Chapter 9
T hree hours in and I'm still working on the first layer.
Come on.
The program I'm running tests combinations at lightning speed, but this isn't like the movies where hackers magically break into systems in minutes.
This is methodical. Exhausting. My back aches from hunching over the laptop, but I can't stop now.
Alessio left about an hour ago without a word. One minute he was sitting across from me, watching with those intense dark eyes, the next he was gone. I didn't even hear him leave—just looked up and found myself alone.
Strange man. One moment he's bringing me cookies, the next he's glaring at me like I've personally offended him. His mood swings are giving me whiplash.
Not that I care. He's my captor, not my friend. His emotional state means nothing to me beyond how it might affect my safety.
I take a sip of water and refocus. The program runs through another set of combinations, each failure bringing a tiny flicker of frustration. Then?—
"Yes!"
The screen flashes green. Access granted to the first layer. I sit up straighter, a rush of satisfaction flowing through me. One down, several more to go, but this is progress.
I stretch my arms above my head, feeling my spine crack in protest. The room is quiet except for the hum of the laptop. No sign of Alessio returning.
Maybe he got bored watching me type. Or maybe he has actual work to do beyond babysitting a kidnapped bride. Either way, I appreciate the solitude. It's easier to concentrate without those velvet eyes tracking my every move.
I take a moment to massage my temples before diving into the second layer. This one will be trickier—Raymond wouldn't make it easy to access his dirty money.
The door flies open and Alessio appears like he materialized from thin air. His hand hovers near his waistband—where I'm certain he keeps a gun—eyes scanning the room for threats.
"What happened?" he demands, voice tight with tension.
I can't help the smirk that spreads across my face. "First layer cracked." I gesture to the screen where the progress bar shows 100% completion. "One down, several more to go."
His shoulders relax slightly as he steps into the room. "That's it? I thought something was wrong."
"Sorry to disappoint. No assassins climbing through the windows—just me winning against Raymond's security system."
Alessio approaches, peering over my shoulder at the screen filled with code. His proximity sends an unwelcome tingling along my spine—he smells like sandalwood and that aroma when you reach the ocean for the first time in months.
"How much longer for the rest?" he asks.
"We're looking at a week, minimum. Each layer gets progressively harder." I turn to face him. "But I'm not in a hurry. It's not like I have wedding gifts to return or a honeymoon to cancel."
Our eyes meet and something shifts in the air between us. His midnight gaze holds mine, unreadable yet intense. I refuse to look away first—it would feel like surrendering.
After several vertical heartbeats he breaks the silence. "I need to make something to eat."
My stomach growls on cue, reminding me I've had nothing but those cookies for hours. "I'd prefer to cook myself, no offense." I twist my mother's ring around my finger. "Your breakfast was..."
"Terrible," he finishes for me.
"I was going to say ambitious," I counter, "but yes."
He considers this. A motion draws my attention to his mouth before I force my eyes away.
"Fine," he finally says.
I stand, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. "I need a minute to save and encrypt my progress. Can't risk leaving this accessible if the power cuts out or something goes wrong."
"Fine," Alessio says, crossing his arms as he watches me work.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, creating multiple encrypted backups of my progress. The first layer was brutal but the next will be worse. I can't afford to lose ground.
"I also need to use the bathroom," I add, not looking up from the screen.
"The laptop comes with us to the kitchen," he says firmly. "I'm not leaving it unattended."
I nod, understanding his caution. "Of course. You think I'd leave my one bargaining chip lying around?" I finish the encryption sequence and close the laptop. "Here."
I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a split second. I pull away quickly, ignoring the strange flutter in my chest.
"Two minutes," he says, nodding toward the bathroom door.
The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—dark circles under her eyes, skin pale from stress and lack of sleep.
I need a shower desperately after hours of nervous sweat and tension but my stomach growls again. Food first, then cleanliness.
When I emerge Alessio is leaning against the wall opposite the door, laptop tucked under one arm. His eyes sweep over me, assessing.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod.
He pushes off the wall and opens the door, gesturing for me to go first. As I pass him I catch that scent again—sandalwood and sea salt—and force myself not to drink it in.
We head toward the kitchen, an odd pair—kidnapper and captive—about to share a meal.
The hallway stretches before me like something from a luxury cabin magazine—all polished hardwood floors and walls lined with reclaimed timber.
It's nothing like the concrete and steel I expected from a mafia safehouse.
The ceiling features exposed wooden beams that give the space a rustic warmth completely at odds with my captive situation.
"Turn right at the end," Alessio instructs, his voice close behind me. "The stairs are there."
I move forward, my bare feet silent against the wood.
Without my shoes I feel oddly vulnerable, though it's the least of my concerns right now.
Small wrought iron sconces cast pools of amber light every few feet, illuminating framed black and white photographs of mountain landscapes.
No personal photos—nothing that could identify the owners.
"This place is..." I pause, searching for the right word.
"Functional," Alessio supplies.
"I was going to say unexpected." I run my fingers along the wall as I walk. "Not exactly the dungeon I imagined."
A small sound escapes him—almost a laugh. "We save those for special guests."
