Chapter 6
I jolt awake, with the anxiety of a pounding heart. Sunlight streams through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the unfamiliar bed.
I slept. Despite every intention to resist, my body betrayed me.
The room feels different in daylight—less threatening but more real. This isn't a nightmare I can wake from. I'm truly trapped here, at the mercy of a man who works for my father's enemies.
Where is Alessio? He never returned after our confrontation about the USB drive.
That thought sends a chill through me. He’s in possession of Raymond's crypto wallet now. All that evidence of the trafficking operation—the faces of those victims, the transaction records, everything I risked my life to steal—is in his hands.
My fingers fiddle with my mother's ring as scenarios race through my mind. What if he's already contacted Raymond? What if he's using the information to negotiate some deal that leaves me disposable?
He doesn't need me alive to use that evidence. In fact, I might be more valuable to him dead.
I force myself to stand, fighting the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm me. One step at a time. I need to think clearly.
I step into the bathroom and flip on the light, wincing at my reflection. My eyes look hollow, my skin pale. I barely recognize myself.
I turn on the faucet, letting cold water run over my wrists before splashing my face. The shock helps clear my head. I find a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the drawer—clearly they've prepared for a guest. Or a prisoner.
As I brush my teeth, I try to assess my options.
Alessio's absence terrifies me more than his presence did. At least when he was here, watching me with those shifty eyes, I knew where he was. Now he could be anywhere—making deals, plotting my fate, preparing to hand me over to someone worse.
I rinse my mouth and stare at my reflection again. The woman looking back at me appears stronger than I feel. My mother's daughter. A survivor.
There has to be a way out of this.
But every path I see leads to the same conclusion because Alessio holds all the power now. He has the evidence. He has me. And he doesn't need to keep me alive to use either.
I freeze mid-step as I exit the bathroom. Alessio sits in the armchair by the window, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. I didn't hear him enter.
"Good morning," he says, his voice low and smooth.
On the small table beside him sit two steaming mugs. He gestures toward the second chair. "Coffee."
I hesitate, glancing between him and the hot drink. The rich aroma fills the room, making my stomach clench with unexpected hunger.
"It's not poisoned," he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. "If I wanted you dead, there are more efficient methods."
I approach cautiously and pick up the mug, studying its contents. I take a sip. The coffee contains just the right amount of cream, no sugar. Exactly how I take it.
"How did you know?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
His mouth curves slightly. "You're the daughter of Antonio Lombardi. Your preferences are publicly documented."
A chill runs through me despite the warm mug in my hands. Of course they would have researched me before abducting me. He already told me that yesterday.
I take another tentative sip. The coffee is rich and smooth, clearly not instant. The small luxury feels strange within my captivity.
"Thank you," I say automatically, my manners ingrained too deeply to ignore.
Alessio watches me over the rim of his mug, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something different about him this morning. The hardness is still there but layered with something else—curiosity, perhaps.
"You slept," he observes.
"Not by choice," I reply, hating how vulnerable that makes me sound.
He nods as if he understands completely. "The body takes what it needs."
I lower myself into the chair across from him, keeping my back straight, chin up. My mother's voice echoes in my head: Never let them see your fear, Melania.
Silence stretches between us as I sip my coffee, my mind cavorting with questions. Alessio studies me with those dark, penetrating eyes that seem to strip away my every defense.
"Your brother," he says finally. "Leonardo. What did he say about your marriage to Raymond?"
The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected him to know about Leo, much less ask about him.
"He..." I hesitate, fingering my mother's ring. "He supported it. At least publicly."
"And you didn't tell him what you found out? About the trafficking operation?"
I laugh, a bitter explosion that surprises even me. "Blood doesn't always mean safety."
"Explain." It's not a request.
I choose my words carefully. "Leonardo has a good heart, deep down. But he's loyal to our father above all else." The admission hurts more than I expected. "After our mother died something changed in him. He became... harder. More like Antonio."
Alessio nods, his expression unreadable.
"I was scared," I continue. "Scared that if I told him what I’d discovered he’d tell our father. And then..." I don't finish the sentence. I don't need to.
"You don't trust your own brother to protect you from your father?" There's no judgment in his voice, just clinical curiosity.
"Would you?" I challenge.
Something flickers across his face—understanding, perhaps. He doesn't respond but his silence is confirmation enough.
I gather my courage and ask the question that's been haunting me since I woke up: "Are you going to kill me?"
I study her face when she asks whether I'm going to kill her. The question itself doesn't surprise me but hearing it from her lips makes something twist in my gut.
She thinks I'd kill a woman. Just like that.
