeding value. "
"He has other women," I say when he's finished. "Right now. In that compound.”
"Yes."
"And you're just going to kill him? Not help them?"
"I can't save everyone, Camilla. Especially if they’re in another country. But I can make sure he never adds another woman to his collection." Renato pushes off from the counter. "This isn't about justice for all his victims. This is about the fact that he thought he could buy you."
"And if I asked you not to go? Not to kill him?"
"Would you?"
The question hangs between us. Would I? This is a man who keeps women prisoner, who buys and breaks them, who was waiting in Rome to own me. Does he deserve mercy?
Do I want him to have mercy?
"I don't know," I admit finally. "Part of me thinks he deserves whatever you do to him. But another part thinks this isn't about justice. It's about you trying to control something while you feel powerless."
"You're probably right." He moves back to where I'm sitting. "But right or wrong, I can't stop. He paid to own you. Made arrangements. Had plans for what he'd do once Torretti delivered you. That requires an answer paid in blood."
I look up at him—this exhausted, obsessive, violent man who's also standing in his kitchen making me breakfast he learned from his mother. Who's trying so hard to be normal while planning murder.
Who's completely fucked up and somehow still the most honest person in my life right now.
"What about the others?" I ask. "The people who worked for Torretti. The ones who knew about the sale."
"What about them?"
"Are you going to kill them too?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "I thought about it.
Made a list. Eight people who knew, who facilitated.
" He runs a hand through his damp hair. "But no.
Just Al-Zahrani. The man who thought he could buy you is enough for now.
Unless you tell me to kill the others. Then I will, but not without your permission. "
Just one man. One death. One message.
It's still insane.
But it's also more focused than I expected. Just the elimination of the man who was waiting in a hotel to own me.
"The eggs were good," I say finally, because I don't know what else to say.
"Yeah?"
"Your mother taught you well."
Something in his expression softens. "She'd probably be horrified by what I've become."
"Or proud that you survived."
"I'm not sure survival is the same thing as truly living." He picks up my empty plate. "But I'm figuring that out. One breakfast at a time."
I stand, suddenly needing distance to process this. "I'm going back upstairs. To think."
"Okay."
"But Renato?"
He turns back, waiting.
"Thank you. For being honest about what you're doing. For not pretending you're something you're not." I pause at the doorway. "And for the eggs."
"You're welcome. For the eggs, at least."
I head back upstairs, my mind spinning with new information to process.
One man. One death. One message that I was never for sale.
Because the same hands that whisked eggs with care this morning has probably broken someone's bones to extract information before the kill.
Because the man I'm starting to want is also the man I should run from as fast as possible.
But I don't run.
I just go back to my room and try to figure out if monsters who cook breakfast are still monsters.