Chapter 4
I pick at the last crust of the sandwich, my stomach satisfied despite my determination to reject anything he offers.
My mind drifts back to when this nightmare truly began.
Three months ago, when I returned from London with my cybersecurity degree, Father suddenly wanted me at his side for every social function.
At first I thought he was finally taking an interest in my accomplishments, finally seeing me as more than just his pretty, marriageable daughter.
How naive I was.
It was all about Raymond Stone. The first time I met him was at a charity gala. I remember the moment perfectly—Father's hand at my back, guiding me across the ballroom toward a circle of powerful men.
"Melania, this is Raymond Stone," Father had said, his voice carrying that rare note of deference I'd seldom heard.
Raymond turned and something in his eyes made my skin crawl instantly. Tall, impeccably dressed in a custom suit. Silver-streaked dark hair styled to project distinguished authority. His smile never reached his eyes—cold, assessing, like I was a new toy he was considering purchasing.
"Antonio, you've been hiding this treasure," Raymond said, taking my hand and pressing his lips to it a moment too long.
His fingers were soft—the hands of someone who ordered violence rather than committed it himself. Everything about him was carefully crafted: the political pin on his lapel, the charitable foundation logo on his cufflinks, the wedding band he still wore despite being widowed for years.
To the world, Raymond Stone was the pinnacle of respectability—a widower devoted to public service, championing laws to protect families and children. The irony made me sick when I later discovered what those "family values" concealed.
That night, I caught him watching me from across the room multiple times. Not with the typical male appreciation I was used to deflecting, but with something colder, more artful. As though I was an asset being appraised.
I remember how Father paraded me at event after event, always making sure Raymond had access to me.
The first time Raymond asked me out was at another charity gala, this one for children's education—the hypocrisy of which makes my stomach turn now.
"Melania," Raymond had said, materializing at my side as I admired a painting in the silent auction. "You've been avoiding me all evening."
His cologne was too strong, like he was trying to mark his territory with scent alone. I shifted away slightly, maintaining a polite smile.
"I've been circulating, Mr. Stone. Father expects me to represent the family."
"Raymond, please," he corrected, stepping into my space. "I'd like to continue our conversation from last week. Perhaps dinner tomorrow night? I know a wonderful Italian place that reminds me of Florence."
My mouth opened to form a gentle but firm refusal when Father appeared, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder.
"She would love to," Father accepted for me, his fingers digging into my skin. "Wouldn't you, cara ?"
I looked between them, trapped. "I actually have plans to?—"
"Nothing that can't be rescheduled," Father interrupted, his smile never faltering while his grip tightened. "Seven o'clock?"
"Perfect," Raymond replied, his eyes never leaving my face. "I'll send a car."
After Raymond walked away I turned to Father, keeping my voice discreet but unable to hide my anger.
"I don't want to have dinner with him. He's old enough to be my father and there's something about him that feels... wrong."
Father pulled me into a corner, his expression hardening. "You will do what is best for this family, Melania. Raymond Stone is a powerful ally."
"An ally? Is that what you call selling your daughter to the highest bidder?"
His hand shot up, finger pointing in my face. "You sound like a spoiled child. Your mother would have understood the importance of such a connection."
The mention of my mother made my blood boil. "Don't you dare. Mama would never have wanted this for me."
"Your mother knew her duty to this family," he hissed. "She would have taught you to do the same."
The irony wasn't lost on me. My mother—gentle, loving, trapped in a marriage she couldn't escape—would have indeed told me to comply, but only because Father would have given her no choice.
She'd spent her life being the perfect Lombardi wife, slowly fading away under Father's control until cancer finally freed her.
I twisted my mother's ring that night, the thin band that was her most treasured possession. The only thing of hers I had left.
"I'm nothing but a business transaction to you," I whispered.
Father's face softened slightly, a purely manipulative move. "You're my daughter. I want what's best for you—for all of us. Raymond can provide security, connections, a future. Just dinner, Melania. Is that so much to ask?"
