Chapter 7 Stefan
TEN DAYS INTO captivity and I had to assume my family was looking for me by now.
Ten days missing. No ransom demands. No body.
No contact. Giuseppe probably thought I was dead—his disappointing youngest son who'd failed one simple mission and gotten himself killed for it.
My brothers were probably relieved. One less weak link in the family.
One less person to parade around at functions.
Part of me knew I should feel guilty about that. About letting them think I was dead. About not trying harder to escape or send some kind of message that I was alive.
But mostly I felt free.
For the first time in my life, nobody was telling me how to dress or who to talk to or what version of myself to present to the world. Yes, I was technically a prisoner. Locked in a room with no way out. At the mercy of a man who could hurt me whenever he chose.
But in some ways, I was freer than I'd ever been.
No one was watching my every move. No one was criticizing my clothes or my posture or the way I spoke. No one was telling me to smile more or talk less or be more charming to some politician's wife who wanted to discuss her charity event.
Here, I could just... be.
Even if "here" was a comfortable cage controlled by Matteo DeLuca.
Speaking of Matteo.
The lock clicked at nine AM instead of the usual seven.
I looked up from the book I'd been pretending to read—some thriller about corporate espionage that couldn't hold my attention because I kept thinking about last night.
About the way Matteo had touched my jaw.
About the challenge I'd thrown at him. About the hunger in his eyes when he'd walked away.
Matteo entered carrying shopping bags instead of breakfast.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Clothes that actually fit." He set the bags on the table. "I'm tired of seeing you in the same three outfits. You should be comfortable."
I stared at the bags. Then at him. "You bought me clothes?"
"Had them delivered. Your sizes were easy enough to figure out from what you were wearing when you came here." He gestured at the bags. "Try them on. If they don't fit, I'll get different ones."
He left before I could respond.
I approached the bags slowly, like they might be a trap. Pulled out the contents and spread them across the bed.
Jeans in dark denim—expensive brand, softer than anything I'd owned.
Several t-shirts in blacks and grays and deep blues.
A few button-downs in similar dark colors.
Boxer briefs. Socks. Even a pair of boots that looked like they'd actually fit my feet instead of the too-big sneakers I'd been shuffling around in.
Nothing like the designer suits my father made me wear. No ties. No dress shoes. No carefully coordinated outfits that screamed "respectable Romano son."
Just comfortable clothes. The kind of things I'd wear if I had a choice. If I was allowed to dress like a normal person instead of a mannequin.
The gesture was unexpectedly thoughtful.
I stripped off the borrowed t-shirt and sweatpants and tried on the jeans. They fit perfectly—hugging my hips and thighs without being too tight. The t-shirt was soft, worn-in cotton that felt like heaven against my skin. The boots actually supported my feet properly.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized myself.
This wasn't Giuseppe's decorative youngest son. This was just... me. Stefan. Without the polish and the performance and the careful presentation.
I looked like someone who belonged in Matteo's world. Dark clothes. Comfortable instead of pristine. Real instead of ornamental.
I hated how much I liked it.
The lock clicked again. Matteo with breakfast this time—eggs and toast and coffee that smelled incredible.
He stopped when he saw me. His eyes tracked over the jeans, the t-shirt, the way the clothes actually fit my body instead of hanging loose.
"Better," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate. "You didn't have to—"
"I know." He set down the breakfast tray. His hand brushed my shoulder as he passed—barely a touch, just his fingers grazing the fabric of the new shirt. "Eat. I'll be back later."
That casual touch stayed with me all morning. The warmth of his palm through cotton. The way his fingers had lingered for just a second too long. Like he'd wanted to touch more but had stopped himself.
He came back at lunch. Set down a sandwich and water. This time his hand rested on my shoulder for a beat longer. Squeezed gently before releasing.
"The clothes look good on you," he said.
"Better than prison sweats?"
"Better than those designer suits you wear for your father." His thumb brushed against my neck where shirt met skin. "You look like yourself instead of a costume."
He left before I could figure out how to respond.
