6. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Francesca
My body aches.
The fresh tattoo on my inner thigh throbs with every movement, a constant reminder of my new status as property.
Or should I say… merchandise.
I press my palms against the cool window of the bedroom, staring down at London sprawled beneath me. The height is dizzying, purposefully so, I imagine. Even if I could break the reinforced glass, the fall would kill me instantly.
Three days of captivity have already taught me the boundaries of my new world. The penthouse spans the entire top floor of this exclusive building, its luxury a carefully crafted facade over my involuntary imprisonment.
Everything is sleek, dark, masculine. From the leather furniture to the steel accents… all of it speaks of the wealth and power of the Ravelli family.
And everything, absolutely everything , belongs to Dante Ravelli.
In my free time, I've spent hours exploring, memorizing, cataloging every potential weakness.
The elevator requires a key card I don't possess.
The stairwell door has a biometric lock keyed to Dante's fingerprints.
The balcony doors remain sealed at all times.
Even the windows won't open more than a few inches.
Just enough to allow fresh air inside, not enough for escape outside.
There are also fucking cameras everywhere.
Tiny, nearly invisible lenses watching from corners, from light fixtures, from decorative elements. I've counted seventeen so far, each one tracking my movements into even the smallest of corners.
I am never truly alone.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
"Ms. Castellano?" A woman's voice, aged but firm. "Mr. Ravelli asked me to help you dress for the day."
I don't respond, but the door opens anyway.
The lady is younger than I expected, perhaps in her forties, with blond hair pulled back severely from a face mapped with the fine lines of an already difficult life.
She carries clothing draped over one arm, her posture straight as a soldier's, like she's just a duplicate of my own self.
"I'm Elise," she says, setting the clothes on the bed. "I've managed this household since Dante Ravelli took over."
I study her, searching for weakness, for sympathy, for anything I might leverage. "Okay… And did you help dress the other women he's kept prisoner here?"
A flash of understanding crosses her face, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second.
"You're the first," she answers, unfolding what appears to be yet another black dress. Dante obviously prefers me in black, just like the man himself. "Mr. Ravelli doesn't usually keep... companions."
"I'm not his companion," I correct Elise sharply. "I'm his captive."
She meets my gaze, and for the first time, I notice the faint scar trailing from her right ear down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar. A wound healed long ago, but permanently marked.
"In this house, there's little difference," she says quietly, her fingers efficiently arranging the outfit. "He's expecting you for breakfast in thirty minutes. The bathroom is stocked with everything you need to make yourself appear pleasing for him."
Pleasing? What the fuck?
I don't move. "And if I refuse?"
Elise pauses, her expression unchanging but something in her eyes softening. She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper as she adjusts the dress's neckline.
"Dante Ravelli is known to break his toys when he's angry," she murmurs, so quietly I barely catch the words. "But I'm sure, by looking at you, that you will be smarter than the others."
Before I can question what she means by "others," she straightens, professional mask back in place.
"Thirty minutes, Ms. Castellano. Don't make either of us regret it."
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with her warning echoing in my mind.
I choose the dress—not out of obedience, but strategy. My father taught me to preserve strength for battles that matter, to recognize when temporary surrender serves the greater goal.
The black fabric slides against my skin, fitting perfectly.
I wonder how Dante knew my exact measurements, then decide I'd rather not know. The garment is modest by most standards. A high neckline, hem reaching my knees, but it still clings to every curve with a sensual grip.
When I enter the dining room, Dante is already seated at the head of a glossy black table. He's wearing another immaculate suit, this one charcoal gray, his dark hair perfectly styled like he's fresh from the barber shop, those predatory eyes fixed on a stack of reports spread before him.
"Ah huh. Exactly thirty minutes," he observes without looking up. "Impressive punctuality, princess."
"Elise was quite persuasive," I reply, remaining in the doorway.
He gestures to the chair at his right hand. "Sit. Eat."
The table is laden with a breakfast spread that would suit royalty. Fresh pastries, fruits, eggs, meats, coffee steaming in fine china.
My stomach tightens with hunger that I refuse to acknowledge.
"I'm not hungry."
Now he looks up, those cold gray eyes making my skin shiver. "You haven't eaten properly in three days. A body as beautiful as that requires nourishment, whether your pride accepts it or not."
"My body is none of your concern," I reply, though the words ring hollow given the mark he's etched into my flesh.
His smile is terrifying in its gentleness. "We both know that isn't true."