It wasn't just dinner. We both knew that. It was the first step on a path already mapped out for me.
I push myself off the bed, my body aching from tension. The memory of Raymond's calculated pursuit makes my skin crawl all over again. I need to wash his phantom touch off my skin.
The adjoining bathroom is surprisingly luxurious for what must be a safehouse—marble countertop, plush towels, high-end toiletries.
I welcome the shock of cold water splashing my face. I cup my hands, letting the water pool before pressing it against my closed eyes. Again and again I repeat the motion until my racing thoughts begin to slow.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—mascara smudged beneath my eyes. The primped and polished Lombardi princess replaced by someone wilder, more desperate.
"Think, Melania," I whisper to myself. "Think clearly."
And suddenly, as water drips from my chin, a realization hits me: I'm not at the cathedral being made Raymond’s wife. I'm not under my father's watchful eye. For the first time in months neither man knows exactly where I am or what I'm doing.
This kidnapping—as terrifying as it is—has achieved what I wanted most: escape. Not in the way I planned, certainly, but the result is the same. I have breathing room. Time to think without Raymond's possessive gaze or my father's machinations.
I grab a towel and pat my face dry, mind tumbling with new clarity.
If I can access my laptop, retrieve the USB drive with evidence of their crimes, I might still salvage my original plan.
The Ferettis clearly have their own agenda with my father and Raymond, but perhaps I can use that to my advantage.
For now, being away from both Raymond and my father is exactly what I needed.
I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders. If the Ferettis eventually plan to return me to my father or use me as a bargaining chip, I'll need to consider my options when that time comes. But right now I have space to breathe, to think, to plan.
And that's more than I had this morning in that suffocating bridal suite.
I watch the security feed as Melania disappears into the bathroom. She can't escape from there—no windows, one door, and we've cleared it of anything that could be used as a weapon. No need for cameras in that space. I've got limits, despite what she might think.
When she emerges from the bathroom, face dripping, she looks different. Something's changed in her expression—a new resolve that makes me sit up straighter.
"What are you planning, piccola ?" I ask the screen.
Her bag sits beside me on the desk. She's been too concerned about it since the moment I took her. Time to find out why.
I unzip it carefully, searching for hidden compartments. I find the standard items—wallet with credit cards and ID, makeup, and a sleek laptop. But tucked into an inner pocket is what I'm looking for—a small black USB drive with a fingerprint scanner built into its titanium casing.
Military-grade security. Not something a socialite carries to store vacation photos.
I turn it over in my hand, feeling its weight. Whatever's on this, it's important enough that she was willing to offer me thirty million to let her retrieve it. Important enough that she looked genuinely disconcerted when she realized it was in my possession.
The USB requires a fingerprint to access. I could force her hand onto it, but something tells me the contents are worth understanding before confronting her.
I slide the drive into my pocket and return everything else to the bag. The laptop might provide answers too, but it's likely password-protected. I could have our people work on both but it is not possible right now.
Whatever game she's playing, whatever's on this drive—it's big enough to make her run from her own wedding. Big enough to make Raymond Stone turn the city upside down looking for her.
And now it's in my pocket.
My phone vibrates against the desk. Damiano's name flashes on the screen.
"Tell me you have good news," I answer.
"Define good." Damiano's voice is tight. "Antonio Lombardi just doubled the reward. Thirty million for information on his daughter's whereabouts."
My thumb traces my bottom lip as I process this. "Thirty million? For a daughter he was selling off to Stone?"
"Exactly my thought." Papers rustle on Damiano's end. "If it was Sofia missing, I'd empty every account I have. I'd burn cities to the ground. But Antonio?"
"He doesn't strike me as father of the year," I say, glancing at the security feed where Melania sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared like she's preparing for battle.
"Something doesn't add up. Either he loves her—which is bullshit otherwise he would have offered thirty million to start—or his daughter has something he desperately needs."
