Chapter 7
I think through my options. The walls of this prison close in with each passing hour. I can't just sit here and wait for whatever fate Alessio and the Ferettis decide for me.
What would Mom have done? She'd tell me to be smart, to use what I have.
And what I have is information. Knowledge. The one thing I've always been good at.
I pace the room, formulating my argument. The Ferettis clearly want something from me—otherwise I'd already be dead. Since they're against Raymond and my father, our interests align more than they differ.
I hear footsteps approaching in the hallway. My pulse quickens as I smooth down my dress and take a steadying breath. The lock clicks and Alessio appears in the doorway, balancing a tray of food in one hand.
The smell of coffee reaches me first—at least that will be good, if it’s like the one he brought me earlier. The rest of the food however is... questionable. The eggs appear simultaneously raw and dried up, and the toast is charred around the edges.
I repress a smile. "I want to work with you," I say before he can speak, my voice calm despite the nerves shimmering in my stomach.
His eyebrows lift as he sets the tray down on a table by the window.
"Against my father and Raymond," I continue, watching his face for any reaction. "I have no illusions about my situation. I'm your prisoner. But I'd rather be useful than just sit here waiting for whatever you decide to do with me."
I hold my breath, waiting for Alessio's response. His dark eyes study me with that unnerving intensity that makes me feel completely exposed.
"Is that so?" he asks, a graveled tone that seems to vibrate the air between us.
A shiver runs up my spine although I’m not aware of feeling afraid.
I try to focus on the conversation but my mind keeps snagging on irrelevant details—the way his broad shoulders fill out the black T-shirt, how his stubbled jaw flexes when he's thinking, the controlled power in his movements as he sets down the tray.
"Yes," I manage, but much breathier than I intended. "The evidence I have... is comprehensive."
He takes a step closer and I fight the urge to step back. He smells of expensive cologne and something darker, something uniquely him.
"And why would you betray your family?" His voice drops even lower, almost a husk.
That voice. It does something to me I can't explain—like fingers trailing down my spine, raising goosebumps along my arms. I've never reacted this way to anyone before. It's unsettling how my body responds to him without my permission.
"They stopped being family when they tried to sell me to a monster," I say, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to create a barrier between us. "When they chose profit over people's lives." My eyes linger at his mouth.
I swallow hard and look away, confused by my reaction. This is ridiculous. He snatched me. He's dangerous.
"You're shivering," he observes, misreading my body's betrayal. "Cold?"
"I'm fine," I snap, annoyed at myself more than him.
I force myself to look at the disaster-zone breakfast. My stomach growls despite its questionable appearance.
"Eat if you want to." Alessio nods toward the tray. "So you want to work with us? That makes things much easier since you're volunteering. Although…" his eyes narrow slightly "...I'm not a big fan of people who betray family."
The coffee scalds my tongue but the pain helps sharpen my focus. I set the cup down with more force than necessary.
"My father appears to be a monster who kills innocent people," I say, gaining strength with each word.
"He and Raymond traffic human beings and harvest their organs.
They're not family—they're criminals." I take a step towards him, abandoning all pretense of interest in the food.
"Besides, I don't give a damn what you're a big fan of.
You abducted a bride, remember? You don't get to judge my moral choices. "
Something feral flashes in his eyes. In two swift strides he's in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His proximity steals the air from my lungs.
"If we're going to work together on this," he says, in that low rumble again, "you need to keep your smart mouth shut."
His thumb caresses his bottom lip as he studies me, and I find myself momentarily transfixed. The hard power of the one against the fleshy fullness. I can’t help but imagine….
"I don't respond well to orders," I snip, without any conviction at all.
His bottomless-pit eyes bore into mine, unyielding. The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be amusement or disdain—I can't tell which is worse.
"You don't have a choice either way, piccola ." His voice wraps around the Italian endearment like velvet over steel. "We'll work together but make no mistake—I will be giving the orders."
My fingers gouge into my sides. The rational part of my brain knows he's right—I'm in no position to negotiate terms. But something in me refuses to surrender completely.
"And if I don't agree to your terms?" I challenge, lifting my chin despite the pounding of my pulse.
Alessio steps even closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. Heat radiates from his body and I fight the urge to lean back.
"Then I'll work with what I have anyway," he says with a casual shrug that somehow feels more threatening than any raised voice. "The USB drive, the information you've already shared. I have people but your cooperation would make things... smoother. For everyone."
The implied threat hangs in the air between us.
"Fine," I concede, hating how easily he's backed me into a corner. "But I want something in return."
His eyebrow arches. "You're not exactly in a position to make demands."
"Call it a request, then." I take a leveling breath. "I want your word that when this is over—when Raymond and my father are dealt with—you'll let me go. With enough resources to disappear and start over somewhere new."
Alessio studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His thumb rubs his bottom lip as he considers my offer and once again, I'm totally discombobulated by that small move.
"We'll see," he finally says. "If your information is as valuable as you claim, and if you behave yourself, perhaps we can come to an arrangement."
It's not the promise I wanted but it's better than nothing.
I watch her closely, cataloging every micro-expression. The way her pupils dilate when I move close. Maybe from fear.
This woman is dangerous—not because she's physically threatening but because she's smart. Too smart.
"Before we go any further with this arrangement," I say, "I need to know something. If you access your laptop and that USB, can they track your location?"
"They could," she says after a moment. "Before I open the laptop, I'd need to take precautions."
"What kind of precautions?"
She lifts her shoulders, shifting into what I recognize as her technical expertise mode. The transformation is subtle but fascinating—her voice becomes more confident, her eyes sharper.
