Chapter 3 Stefan
I DIDN'T SLEEP.
How could I? Every sound made me jerk awake—footsteps in the hallway, the hum of ventilation, the distant thump of music from the club below that went on until four in the morning.
I kept thinking someone would come through that door.
Matteo. His security team. Someone ready to hurt me or move me or end this.
No one came.
I spent the night pacing my prison and planning escape routes that all ended the same way: locked door with a keycard reader I couldn't bypass, reinforced windows I couldn't break, walls too solid to damage. No way out. I was trapped as thoroughly as if they'd chained me to the bed.
The room was comfortable enough—decent mattress, working bathroom, climate control that kept the temperature perfect.
But comfort didn't change the fact that I was locked in a cage.
That I'd failed spectacularly at the one thing my father had asked me to do.
That I was now Matteo DeLuca's prisoner with no idea what came next.
By the time pale light started filtering through the small window near the ceiling, I was exhausted and furious and starting to panic despite my best efforts to stay calm.
I sat on the bed with my back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, and tried to think. There had to be a way out. Some weakness in their security I could exploit. Some moment when someone would make a mistake and I could run.
But even if I escaped this room, I'd still be in Inferno. Still surrounded by Matteo's people. Still in the heart of enemy territory with no allies and no plan.
Fuck.
I was so screwed.
The lock clicked.
I tensed, every muscle coiling tight. Ready to fight even though I knew it was pointless. Ready to do something other than sit here like a victim waiting to be slaughtered.
Matteo walked in carrying a tray.
He looked different in daylight—or what passed for daylight through that high window.
Less dangerous somehow, though that was probably an illusion.
He wore dark jeans and a black button-down that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
His hair was damp like he'd showered recently. He smelled like soap and coffee.
He set the tray on the small table. "Breakfast."
I stared at him. At the tray. At the eggs and toast and coffee arranged like this was a fucking hotel instead of a prison.
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway." He gestured at the food. "You didn't have dinner last night. You need to keep your strength up."
"For what? So I'm healthy when you kill me?"
His expression didn't change. "I told you. I haven't decided what to do with you yet."
"Then decide." I stood up, fists clenched at my sides. "Either kill me or let me go. Stop playing these fucking games."
"No games." He moved toward the door. "Eat. I'll check on you later."
Something in me snapped.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fear I'd been holding back all night. Maybe it was the casual way he spoke to me like I was a guest instead of a captive.
I grabbed the tray and threw it at him.
Eggs and coffee splattered across his expensive shirt. The plate shattered on the floor. Toast landed in pieces everywhere. Coffee dripped down the wall in brown streaks.
Matteo went very still.
I expected violence. Expected him to cross the room in two strides and put his hands around my throat. Expected broken bones and blood and pain.
Instead, he just looked at the mess. Then at me.
His expression was calm. Almost amused.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Fuck you."
"That's a no, then." He brushed egg off his shirt with one hand, examining the damage. "You can throw tantrums if it makes you feel better. But it won't change anything. You're still here. I'm still in control. And you're still going to do what I tell you."
He left without another word.
I stood there breathing hard, adrenaline singing through my veins, and realized I'd just made everything worse. Matteo hadn't reacted the way I'd expected. Hadn't given me the fight I was looking for. He'd just... absorbed it. Like my defiance didn't even register as a threat.
Like I didn't matter enough to punish.
That somehow felt worse than violence would have.
The lock clicked again ten minutes later.
Matteo came back carrying cleaning supplies. A bucket. Rags. Spray cleaner. He set them on the floor and gestured at the mess I'd made.
"Clean it up."
"No."
"That wasn't a request." His voice was still calm. Patient. Somehow that made it more threatening than if he'd yelled. "You made the mess. You clean it up. Now."
We stared at each other.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to stand my ground and force him to make me. But I could see in his eyes that he would. That he'd drag me to the floor and make me scrub if necessary. That this was a battle I'd already lost.
I grabbed the rags and bucket and started cleaning.
It was humiliating. Deliberate. A reminder that Matteo was in control and I wasn't. He sat in the chair by the window and watched me the entire time.
Didn't help. Didn't speak. Just watched as I scrubbed egg off the wall and picked up pieces of broken plate and sopped up coffee that had stained the concrete floor.
I plotted murder in graphic detail while I worked.
Matteo's death would be slow. Painful. I'd use broken plate shards to slit his throat. Or strangle him with the rags. Or bash his skull in with the bucket. Every violent fantasy I'd ever had crystallized around the man sitting in that chair watching me humiliate myself.
When I was done, he inspected my work. Nodded once.
"Good. You're capable of following instructions after all."
"Go to hell."
He left again without responding to the insult.
I sat on the bed and tried not to cry from sheer frustration and rage. My hands were shaking. My chest felt tight. Everything about this situation was designed to break me down. To prove I was powerless. To make me understand that I belonged to Matteo now whether I liked it or not.