I feel the weight of the USB in my pocket. "Or knows something."
"Find out what it is," Damiano orders. "With that bounty every cop, mercenary and desperate fuck in the city will be hunting her.
She's the most wanted woman in the country right now.
" Damiano's voice hardens. "I don't care how you do it but get me answers.
If Antonio wants her this badly, we need to know why. "
"Understood."
The call ends, and I stare at the screen showing Melania. The determination in her posture, the calculation in those amber eyes. She's no helpless princess. She's hiding something that’s worth thirty million dollars to her father.
Time to find out what.
The hallway to her room stretches long and silent.
I unlock her door and push it open. Melania jumps to her feet immediately, like a soldier called to action. Her eyes fasten on the bag over my shoulder, then dart casually back to my face. She's trying to appear calm but the pulse pounding her neck gives her away.
"Time for us to have a little discussion, princess." I close the door behind me, leaning against it. "Sit."
She hesitates, calculating her options before perching on the edge of the bed. I drag the room's single chair to face her, setting her bag beside me on the floor. Close enough that she can see it, far enough that she can't reach it.
"Let's start simple." I settle into the chair, stretching my legs out. "Why were you running from your own wedding?"
Her eyes widen slightly but she recovers quickly, shoulders dropping in a practiced show of resignation.
"I wasn't in love with him," she says, voice soft and wounded. "I couldn't go through with it."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Not in love?" I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "That's the best you could come up with?"
Color rises in her cheeks. "Is that so hard to believe? That I wouldn't want to marry a man three times my age?"
"No," I say, studying her face. "What's hard to believe is that a woman smart enough to coordinate her own escape from the Lombardi compound, with a bag packed and a getaway car arranged, would risk her father's wrath over something as trivial as love."
She blinks rapidly, the perfect picture of a confused socialite. "I don't know what you're implying. I just—I couldn't marry him. That's all."
"That's all ," I repeat, my voice flat with disbelief. "Your father is offering thirty million dollars for your return and you expect me to believe that this is about wedding jitters?"
Her composure slips for just a moment—a flash of genuine fear in those tiger eyes before the mask slides back into place.
"Daddy's always been overprotective," she says with a forced little laugh. "He probably thinks I've been kidnapped."
"Which you have been," I remind her.
"A fortunate coincidence." She smiles sweetly. "You saved me the train fare."
I stand, reaching into my pocket for the USB drive. Her eyes track my movement, stretching as the black titanium device appears between my fingers.
"Interesting little toy you've got here," I say, examining it. "Military-grade encryption. Biometric security." I turn it over, watching her face. "Not exactly standard equipment for a runaway bride."
Her composure cracks—a flash of naked panic before she schools her features.
"That's private property," she says, voice tight.
"Nothing's private when you're a guest of the Feretti family." I lower the USB to the floor and position my boot over it. "Now, I need answers. Real ones."
She rises halfway off the bed, hand outstretched. "Don't?—"
Her eyes remain fixed on my foot, her breathing shallow and quick.
"I'll ask one more time." I shift my weight, applying more pressure to the drive. "Why were you running? What's stored on this that's worth thirty million dollars?"
She swallows hard. "Please... you have no idea what you're holding."
"Then explain it to me." I rock my heel against the drive. "Or I crush it right now."
"You can't!" The controlled socialite vanishes and is replaced by raw desperation. "People will die if that information is destroyed!"
"What people?"
"Many people." Her voice trembles. "Children. Women. Hundreds of them."
I apply more pressure, watching the panic bloom across her face.
"Last chance, piccola . Full truth or—" I shift my weight, the metal casing creaking under my boot.
"Stop!" she screams, lunging forward. "I'll tell you everything! Just don't break it!"
The fear in her eyes isn't contrived now. It's primal. The real deal.
I ease the pressure but keep my foot hovering in place. "I'm listening."