Chapter 3 – Calista
The door slams behind me with a soft finality that’s worse than any prison lock. No clang of chains, no metal bars—just silence, velvet, and polished marble.
I stumble forward, wrists raw and stinging from the cuffs, every muscle in my body aching from the rough transport. My head throbs, a reminder of the hit against the wall back at the studio. I haven’t spoken a word since they shoved me into that black SUV. I haven’t looked at any of them—not the other men, and certainly not him. Lazaro Virelli.
That slick bastard. Everyone knows who he is. Even if my family didn’t have ties with the mafia, I’d know Lazaro Virelli.
The room is soaked in luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one entire wall, revealing a glittering Manhattan skyline that feels more like a mockery than a view. Everything inside gleams—velvet furnishings, golden accents, glass sculptures that look more fragile than I feel. It’s tastefully inhospitable, like its owner.
Lazaro didn’t even bother hiding the cameras—sleek little eyes tucked into every corner like silent sentries. I count at least six, and I’m sure there are more.
I don’t waste time exploring. Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin. My clothes are still clinging to my skin, the fabric stiff from dried rain. Every thread itches with memory—blood, humiliation, and that bastard’s voice echoing in my head.
Somehow, I make it to the massive bed—soft, too soft—and collapse onto it without a word. The mattress cradles me, sinking beneath my weight. I hate that it’s comfortable. I hate that I notice. I hate that it smells faintly of cedar and detergent—too clean, too nostalgic—reminding me of home, of the way my mother used to make sure our sheets were always fresh. Ironically, that memory is why I avoided washing my sheets often. It made the past feel too close.
I roll onto my side, clutching the blanket like a shield. My fingers brush the raw skin at my wrists, and I breathe through the burn.
My eyes drift to the windows, to the glittering lights of the city that never sleeps. New York—there’s nothing like it. The skyline used to be my escape, the place I’d run to whenever I needed to outrun my reality. But now, Lazaro has tainted it. He’s stolen that solace from me. I’ll never be able to look at this city the same way again.
Despite trying to stay awake, my eyes start to droop. Years ago, I ran away from a life that never really belonged to me. It wasn’t easy—I fought and bled. I never stayed in one place too long because deep down, I always knew someone would come looking. Still, I made it out. I built a place for myself from the ground up.
You’ve done it once, Calista. You can do it again. I tell myself. No one owns you.
My eyes finally give in, and I let them shut, drifting into sleep before I can stop it.
XXX
A sharp knock jolts me awake.
It takes a moment to remember where I am. For a second, I expect to see the peeling walls of my apartment. But then it all comes rushing back—Lazaro, the black SUV, the cuffs biting into my skin, the velvet-lined cage masquerading as a penthouse suite.
Morning light filters in through the massive windows and I sit up slowly, body stiff and sore.
I glance toward the door.
It opens before I can say anything.
A woman walks in. Her silvery-black hair is swept into a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place. Dark eyes peer at me behind expensive glasses, sharp and observing. Everything about her—the tailored suit, the confident stride—radiates authority with a touch of old-world glamour.
She carries a silver tray with breakfast—fruit, bread, eggs, coffee, all arranged like it’s a royal affair.
"Good morning," she says smoothly, placing the tray on the table with the grace of someone who’s done this before—not offering, but commanding.
"You can take this poison away," I say, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.
"Don’t mistake hospitality for mercy."
I don’t answer. I stare back, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Her gaze sweeps over me, then settles back on the tray. "You should eat," she says, almost too casually. "You’ll need the strength."
I scoff.
Her smirk deepens. "I don’t care if you eat or not," she says coolly. "But we’d rather not deal with a patient right now—we’ve got enough on our plate."
"What? More abductions?" I snap, my voice laced with sarcasm.
She looks unamused like she deals with the likes of me everyday. "You’re sharper than I expected. Let’s hope that mouth doesn’t get you into trouble."
The woman turns and walks out, shutting the door behind her. I don’t hear the click of a lock—which offers no comfort. It only means they’re confident enough in their security that they don’t need to bother locking me in.
I glare at the tray. The scent of food hits me harder than I expect, but my stomach turns just looking at it.
