Chapter 12
ELENA
I sat at my vanity table, the oval mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognized anymore.
Soft lamplight painted everything in warm gold, but it couldn’t soften what was underneath.
My fingers moved on their own.
Foundation.
Concealer.
Mascara.
The ritual kept my hands from shaking.
Gave me something to focus on.
Something that wasn’t the weight in my chest.
Something that wasn’t the countdown ticking louder with every passing second.
The nightgown rested against my skin like a second thought.
Translucent. Ivory silk.
Thin enough to hint at every curve without revealing anything fully.
For eight nights, I’d followed the same pattern.
9:55 p.m.
Walk down the corridor.
Knock. Wait. Enter.
Then lie beside him until dawn crept through the windows.
Eight nights.
No touching. No kissing.
No claiming in the way I expected.
No violence. No softness.
Just... presence.
Vincenzo would lie there beside me, unmoving, his breathing steady.
Like he didn’t need sleep.
Like he didn’t need anything at all.
Like he was simply existing to remind me that I was not.
I didn’t understand it.
And that was what made it worse.
Possession without possession.
Control without force.
Ownership without explanation.
Sometimes I wondered if that was the point.
Not to use me.
But to remind me that I didn’t belong to myself anymore.
That even my stillness wasn’t mine.
I set the makeup brush down.
My fingers lingered on it for a second longer than necessary.
Then I straightened.
Looked at myself one last time.
Held my own gaze.
Steady. Unflinching.
Then I stood.
The silk of the nightgown whispered softly against my thighs as I moved.
I moved toward the door, each step deliberate.
Paused at the threshold.
My hand lingered on the knob—an unconscious habit.
A shallow breath.
Then—I turned the knob.
And stepped into the corridor.
The house was silent.
Marble chilled my bare feet as I walked.
Every step sent a faint echo down the corridor, swallowed almost immediately by the vastness of the house.
I reached his door and knocked once.
“It’s open,” his voice came from inside.
I turned the handle, and pushed the door inward.
The room greeted me like always: dark, heavy, familiar.
I closed the door behind me with a quiet click.
A single lamp on the bedside table cast warm light across part of the room, leaving the rest in shadow.
Half of his face caught in gold, half swallowed by darkness.
Like he lived in two worlds at once.
He lay on his side of the bed, still.
Regal.
Breathing slow and even.
But never asleep.
Never when I entered.
I crossed the carpet, each step careful.
I slipped under the duvet, pulling it up to my chest, closing my eyes.
The ritual I had followed for the past eight nights—same time, same space, same unspoken rules—felt heavier tonight.
Minutes stretched.
My pulse refused to settle, my mind refused to quiet.
It circled back to Renzo—seven days in a dark cell.
Yesterday the punishment had ended, but nothing came of it.
No appearance. No update.
Just silence.
Not empty silence. A silence that felt final, like something had been erased.
My fingers tightened against the fabric.
I turned onto my side, the sheets whispering against my skin.
“Vincenzo.”
No response. Not surprising.
“Vincenzo,” I said again, firmer this time. “I deserve to know where Renzo is.”
Still nothing.
The silence pressed down on me, heavier than any answer could have been, coiling around my chest and refusing to let go.
“Please,” I whispered, thinner than intended, strained. “I just need to know he’s alive.”
My throat tightened.
“I caused this,” I admitted.
“I pressured him... pushed him to take me to that meeting.” My fingers clenched the sheets, knuckles white. “If something happened to him... because of me—”
The words stopped as he moved.
His eyes opened—slow, completely awake.
He rose in one smooth motion from the bed.
Bare chest.
Black sleep pants low on his hips.
The lamplight traced the planes of his body, highlighting every taut muscle.
He crossed the room with purpose.
Sat in the leather armchair by the window.
Legs spread slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
“I hate being pulled from my rest,” he said, voice low. “Not when I’m trying to escape the nightmares that hunt me.”
The words landed differently than I expected—honest, and unsettling.
I couldn’t look away.
Nightmares.
Plural.
A man like him—Vincenzo Orsini—hunted by them.
I didn’t respond immediately.
Didn’t know if I should.
So instead, I sat up slowly.
Clutching the sheet to my chest.
As if that could protect me from whatever came next.
“I just need to know if Renzo is alright,” I said, voice tight, trembling with guilt and worry.
“His punishment should be over. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp.
“Why are you concerned about him? I decide when his punishment ends.”
I exhaled, steadying myself.
“I just need to know he’s okay.”
My voice softened. “I don’t have to see him. I don’t have to speak to him. Just... tell me he’s breathing.”
