Chapter 11
W e finish eating in lumbering silence. When she stands to clear the dishes, I rise too quickly, nearly knocking over my chair.
"I'll help," I bluster.
She gives a stiff nod, carrying her plate to the sink.
I follow with mine, making sure to keep a significant distance.
Our bodies move in an awkward dance as we rinse the plates and load them into the dishwasher.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes a fork from my hand, and I feel the contact like an electric shock.
"The soap is under the sink," I say.
She crouches down to find it, and I step back, running a hand through my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me?
"Found it," she says, rising with the detergent pod. She drops it into the compartment and closes the dishwasher.
When she turns, her eyes meet mine for the first time since that moment at the table. "I’d like to take a bath before I continue with the USB drive." she says.
"Fine," I say.
I grab the laptop and follow her out of the kitchen, making sure to focus on each wooden step and definitely not her round ass.
"I'll be in my room until you’re done," I tell her when we reach the top of the stairs. I gesture toward the door at the end of the hallway. "I'll come in half an hour."
"Okay," she says.
I watch her walk to her room, then wait until the door closes behind her. I don't bother locking it. The entire house is secured—windows reinforced, doors equipped with biometric locks, perimeter sensors active. Besides, I can monitor her movements through the security system if needed.
Rather than my bedroom I enter the control room and close the door behind me, placing the laptop on the desk. The surveillance feed from Melania's room flickers on the monitor.
She disappears into the bathroom.
I'm scrolling through messages from Noah about Antonio Lombardi's movements when movement on the screen catches my attention. Melania has emerged from the bathroom after barely two minutes, a white towel wrapped tightly around her body. She moves to the closet, pulling open the doors.
Fuck.
I didn't think about a change of clothes. Of course I didn't. We grabbed her from her wedding with nothing but what she was wearing and had in her bag. The safehouse isn't stocked with women's clothing—it's a functional space for operations, not a hotel.
On screen, her frustration is evident as she slams the closet door shut. She stands in the middle of the room, clutching the towel to her chest, her wet hair dripping down her back.
I rise from my chair, grabbing my phone and heading for the closet in my bedroom. All I find is a stack of my black T-shirts. They'll swallow her petite form, but they're better than nothing.
At her door, I knock twice, hard but not threatening.
"Melania," I call. "I have clothes."
There's silence, then her voice, closer to the door than I expected. "That would be helpful."
When she opens the door, she's still enveloped in the towel.
I thrust the T toward her, keeping my eyes locked on her face. "This will have to do for now."
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the shirt and I inhale hard to repress the spark of the contact.
"How did you know I was looking for clothes?" Her eyes narrow, that deeply distrustful look returning.
Might as well be direct. "Security cameras.”
Her face flushes pink and she clutches the fabric, almost wringing it out like a rag in her indignation. "You've been watching me?" Her voice rises. “In my private space?”
"Of course." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms with an arrogance I regret. "What kind of kidnapper would I be otherwise?"
Her mouth clamps and I see her mind spinning, no doubt figuring out every revealing second captured on camera.
"The bathroom doesn't have cameras," I add, attempting to quash my smugness. "You have privacy there."
The relaxes slightly, relief washing over her face before she can mask it. She's not as good at hiding her emotions as she thinks.
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.
"Thank you," she says stiffly. “For the dress.” She’s unfurled my T and is holding it up. The size against her does make it seem like a full length garment.
“More like a muu-muu,” I quip and finally a smile cracks those delicious-looking lips.
I can’t drag my eyes away from her standing there dripping on the hardwood floor, somehow looking both vulnerable and defiant. Suddenly I see beyond Antonio Lombardi's daughter, beyond the captive I'm supposed to be guarding. I just see her—Melania.
"Thirty minutes," I remind her, rougher than I meant.
She nods and closes the door.
I return to the control room, dropping into the chair with a heavy sigh. The security feed shows Melania's empty bedroom—she's in the bathroom. Good. I need a fucking minute to get my head straight.
I grab my phone and dial Damiano.
"Alessio," he answers on the second ring.
"We've made progress," I say. "She's cracked the first security layer on the USB. We can access the basic system now."
"And?"
"And now we start unlocking the files one by one. It's going to take time—military-grade encryption with multiple authentication layers."
Damiano curses under his breath. "How much time?"
"She says at least a week for full access. Maybe longer."
"We don't have a week, Alessio." His voice drops, that dangerous tone that means he's truly pissed. "Antonio and Raymond are tearing the city apart looking for her. They've got cops, private security, everyone with a fucking badge searching. Two of my properties have already been trashed."
“Shit.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "But this is delicate work. Push her too hard and we risk corrupting the data."
"What about what we've already accessed? Anything useful?"
"Not yet. Just the outer shell of the system."