Still, I reach for the glass of water and down it in one breath. My throat is parched, dry from hours of silence and the hell of yesterday. But food? No. I’m not giving them that satisfaction—not yet.
That’s when I notice the change of clothes neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Plain white t-shirt. Sweatpants. How generous.
"Ugh," I mutter. "He could’ve at least picked clothes that didn’t scream hostage."
I grab the clothes anyway and drag myself into the bathroom. My body is screaming with pain. The bathroom is bigger than my entire studio apartment—marble counters, glass shelves lined with high-end toiletries, and a shower that could fit three people comfortably. The light is harsh, too bright, revealing every bruise and scrape like a story written in skin. I strip down and step under the water, wincing the moment it hits my face. The spot where I slammed into the wall last night pulses with pain.
Still, I stand there longer than I should—letting the heat loosen the ache in my body, washing off the remnants of yesterday.
I step out of the shower reluctantly, toweling off quickly before pulling on the plain clothes. My hair is still dripping as I shut the bathroom door behind me—and then I freeze.
Lazaro Virelli is standing across from the bed, arms crossed, calm as ever—perfectly at ease in a room that isn’t his, yet somehow feels claimed by him.
He looks different in the daylight. Taller somehow, more imposing. The sharp lines of his suit hug a frame built from lean muscle and lethal strength—a panther in human form. His hair is dark and immaculate, slightly tousled but somehow still put together. Those cool gray eyes meet mine—assessing me from top to bottom.
I narrow my eyes. "Ever heard of knocking? Or is barging into women’s rooms uninvited your usual routine?"
Lazaro offers no reply. He stays still.
I roll my eyes and toss the towel onto the bed with more force than necessary. Crossing my arms, I square my stance in front of him. "Where’s my brother, Lazaro?" My voice is sharp, edged with frustration.
"It doesn’t concern you," he says, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.
"The hell it doesn’t! You hand me his fucking finger and expect me to shrug it off?"
"You’re not speaking to him—so why waste the energy? And this?" He gestures vaguely between us. "This isn’t personal."
"Could’ve fooled me," I bite back. "You show up in the middle of the night, drag me from my life, lock me in your tower—sounds pretty damn personal to me."
His lips twitch, almost like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "I owe you no explanation. This isn’t about feelings. It’s business."
"Yeah? Well, your business reeks of ego and blood."
"Better than the scent of desperation and sweat," he replies.
I grab the empty glass from the tray and hurl it at his head. It misses by an inch, shattering against the wall behind him.
He doesn’t pull away.
"Everything’s personal when you’re the one in chains," I hiss, eyes blazing.
He steps closer, closing the distance between us. He towers over me, his presence swallowing the space between us. His hand reaches out, fingers curling around my neck—not tight enough to choke, but just enough to send a clear message: I’m at his mercy.
My breath hitches, not from fear—but fury.
His thumb grazes my jaw, where I was bruised last night and a hiss escapes my mouth, earning a smirk from him. I curse myself for giving him that satisfaction. His touch feels more like a warning than anything else.
"You’re not in chains, Calla," he murmurs, using the name only my loved ones use, but it sounds threatening coming from him. "Not yet. But keep testing me, and you’ll find out how cruel I can be."
He holds my gaze a moment longer, his grip tightening around my neck—a final, chilling reminder that he controls everything here. The pressure sends a rush of fury through me, but I don’t recoil. I maintain eye contact. I'm not afraid of him—if anything, I'm more certain now that I’ll make him regret underestimating me.
Then, with unsettling calm, he releases me.
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say that won’t cost me more.
Without another word, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him. I’m left standing in the middle of the room— boiling with anger, but helpless.
I catch my reflection in the massive mirror covering the opposite wall from the bed. My fingers rise instinctively to my neck, brushing over the red mark Lazaro left—a raw imprint of power and humiliation.
I’m not waiting to be rescued. Truth is, I’ve never cared much about saving myself. But my brother, Noel—he’s out there somewhere, and he’s in danger. He’s the only family I have left, the only person I’ve ever truly loved and trusted. He’s reckless, flawed, and half the time I want to strangle him—but he’s my brother. And I will tear down every wall, face every monster, and burn every bridge if it means finding him before it’s too late.