Ciro had already told me Renzo was alive, but hearing it from Vincenzo... that would erase every lingering shadow of doubt, every heartbeat of fear twisting in my chest.
Vincenzo studied me.
For a long moment, I thought he might refuse.
Then—a sigh.
“Prepare me a coffee.”
I blinked, taken aback. “What?”
“I’m not particularly skilled at making coffee,” I admitted, hesitating. “I could ask Chiara—”
“Make it yourself. With your own hands.”
His voice dropped—low, commanding.
“Go.”
I stared at him a heartbeat longer, taking in the weight behind the words.
Slowly, I inhaled.
Then I nodded once—without argument.
Without hesitation.
I slipped from the bed, bare feet brushing the carpet, the silk of my nightgown trailing behind me like a ghost of myself.
The moment the door clicked shut, the air shifted.
Corridors stretched endlessly, swallowed by shadow.
Moonlight cut through the tall windows in thin, silver bars, laying patterns across marble floors like prison markings.
I moved through it by memory alone.
Down the east staircase. Past the dining room.
Into the kitchen.
The industrial space was massive.
The espresso machine sat on the counter like something foreign.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Ten seconds. Maybe more.
Then I exhaled and reached for the beans.
My hands moved carefully as I measured the beans, but the moment I pressed the grinder—the noise shattered the silence.
Too loud.
I flinched slightly, my shoulders tensing as the machine roared to life.
Every sound in this house felt amplified at night.
Like it was meant to be heard.
I forced myself to focus.
Poured the grounds into the portafilter.
It slipped. I caught it.
Barely.
My grip tightened.
I tamped. Too hard.
Then, second-guessing myself—too soft.
I paused.
Adjusted. Pressed again.
The espresso machine hissed when I locked it in place.
Then came the extraction.
The first drops were slow.
Thick. Dark.
I frowned slightly.
It was already wrong.
I could tell.
But I didn’t stop it.
I watched as the cup filled with bitter, over-extracted espresso.
Then reached for the milk.
Steamed it carefully.
Or tried to.
The steam wand sputtered slightly as I adjusted it, the milk frothing unevenly before collapsing almost immediately.
I stared at the cup.
A disaster. But it was done.
I didn’t have the luxury of perfection.
Only compliance.
I placed the cup onto the saucer. Then onto the tray.
Added the spoon.
Lifted the silver tray with both hands.
And turned back toward the stairs.
The house seemed quieter now. Or maybe I was just more aware.
Every step echoed faintly against the walls as I climbed.
Halfway up the main staircase—I heard footsteps.
Quick. Urgent. Coming down.
My grip on the tray tightened slightly.
I looked up just in time to see Chiara.
She appeared at the top of the stairs and rushed past me without stopping.
Gray hair loose. Robe slipping slightly at her shoulders.
Her eyes were wide. Panicked.
Not her usual composed self. Not even close.
She didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me. She simply pushed past, her movements swift and purposeful.
Down the stairs in a blur, she reached the front door, unlocked it, and slipped out into the night.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence rushed back in, heavy and empty, as if the world itself had exhaled and held its breath.
My heart was pounding hard.
Something was wrong.
Chiara didn’t run unless something was wrong.
My mind jumped immediately to the worst.
A breach. An attack.
The Spanish side?
A rival?
Someone inside the house?
Something worse?
I swallowed hard.
Forced my breathing to steady.
Then continued upward.
Step by step.
One at a time.
When I reached his door again, I knocked once and entered.
He was no longer in the chair.
My eyes shifted immediately.
Scanning.
He stood now. Leaning against the far wall.
Arms crossed. Completely composed.
As if he had never moved at all.
The room seemed smaller with him standing like that. Or maybe I just felt smaller in comparison.
I crossed the carpet carefully.
Each step quiet.
I reached the small table beside him and set the tray down.
The faint clink of porcelain broke the silence.
“Here.”
I stepped back slightly.
Waited.
His eyes dropped to the cup. Then back to me.
“Take a sip.”
I frowned, incredulous. “What—do you think I poisoned the coffee?”
“I don’t trust you, Elena. Never have,” he said, calm but razor-sharp. “
“But I need to know—just a fraction, enough—that I can rely on you. That you won’t strike in my sleep. That you won’t be bought by my enemies.”
“Prove it.”
“Take the drink.”
I lifted an eyebrow, voice defiant. “So, tell me, which would be easier for me? Strangling you in your sleep... or poisoning you?”
“Poisoning me.”
“You can’t kill me while I sleep. The nightmares don’t let me. Now drink.”
“Enough hesitation.”