The thought sits uncomfortably in my chest. Yes, I've put bullets in men who deserved them. I've ordered hits and broken bones and made examples of those who crossed the Ferettis. But a woman? Never. Some lines you don't cross, even in our world.
Her eyes hold mine, waiting for reassurance I'm not sure how to give. The anxiety behind her composure is real. She genuinely believes I might end her life if she becomes inconvenient.
What kind of men has she been surrounded by all her life?
"If I wanted you dead, Melania, you wouldn't have woken up this morning."
It's not the comfort she's looking for but it's the truth. I watch as she analyses my statement, the subtle shift in her shoulders, the slight release of tension around her eyes.
The Ferettis have rules. Lines we don't cross. Women and children are untouchable—always have been, always will be. It's what separates us from animals like Raymond Stone. But she doesn't know that. How could she?
I take another sip of coffee, studying her over the rim. She's different this morning—still defiant, still calculating, but there's something else there too. A vulnerability she's trying desperately to hide.
The original plan—to use her as leverage against Antonio—has shifted with this new information about the trafficking operation. She's become an asset rather than just a bargaining chip.
But looking at her now, I'm not sure I can think of her as either.
I clear my throat, suddenly needing to be anywhere but in this room with her.
"I'll be back later," I say, scanning her from head to toe one last time. The black outfit she wore for her escape hugs her curves in ways that make it hard to maintain my professional distance.
I don't wait for her response before turning and walking out, making sure to lock the door behind me.
In the hall I take a deep breath as I consider our conversation.
Something about her pulls at me—maybe it's the way she refuses to show fear, or how her mind works three steps ahead.
Either way, I need distance to clear my head.
The control room is quiet when I enter, my phone buzzes with a text from Noah. Damiano put him on information-gathering duty inside the Lombardi organization. His message is brief but valuable—he's managed to place someone close to Leonardo, Melania's brother.
I'm still scrolling through Noah's intel when the phone rings. Damiano.
"Yeah," I answer, keeping my eyes on the security feed.
"Antonio and Raymond have joined forces," Damiano says without preamble.
"Raymond's pulled every government string he has.
They're monitoring and digging up records at train stations, airports, bus terminals—anything that could get her out of the city.
" Damiano's voice is clipped. "He's got customs agents, police, even traffic cameras searching facial recognition. "
"Good thing we kept her off grid then." I say.
"For now. But we need to move carefully. With the resources they're throwing at this, one mistake and we're fucked."
"What's the next move?" I ask.
"You need to make her show you the evidence she claims she has on that drive," Damiano says, his voice hardening. "We need to see exactly what we're dealing with."
"She's not exactly trusting me at the moment," I point out, watching her on the monitor as she paces the room like a caged animal. "She thinks I might kill her."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Damiano's voice rises.
"This isn't about trust. She needs to learn her fucking place.
" I pull the phone away from my ear. "She wanted to escape her marriage and destroy her family.
That's what the fuck we want too. So use it and make it happen.
" There's a pause and when he speaks again, it’s with that dangerous edge I know well.
"Unless you can't handle a twenty-one-year-old woman? "
My jaw clenches. "I can handle her."
"Then do it. Get that evidence and confirm what she's claiming. If Antonio and Raymond are really harvesting organs we can use that to destroy them both."
I end the call without another word, my eyes still fixed on the security feed. Melania has stopped pacing and now sits on the bed, twisting a ring around her finger.
Damiano's right. This isn't about developing trust bonds. It's about survival and opportunity. If she has the evidence she claims she has, that could bring down Antonio Lombardi and Raymond Stone, we need to see it. Now.
I move through the kitchen, staring at the stainless steel appliances like they're foreign objects.
Cooking isn't exactly in my skill set. Growing up, Mamma said a young man needed proper nutrition, not whatever bachelor meals I might have attempted.
Then when I joined the Ferettis, there was Ettore, treating the kitchen like his personal kingdom where others were barely tolerated.
I open the refrigerator, scanning its contents. There's enough food to survive I guess. The problem isn't supplies. It's knowing what the fuck to do with them.
Breakfast. How hard can it be?
I grab eggs, thinking scrambled is probably the safest option. There's bread for toast, some fruit. Coffee I can manage—that's one thing I've mastered out of necessity and I think she liked the one I made for her.
Ten minutes later I'm staring at slightly burnt toast, eggs that are somehow both undercooked and overcooked in different spots, and coffee that's probably the only edible thing on the tray. Fuck.
I could call Ettore but the old man would never let me hear the end of it. I can dismantle and reassemble a Beretta blindfolded, but apparently scrambling eggs is beyond my capabilities.
I try the eggs. Well, you can swallow it so let's go with that. Besides, we're not at a fucking hotel.