I hated him.
Hated my father for sending me here.
Hated myself for being stupid enough to think I could succeed.
An hour later, the lock clicked again.
Matteo brought a sandwich and a bottle of water. He set them on the table—now clean thanks to my work—and looked at me.
"Eat."
"No."
"Stefan—"
"I said no. You can't make me."
He smiled slightly. "You're right. I can't. But you'll get hungry eventually. And when you do, the food will be here."
He left.
I stared at the sandwich and hated that he was right. That I was already hungry. That my stomach was cramping from not eating since yesterday. That my body was betraying me just like everything else.
I lasted until evening.
By then I was starving. My hands shook. My head ached. The sandwich sat on the table mocking me with its existence.
I ate it.
Hated myself for it. Hated Matteo for being right. Hated the whole fucking situation.
The bread was fresh. The turkey was good quality. The cheese was the expensive kind. Even imprisoned, they were feeding me well. Like I mattered. Like I was worth keeping alive and comfortable.
I didn't understand it.
That night, Matteo visited again.
He didn't bring food. Didn't speak. Just walked into the room and sat in the chair by the window. Then he stared at me.
I stared back.
I refused to look away first. Refused to give him that victory. If he wanted to play psychological games, I could play too. I could sit here and meet his dark eyes and pretend my heart wasn't racing. Pretend I wasn't terrified of what he might do next.
We sat in silence for twenty minutes.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Matteo didn't blink much. His gaze was steady, focused, cataloging every detail of my face like he was memorizing me. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle and I was the key piece that didn't fit.
I watched him back. Noticed things I'd been too scared to see before.
The scar through his left eyebrow. The strong line of his jaw.
The way his hands rested on the arms of the chair—relaxed but ready, like he could move in an instant if needed.
The silver chain around his neck that glinted in the overhead light.
He was beautiful in a brutal way. All hard edges and dangerous grace.
I hated that I noticed.
Finally, he stood. "Goodnight, Stefan."
He left.
I lay awake on the bed trying to understand what just happened.
Why Matteo hadn't hurt me when I threw the tray. Why he'd made me clean instead of beating me into submission. Why he kept visiting me like this—bringing food, sitting in silence, watching me like I was something precious instead of a problem to be eliminated.
Why I was being kept alive at all.
Nothing about this situation made sense.
Giuseppe had sent me here to fail. Matteo had said as much. So why not just kill me and send my body back to my father as a message? Why keep me locked in this room? Why feed me good food and give me clean clothes and watch me with that intensity that made my skin prickle and my breath catch?
What did Matteo want from me?
I rolled onto my side and stared at the door.
The lock was electronic. The walls were solid. The window was too high and too small. There was no way out except through that door, and Matteo controlled the only key.
I was trapped.
Completely and thoroughly trapped.
The realization settled over me like a weight. This wasn't temporary. This wasn't going to end with me escaping or being rescued. This was my reality now. However long Matteo decided to keep me, I was his.
The thought should have terrified me.
It did terrify me.
But there was something else underneath the fear. Something I didn't want to examine. Something that had sparked to life when Matteo's hand had cupped my jaw last night. When his thumb had brushed my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. When he'd looked at me like I mattered.
Like I was worth protecting.
No one had ever looked at me like that before.
My father saw me as decorative. My brothers saw me as the weak one. The men at those auctions saw me as a commodity. Even my friends—the few I had—saw me as Giuseppe Romano's pretty youngest son who'd never amount to anything.
But Matteo looked at me and saw... something else.
I didn't know what. Didn't understand it. But I knew I'd seen it in his eyes during that silent staring contest. Recognition. Possession. Something dark and hungry that should have scared me more than it did.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Failed.
My mind kept replaying the day. The humiliation of cleaning up the mess I'd made. The defeat of eating the sandwich when I'd sworn I wouldn't. The strange intimacy of sitting across from Matteo in silence while he studied my face like he was memorizing every detail.
Tomorrow would be worse, probably.
Matteo would push harder. Test my boundaries. Find new ways to prove he was in control.
And I'd fight him.
Because that's all I had left. My defiance. My refusal to break. The stubborn pride that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
I might be trapped in this room, but I wasn't defeated.
Not yet.
Not ever, if I could help it.
I'd find a way out. Or I'd find a way to make Matteo regret keeping me. Or I'd find a way to survive until someone—anyone—came looking for me.
But I wouldn't give up.
Even if every day looked like today. Even if Matteo kept visiting me with that dark intensity in his eyes. Even if some part of me was starting to wonder what would happen if I stopped fighting.
I shoved that thought away violently.
I was Stefan Romano. I'd been sold at auctions and paraded at functions and treated like property my whole life. I knew how to endure. How to survive. How to keep pieces of myself hidden where no one could touch them.
Matteo DeLuca might control my body. He might control this room. He might control whether I ate or starved.
But he didn't control me.
Not yet.
And I'd make damn sure he never did.