Silence stretches between us. I can almost see him pacing in his office, that predatory movement whenever he's strategizing.
"I need information the moment you find anything," he says. "Anything we can use."
"Understood." The phone goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the desk and lean back in the chair, dragging a hand down my face. The muscles in my shoulders ache from tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. We've got hours of work ahead—days, maybe—and I'm already feeling all kinds of strain.
I sink into the bath, letting the hot water rise to my collarbones. The tension in my muscles melts away and for the first time since my abduction, I feel something close to peace.
My mother always said a hot bath could solve half of life's problems. The other half required good wine and better friends. I smile at the memory, dancing over the water with my fingertips.
After more than twenty-four hours without cleansing, this feels like heaven.
I've always been fastidious about cleanliness—a trait my father called ‘delicate sensibilities’ with thinly-veiled contempt.
But the sensation of being unwashed makes my skin crawl, especially in the unusual warmth we've been having for mid-spring.
The safehouse maintains the perfect temperature, thankfully. Not too cold, not too warm—unlike the sticky heat building outside. I close my eyes and slide down until the water covers my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head. Only my face remains above the surface.
For a moment I pretend I'm somewhere else. Not captive. Not running. Just... being.
The knowledge that cameras monitor my every move outside this bathroom makes my nerves prickle despite the soothing water. This bathroom is my only sanctuary now. The only place I can let my guard down completely.
I lift my leg, watching water roll down my skin.
I've always loved summer—the brightness, the freedom, the promise of it—but I hate the constant battle against sweat and stickiness.
My friends in London used to tease me about my ‘princessy problems’ but they didn't understand.
It wasn't vanity. It was the feeling of being trapped in my own skin, unable to escape the discomfort.
Like now. Trapped in a different way.
I reach for the shampoo on the edge of the tub. It's nothing like my usual products—some generic brand that smells vaguely of artificial flowers—but right now it might as well be liquid gold. I work it through my hair, massaging my scalp, and for a brief moment everything else fades away.
Just this. Just now. Just clean.
I pull myself from the bath reluctantly, knowing there's work waiting. Real work. The kind that makes my fingertips tingle and my mind power up with pure energy. The USB drive calls to me like a siren song.
Wrapping a towel around my body, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My wet hair hangs in dark ropes down my back and my eyes look sharper, more focused. This is the version of me that comes alive when I'm cracking a security system.
The rush of hacking has always been my secret addiction.
I remember the first time I felt it—fifteen years old, watching some B-grade thriller about the dark web.
The protagonist, a woman with neon-streaked hair and impossibly fast typing skills, had broken into a government database in under three minutes.
Pure fantasy, of course. Real hacking is methodical, patient work.
But something about her power to access forbidden knowledge lit a fire in me.
I twist my mother's ring, thinking of the irony. The daughter of Antonio Lombardi, desperate to access illegal information. As if I hadn't been surrounded by illegality my entire life. But drugs, clubs, money laundering—those were the acceptable family businesses. The necessary evils of power.
Never this. Never stealing people's organs. Never trafficking children.
I drop the towel and pull on the clothes Alessio provided. The T-shirt falls over my thighs and smells faintly of something distinctly male that I refuse to analyze.
My hands shake slightly as I dry my hair with the towel. Not from fear, but anticipation. The same tremor I get before breaking through a particularly difficult firewall.
I'd been so naive. Believing that my father's empire stopped at certain moral boundaries. That power had limits. That evil had lines it wouldn't cross.
Part of me hates myself for that blindness. For the privilege of ignorance while people disappeared, their bodies harvested like crops. Mothers lost children. Children lost parents. Lives erased for profit.
The adrenaline surging through me now isn't just about the technical challenge. It's about justice. It's about using the very skills my father would despise to bring down his bloody empire.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Raymond and my father think they're untouchable. They've never faced someone who understands both their world and the digital one.
They've never faced me.
I step out of the bathroom, still towel-drying my hair. The bedroom is empty.
I sit on the edge of the bed and continue working the towel through my damp strands, squeezing out excess moisture.
I've never used blow dryers or straighteners—too much risk of damage. My mother taught me to care for my hair naturally, using oils and gentle treatments instead of heat. The result is glossy hair that stylists always comment on, but it comes with drawbacks.
I remember catching a terrible flu last winter after leaving my London flat with wet hair during a particularly cold snap. I smile at the memory, though it fades quickly. Those simple days feel like they belong to someone else now.
Water trickles down my neck and I shiver slightly, working the towel more vigorously.
I move to sit in the middle of the bed just as the door suddenly opens. Alessio steps in, his powerful frame filling the space. His eyes immediately find mine, then slide briefly to the exposed shoulder where the t-shirt has slipped down.
I ought to cover my skin but I don't.
And I don't have a clue why.