By evening, I was vibrating with awareness. Every casual touch throughout the day had built into something I couldn't ignore. My skin felt hypersensitive. My breath came faster whenever I heard footsteps in the hallway. I was waiting for eight PM like an addict waiting for a fix.
Pathetic.
I was falling for my captor. Craving his attention. Looking forward to chess games and weighted stares and the brief touches that probably didn't mean anything to him but were consuming me entirely.
The lock clicked at exactly eight PM.
Matteo carried the chessboard. He set it up on the table and gestured for me to sit.
I did.
But instead of sitting in his usual chair across from me, Matteo pulled it around to my side of the table. Close enough that our knees almost touched. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that made my head swim.
"New strategy?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Something like that." He set up the pieces. "Your move."
We played.
But everything felt different with him sitting beside me instead of across from me. Every time we both reached for the board, our hands brushed. His shoulder pressed against mine when he leaned forward to move a piece. His thigh rested against mine under the table.
I couldn't concentrate. Could barely remember basic strategy. My king was in danger within fifteen moves and I hadn't even noticed until Matteo pointed it out.
"You're distracted," he observed.
"I wonder why."
His lips curved. "Am I making you nervous, Stefan?"
"You're sitting so close I can feel your pulse."
"That's not an answer."
I turned to face him. Our faces were inches apart. I could see the scar through his eyebrow. Count his eyelashes. Feel his breath against my lips.
"Yes," I admitted. "You make me nervous. You make me a lot of things."
"Like what?"
"Confused. Angry. Scared." I held his gaze. "Interested."
"Interested." His hand came up to cup my jaw—the same gesture from that first night, but softer now. Familiar. "That's one word for it."
"What would you call it?"
"Obsessed." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I can't stop thinking about you. Can't focus on anything else. My partners think I'm losing my mind. They're probably right."
"Is that why you bought me clothes? To make yourself feel better about being obsessed with your prisoner?"
"I bought you clothes because I hated seeing you in things that didn't fit. Because I wanted you comfortable. Because—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Because I'm obsessed with you and I can't help myself."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What are we doing, Matteo?"
"I don't know." His voice was raw. Honest in a way I hadn't heard before. "I should let you go. Should send you back to your father or use you as leverage or do literally anything except keep you locked in this room while I fall deeper into wanting you."
"But you won't."
"No." His eyes held mine. "I won't."
We stared at each other. The chess game forgotten. The careful distance we'd been maintaining completely shattered.
"I thought about what you said last night," I whispered. "About waiting until I was sure. Until I chose this."
"And?"
"I'm sure." My hand came up to cover his where it rested against my jaw. "I choose this. I choose you. Even though it's fucked up and complicated and probably the worst decision I could make."
"Stefan—"
"I know what you are. I know what you've done. I know you're keeping me here because you're obsessed and possessive and probably dangerous as hell." I leaned closer. "And I still want this. I still want you."
His control cracked.
Matteo pulled me into his lap in one smooth motion. I straddled his thighs, the chair creaking under our combined weight. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.
I should protest. Should maintain some kind of dignity. Should remember that he was my captor and I was his prisoner and this was wrong on every level.
Instead, I kissed him like I'd been waiting all day for this. Like I'd been waiting since the night he'd caught me in that office and looked at me like I mattered.
Matteo kissed back with devastating intensity. His mouth was hot and demanding. His tongue swept against mine. One hand slid into my hair, gripping tight. The other stayed on my hip, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
I gasped against his mouth and rocked forward. Felt him hard beneath me. Felt my own body responding with an urgency that should have embarrassed me.
His hands slid under my new shirt—the one he'd bought me—and his palms were warm against my skin. Callused. Strong. They mapped my ribs, my spine, the sensitive spot at the small of my back that made me arch into him.
"Stefan." He broke the kiss to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen. "Do you want this?"
"I shouldn't." My voice was wrecked. "But I do."
"That's not a yes."
I kissed him again. Hard. Desperate. Poured everything I couldn't say into the physical connection. Then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Yes," I said clearly. "I want this. I want you."