4. Chapter Two #2
Cataloging my situation is automatic for me. It's a survival skill learned at my father's knee. Assess before action, Francesca. Information is survival.
The room around me is spacious, luxurious, minimalist. But it's also aggressively masculine. There are no personal touches, only expensive taste evident in every detail. The dark woods, steel accents, leather furnishings.
This is a prison designed by someone with resources and refined brutality.
I'm no longer wearing my midnight-blue gown, but a black silk nightgown that clings to every curve, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh.
A shiver rolls down my spine as I realize I have no underwear beneath it.
The realization that someone has undressed me, touched my unconscious body, makes bile rise in my throat.
The emotion swirling in my stomach gets worse.
I have no shoes. No jewelry. No phone.
I have nothing.
I slide from the bed, my legs shaky and unsteady but functional. The plush carpet feels sinfully soft against my bare feet as I cross to the window.
"London…" I whisper, looking out across the skyline in the distance.
England's capital sprawls beneath me like a glittering offering. I must be in a penthouse or high-rise. I'm too high to escape, even if I could break the glass.
Which, testing it with my knuckles, I can confirm is impossible.
Moving way from the window, I find the bedroom door opens to a luxurious bathroom. Inside is black marble, a glass shower large enough for multiple people and soaking tub that could drown my sorrows. Or my life. I haven't decided yet.
Still, there are no windows. No convenient escape hatch in the roof.
Just obscenely expensive toiletries and fluffy towels monogrammed with an elegant 'R' that looks all too familiar.
I splash cold water on my face, finally forcing myself to confront my reflection. The black silk gown emphasizes every curve, leaving little to imagination.
I look vulnerable. Exposed.
I gather my hair back into a semblance of control, twisting it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Control what you can, my father would say. Appearance is armor when you have nothing else.
Returning to the bedroom, I try the main door.
Locked, as expected.
But the quality of the silence beyond it vibrates with presence. Whoever brought me here is waiting. Watching.
I consider my options.
I can cower and wait, or I can demand answers. The Castellano in me, the blood of generations of criminals and survivors, refuses to submit quietly.
"I know someone's out there," I call, voice steadier than the trembling in my belly. "Either open this door or stop pretending this is anything but a kidnapping."
Silence.
Then the soft electronic hum of a lock disengaging.
I step back, squaring my shoulders, lifting my chin. Whatever happens next, I won't show fear. Won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
The door swings open, revealing a living space as luxurious as the bedroom I'm trapped within.
There are modern furnishings in black and deep gray, more floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing London's skyline now glittering with thousands of lights.
A man stands by a glass dining table, his back to me as he studies something on a tablet.
Even from behind, I recognize power in his stance. Broad shoulders stretching the fine fabric of his tailored shirt, dark hair cut with a fade to tattoos inked across his neck.
Even from where I stand, I feel the controlled stillness of someone who never rushes.
Never rushes because the world waits for him.
"Mr. Castellano's daughter," he says without turning. His voice is deep, accented Italian wrapped in cold amusement. "You've caused quite a commotion in Vienna. Your family is frantically searching every corner of the city."
"How unfortunate for them," I reply, proud of my even tone. "Perhaps you should inform my father of my whereabouts."
"Oh, Antonio Castellano knows exactly where you are."
Now he turns, and I see his face for the first time.
The shock must show in my expression because his mouth curves into something too predatory to be called a smile.
I know this man.
Not personally, but his face has appeared in countless intelligence briefings my father received.
Dante Ravelli.
The monster of the Ravelli crime family. The brutal enforcer with blood-soaked hands. The one even hardened criminals speak of in whispers.
His eyes are cold gray… like winter wolves. They lock on and assess me with dark possession, traveling slowly from my face down the length of my body and back again, lingering at my throat, my breasts, my hips.
I feel each glance like he's touching me, leaving heat in its wake despite my fury.
"Welcome to London, Francesca," he says, moving toward me with slow steps, each one deliberate as a heartbeat. "Or should I say… welcome to your new home."
Understanding crashes over me with sickening clarity.
"My father sold me to you," I say confidently.
Dante Ravelli inclines his head and smiles evilly, confirming my worst fears.
"Ah. They told me you were smart. Quick, too."
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. It's strong, laced with something expensive and masculine that makes my pulse quicken traitorously.
"Turns out… the Castellanos needed Volkov protection," he says, voice dropping lower. "And the Volkovs needed Ravelli territory."
His eyes never leave mine as he circles me like a shark scenting blood, his nearness raising goosebumps along my bare arms.
"Lucky for you, I needed something too."
I refuse to flinch, to step back, to show weakness.
"I am not merchandise," I say softly, dangerously. "I am not a bargaining chip. And I will never be whatever it is you bought me for."
His laugh lacks warmth entirely, a sound like broken glass. "What a pity. because you already are."
He reaches for my face, and I jerk away instinctively. His hand freezes in midair, those black eyes narrowing slightly, darkening with something that could be anger or arousal. I'm not exactly sure.
"You can make this easy or difficult, Princess Francesca. But whatever you choose, the outcome remains the same."
My mind races through scenarios, calculations, probabilities—the strategic thinking drilled into me since childhood.
I need information, time, advantage.
I need him to underestimate me.
Or…
I can just fucking kill him.
I reach for the crystal decanter on the nearby sideboard, testing its weight in my hand.
"Tell me, Mr. Ravelli," I say with false calm, "do all your relationships begin with abduction? Or am I special?"
Before he can answer, I hurl the decanter at his head with all my strength.
He dodges with preternatural speed, the crystal shattering against the wall behind him. In the same fluid motion, he's on me, one large hand gripping my throat, the other capturing both my wrists above my head.
His body presses mine against the wall, every hard plane of him molded against me, his heat burning through the thin silk separating us.
"So you choose difficult , then," he murmurs, his breath warm against my cheek, the scent of expensive whiskey and mint. "Good. I was hoping you'd choose that."
Our faces are inches apart, his eyes searching mine with unsettling intensity.
His thumb traces the rapid pulse in my neck, the touch unexpectedly gentle against my thundering heartbeat. My body betrays me with a shiver that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something darker, something I refuse to name.
"I'm going to enjoy breaking you, Francesca Castellano," he says softly, intimately, as though sharing a lover's secret. "And when I'm done, you'll thank me for it."
I glare back, defiance my only weapon now. "I'd rather die."
His thumb traces my jawline with unexpected gentleness that frightens me more than violence would, sliding down to press lightly against my lower lip.
The ownership in the gesture makes my stomach tighten with both rage and something more complicated, more primal.
More like something I can't control.
"Dying is not one of your options," he says, eyes dropping to my mouth. "Your choices are simple. Submit and be rewarded. Resist and be punished. But either way—" his body presses harder against mine, letting me feel his arousal through the thin layer of the gown, "—you belong to me now."
I look into the eyes of the monster who now owns me, feeling his body caging mine with terrifying strength.
With every struggling breath, I make a silent vow.
I will survive this. I will find a way out.
And when I do, both he and my father will pay for underestimating me.