I can't tell if he's joking.
At the end of the hall I turn right as instructed and find a staircase with wrought iron railings spiraling down to the floor below. The craftsmanship is impeccable—clearly custom-made.
"This is a Feretti property?" I ask, pausing at the top of the stairs.
"Something like that." Alessio gestures for me to continue. "Kitchen's straight ahead when you reach the bottom."
I follow Melania as she makes her way down the spiral staircase, the laptop tucked securely under my arm.
My eyes drift to the gentle sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in the fitted black pants she changed into after recovering them from her precious bag.
Fuck. The sight and my imagination combined is more than I can handle.
" Cazzo ," I snarl under my breath.
She stops abruptly, turning to look up at me. "Is something wrong?"
Her eyes catch mine, questioning. A strand of chestnut hair falls across her face and I resist the urge to brush it back.
"Keep moving," I order, my voice rough.
She hesitates for a moment before continuing down the stairs and I curse myself for the momentary lapse in control.
But Christ, the woman's body is a weapon.
Her waist narrows before flaring into hips made for the cupping of a man's hands.
Even in simple black clothes, with no makeup and hair slightly disheveled from hours of work, she's fucking magnificent.
The gentle sashay of her ass with each step down the spiral staircase tests my restraint.
I've been with beautiful women before—dangerous women, sumptuous women—but something about Melania Lombardi crawls under my skin and burns.
Maybe it's the contrast between her sharp mind and those soft curves, or the defiance in her eyes even when she’s forced to follow orders.
Desire and duty rarely mix well in my world. The fact that she's Antonio Lombardi's daughter should be enough to kill any attraction, but my cock disagrees.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs she pauses again, waiting for direction. The chink of kitchen light catches the curve of her breast beneath her shirt, the outline of her nipple visible against the fabric. I drag my eyes away.
"Straight ahead," I remind her, snapping harshly thanks to the heat building in my blood.
She moves forward and I follow, maintaining distance between us.
I place the laptop on the steel countertop, careful to keep it within my line of sight. The kitchen is far from homely, industrial-grade—enough space to prepare meals for a dozen men.
"So you think you can cook better than me," I say, moving toward the massive refrigerator. It's not a question.
Melania follows, keeping a careful distance. "Based on what you served this morning, a child could cook better than you."
The corner of my mouth twitches. Her sharp tongue should irritate me but I find myself fighting back amusement. She's not wrong.
I pull open the refrigerator door, revealing shelves stocked with fresh produce, meats and dairy. Ettore had arranged a delivery, ensuring I wouldn't need to leave the safehouse.
"Show me what you can do with this," I challenge, stepping aside to give her access while remaining close enough to block any potential escape attempt.
Melania steps forward, her eyes scanning the contents. She's standing close enough that I catch the scent of her—something soft and floral.
She leans in, examining the contents more carefully, her hair falling forward. Her fingers tap thoughtfully against her thigh as she considers the options.
"Well?" I prompt when her silence stretches too long.
Melania straightens and turns to face me. We're standing closer than I realized and she takes a small step back, almost a stumble.
She rights herself and blurts out an offer, "There’s eggs, pancetta, Parmesan. I can make pasta alla carbonara."
Her eyes glide to mine, gauging my reaction. For a moment neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The electricity in the air has to be leaking from the refrigerator.
Then the alarm goes off, signaling the door is open and both of us startle.
I step back, giving her space. "Carbonara it is. Show me what you've got, princess."
Melania raises an eyebrow at me. "I'm not cooking on my own," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "If you want dinner, you're helping me make it."
"That wasn't the arrangement," I grunt.
“Last I checked I’m your prisoner, not your domestic goddess.”
Christ, she’s a feisty one. And those crossed arms, coddling her full tits are enough to make me lose what sanity I’m holding onto.
"And you can consider it the perfect time for a cooking lesson." She tilts her head, studying me. "In case you're ever stuck with a princess who also doesn't know how to cook."
I move closer, deliberately invading her space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Why would I waste time learning to cook when I can pay people to do it for me? The way I prefer to do everything."
She gulps at that but doesn't back away. "Because sometimes you can't rely on people even if you toss money in their lap. Like now."
Our eyes are bolted together in silent battle.
Neither of us can forget that I”m the captor, but that she offered me more money than most will ever see to give her what she wanted.
I could easily shut this down—remind her of her current position but her hot-blooded challenge and fiery tongue have me intrigued.
"Fine," I concede, stepping back. "But I’m only doing this so we can get back to work faster."
A hint of triumph flashes in her eyes. "Fill a pot with water and put it on to boil," she instructs, turning to gather ingredients from the refrigerator.
I grab a large pot from beneath the counter and fill it at the sink, watching her from the corner of my eye as she moves around the kitchen with surprising confidence. For someone raised with servants, she seems comfortable in this space.
"Add salt to the water," she says, placing pancetta, eggs, and cheese on the counter. "A lot of it. The pasta water should taste… like the sea."
I do as she says, somewhat perplexed by the way she looked at me and the tip of her tongue slid across her lip when she mentioned the sea salt.