He rises suddenly, moving toward me with that predatory grace that sets my pulse racing. I hold my ground, refusing to retreat despite every instinct screaming danger.
"Consider this your first lesson of the day, Francesca," he says, stopping close enough that I can smell his cologne, that intoxicating blend of citrus, mint and something darker. "Your body belongs to me. Your health, therefore, is very much my concern."
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin with deliberate slowness.
"Sit. Eat. Or I'll have Marco hold you down while I feed you myself."
The threat isn't pretend. I can see it in his eyes, the sheer certainty of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
I sit.
He watches with evident satisfaction as I take a pastry, biting into it with defiance rather than hunger. The sweetness explodes on my tongue, a reminder of simple pleasures now weaponized against me.
"Good girl," he murmurs, returning to his seat.
The condescension burns, but I swallow it with my breakfast, storing the rage for a more opportune moment.
After breakfast, Dante leads me to a door I hadn't yet discovered in my explorations. We step into a hidden elevator requiring both his fingerprint and a numerical code to operate.
"You have questions," he says as we ascend. "Ask them."
"Where are we going?"
"I am taking you to see the full extent of your new home." The elevator stops, doors sliding open to reveal a narrow hallway that appears brighter at the end where a door remains shut. "You'll have to excuse my mess as my father's death has forced me to take residence sooner than I anticipated."
Right.
His father.
The legendary don who built the Ravelli empire through blood and terror, is dead. Yet Dante speaks of it as casually as mentioning a change in the weather.
I study Dante's face for any sign of grief. No redness around the eyes, no tension in his jaw that suggests he's holding back emotion. Nothing.
But then, what did I expect? Tears? A trembling voice?
Men like Dante aren't raised to mourn; they're raised to calculate what each death means for their ambitions.
Would I be any different if it were my father? If he died tomorrow, would I weep? Or would I feel that first breath of freedom, that terrible, wonderful lightness of knowing his control had finally ended?
The thought slides into my mind like a knife between ribs, as Dante holds the door at the end of the corridor open for me.
"Welcome to the rooftop garden."
"Rooftop what—"
I step out and the space is absolutely breathtaking. Literally.
My chest stutters at the sight of a lush oasis twenty stories above London, enclosed in glass that creates a perpetual summer beneath it, despite the cool autumn air beyond.
Rare flowers bloom in carefully arranged beds, small trees provide dappled shade, and a central fountain creates a gentle ambient music with falling water.
It's beautiful, peaceful. But oddly, it's just as much a prison as the penthouse below.
"Dante… This is… Impressive," I concede, stepping onto the moss-soft pathway. "I mean, it's another cage."
"But the most beautiful cage in London," he finishes, following close behind me as I take in all the plants and flowers. "I had it custom-designed, climate-controlled, completely private. Only I have access."
I trail my fingers over a delicate orchid, its petals a deep burgundy that reminds me of wine.
Bringing it closer, I inhale its sweet fragrance, and suddenly I'm twelve years old again, standing in the gardens of our family villa in Tuscany.
Antonio Jr. and I had snuck away from another of father's business gatherings, hiding among the flowers while the adults discussed territory and money.
We'd made a game of identifying the different blooms, competing to see who remembered more of our mother's gardening lessons before she passed.
"My brother would love this," I say, picturing the look on his face as Dante shifts behind me. He doesn't say anything, but I feel his gaze locked on me. "He'd probably name all the plants wrong just to make me laugh, then sprawl on one of these benches with a book while I explored every corner."
My fingers tighten on the orchid's stem. The flower's perfume suddenly feels cloying, suffocating.
This beautiful prison is just another reminder of everything I've lost.
My freedom, my family, my choice.
"Why are you showing me this?" I ask, turning to face Dante who's just standing there looking at me with an expression I can't pick.
"So you understand completely," he says, approaching me with slow steps. "There is no escape now, Francesca. Not from the penthouse. Not from the roof. Not from me."
His proximity is suffocating, his body radiating heat and menace in equal measure.
"I have been watching you. Searching for an exit. An out. But by now, you should see that every path leads back to me. Every window, every door, every stairwell… it's all secured beyond your capability to breach."
"You've thought of everything."
"I've thought of nothing else for weeks," he admits, his voice dropping lower. "For years, I've been planning every detail of this life. Of your containment. Of my rise to power."
"All for you to be left disappointed," I promise him.
His smile is chilling. "We'll see."
As he guides me back to the elevator, his hand rests at the small of my back. It's a touch so small, but so possessive, so commanding that the touch burns through the silk of my dress.