"First, I'd need to cover all cameras on the device with opaque tape. The microphone too." Her fingers tap against her thigh as she thinks. "Turn off GPS and location tracking completely. Most importantly, disconnect from all networks—WiFi, Bluetooth, cellular, everything."
I nod, impressed despite myself. "Anything else?"
"Ideally I'd use a virtual machine and encryption tools but with those basic precautions, we should be safe if we stay completely offline." She meets my gaze directly. "I know what I'm doing. This isn't my first time covering digital tracks."
"And what exactly were you covering before?" I ask.
Her eyes follow the movement of my thumb on my mouth, my thinking tic, before snapping back to mine. "That's not relevant to our current situation."
She's hiding something, but don't we all have secrets? Right now I need her skills more than I need her complete history.
"Fine," I say, reaching into the bag at my feet. I pull out her laptop and place it on the bed. "But you'll eat first."
Her eyes open slightly at the sight of her computer, then narrow with suspicion. "Why the sudden generosity?"
"It's not generosity, princess. It's practicality. You need fuel to think clearly and I need your brain functioning at full capacity."
I gesture to the tray I brought earlier. It sits untouched on the small table by the window.
Melania approaches the tray cautiously, as if it might contain explosives rather than my pathetic attempt at breakfast. She lifts the fork, poking at the eggs with scientific curiosity. Her lips twitch and I can tell she's fighting back laughter.
"Something amusing?" I inquire.
She clears her throat, composing herself. "No, not at all. It's just... interesting."
"Interesting?"
"The eggs are simultaneously overcooked and undercooked. I didn't know that was possible." She puts a small bite in her mouth, chewing with determination.
"I don't cook," I say flatly. "Usually there are people for that."
"I could have helped, you know," she says, setting down the fork and picking up the coffee instead. "If you hadn't kept me locked in here like a prisoner."
"You are a prisoner."
She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. "A prisoner who knows how to make proper eggs."
"Next time I'll consider it," I say. "Now eat what you can and get to work. We need to know exactly what's on that drive."
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Melania force down another bite of the mangled eggs. She winces slightly but continues eating. Smart woman. She knows she needs the energy.
"These are..." she pauses, searching for a diplomatic word, "interesting."
"They're shit," I say bluntly. "But they're what you've got."
She nods, taking another sip of coffee—the one thing I managed not to destroy. "This, at least, is excellent."
I don't acknowledge the compliment, just watch as she finishes what she can manage of the food. When she's done, she stands and surveys the room, her eyes taking in every detail. She moves to the small desk by the window, then shakes her head.
"Not enough space," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
She drags the chair from the desk to the foot of the bed, creating a makeshift workspace. She places the laptop on the bed, angling it so the screen faces away from the door.
"I need tape," she says, looking up at me. "Opaque tape, preferably black electrical tape. And scissors."
"I'll get the tape," I say. "No scissors. I'll tear it myself."
Her eyes narrow. "Fine."
I leave the room, locking it behind me—a precaution that feels increasingly unnecessary but one I maintain out of habit. In the supply closet I find a roll of black electrical tape and return to find Melania sitting cross-legged on the bed, her posture perfect despite her casual position.
I hand her the tape and she immediately tears off a small piece with her teeth. She doesn't need any help. I get it.
She turns the laptop toward me, pointing to the tiny camera lens at the top of the screen. "This needs to be covered completely. And here—" she points to a small pinhole on the side, "—is the microphone."
I watch as she carefully places tape over both spots, pressing down firmly to ensure no gaps.
"There's another microphone on the bottom," she says, flipping the laptop over and covering a third spot. "Now we should be safe from remote activation of recording devices."
She looks up at me, all business now. Her fingers hover over the keyboard. "I need the USB."
I reach into my pocket, thumb grazing the smooth surface of the drive. For something so small, it carries enough data to topple empires. I pull it out, holding it between my thumb and forefinger.
"Here," I say.
Melania's eyes lock onto the drive, her focus sharpening like a predator spotting prey. She extends her hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled—expectant but not demanding.
I don't immediately place it in her waiting palm. "Remember our arrangement. You work with me, not against me."
"I understand," she says, her voice level despite the hunger in her eyes.
I drop the drive and her fingers close around it protectively, like she's afraid I might change my mind.
I drag a chair from the corner of the room, positioning it at an angle where I can clearly see her screen. The legs scrape against the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet room. I sit down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, my posture deceptively casual.
"Don't try anything clever," I warn. "I may not be a tech genius but I know enough to spot if you're trying to send messages or access networks."
She doesn't respond, already lost in her own world. Her fingers move with practiced precision as she boots up the laptop. The screen light illuminates her face, casting shadows that hollow her cheeks and sharpen her features.
She plugs in the drive. Her entire demeanor changes—shoulders hunching forward slightly, head tilted at a determined angle, fingers poised over the keyboard like a pianist about to perform. The rest of the room might as well not exist.
I've seen this kind of focus before. In snipers. In surgeons. In people whose success depends on blocking out everything except the task at hand.
She types rapidly, navigating through security protocols with the ease of someone walking a familiar path. Her eyes never leave the screen, not even to blink. Her breathing has slowed, grown deeper, more controlled.
It's like watching someone slip into a trance. The woman who was arguing with me moments ago, the woman who criticized my cooking and maintained her defiance despite her circumstances—she's gone. In her place is this laser-focused technician, completely absorbed in the digital world before her.
The way she loses herself in the work reminds me of how I feel when planning an operation—that complete immersion where nothing exists except the objective. It's rare to see that level of concentration in someone else.