7. Victoria
VICTORIA
The clock on the wall ticks loudly. It keeps cutting the silence into pieces I can’t ignore.
Twenty-three minutes since the doctor left, long enough to realise no one in the corridor is here for my recovery.
The IV line burns under my skin as I stare at it. A slow, steady ache. I pull the tape loose anyway.
It hurts more than I expect.
The needle slides out.
A thin line of blood follows, slides down my wrist and lands on the pale blanket.
I don’t think about it.
Carefully, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The room tilts the second my feet touch the floor.
I grip the mattress until it steadies, breathing through my nose until the spinning fades.
It doesn’t fully leave. It just quiets.
I stand anyway.
Bare feet meet cold tile.
My head throbs every time I try to think too hard.
The steel door stares back at me from across the room.
No handle inside.
Of course.
I scan the room again. Cabinets. Drawers. A sink with a mirror above it. Medical trays sealed too neatly to be useful.
Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy.
Nothing that says escape.
This isn’t a room for recovery. It’s built for containment.
I walk to the mirror above the sink.
The woman staring back doesn’t feel like mine at first.
Dark hair tangled around her face. Bruises blooming across her shoulder. Mascara smudged beneath tired eyes that look like they’ve already seen too much.
I lift my hand and touch my cheek.
“Victoria,” I whisper.
Nothing follows it.
Just emptiness.
The sound of footsteps reaches the hallway outside.
Not the doctor.
The guards straighten immediately. Alertness replaces stillness. I hear it in the shift of fabric and shoes.
The lock clicks.
The door opens inward slowly.
He walks in.
Everything in the room reacts before I do.
Even the air feels different.
Dark charcoal suit. No tie now. The first two buttons of his shirt undone beneath the coat, exposing the black ink curling up the side of his neck, Lorenzo written in sharp Italian letters carved into skin rather than placed there.
His hair is still slightly damp from rain or shower water—I can’t tell which.
He needs no introduction as his gaze lands on me immediately.
He closes the door behind him quietly.
Neither of us speaks at first.
The silence stretches long enough for my pulse to start climbing again.
I hate that my body reacts to him before my brain decides what to feel.
Probably fear.
I don’t like that at all.
His gaze moves across the room once, then lands on me.
His voice is lower than I remember.
“The doctor believes you need more time before you’re on your own.”
I keep one hand braced against the sink. “The doctor also said I’m being held hostage.”
“That depends on perspective.”
“You locked me in.”
“You were concussed and sedated.”
Rain taps faintly somewhere beyond the walls.
I study him properly now.
This is the man by the river.
The gun.
The body disappearing into water that didn’t hesitate to take it.
He doesn’t look like what my mind tries to assign to him.
He looks composed.
Carefully maintained.
Danger doesn’t announce itself in him. It settles quietly and stays there.
That somehow makes it worse, harder to look away from.
His gaze drops.
To my arm.
“You removed the IV.”
“I didn’t agree to it.”
“You were screaming in your sleep.”
Heat crawls up my throat instantly.
“I don’t remember that.”
“You remembered enough.”
My fingers tighten against the sink edge.
He walks slowly farther into the room.
Not threatening.
Which somehow feels more uncomfortable.
I step back without meaning to.
He notices.
A faint expression flickers across his face before disappearing again.
“Relax,” he says quietly. “If I intended to hurt you, we wouldn’t be having a conversation.”
“That’s meant to help?”
“It’s supposed to be honest.”
I hate how steady he sounds.
Steady is harder to read.
He stops a few feet away from the bed.
“You remember your name.”
“Part of it.”
“And Francesco Ricardo.”
My stomach twists.
Fragments surface without permission.
White roses.
A cathedral.
Hands gripping my arm too tightly.
Francesco smiling at people while rage sat behind his eyes.
Then—
Gunfire.
My breath catches.
I turn my face away before it shows.
He sees it anyway.
“What else do you remember?”
“Why?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
“Because someone tried to kill you yesterday.”
“And you think I know why.”
“I think you were close enough to hear things that weren’t meant for you.”
A pause.
“You were meant to marry into it.”
The room suddenly feels smaller.
My arms fold across myself without thinking. “I don’t know anything about your world.”
“My world?” His tone shifts slightly. “You were about to marry directly into it.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
The words come too fast, fragments of memory crashing back into place.
His attention sharpens immediately.
“Explain.”
I regret speaking instantly.
My pulse climbs again.
Because I don’t fully trust my own memories.
Some feel distant.
Some feel recent.
Some feel wrong.
“I don’t—” I press my fingers against my temple. “I don’t know what’s real right now.”
“You know enough to be wary of Francesco.”
“Yes.”
The answer leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Silence settles between us again.
He assesses me for a long moment.
Like he’s measuring whether I’m lying.
“What was the marriage for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know!” I snap.
Pain flashes through my ribs instantly afterwards.
I suck in a breath.
Lorenzo doesn’t move.
He just watches carefully.
“Hold it properly,” he says finally, nodding toward my arm.
I press harder. The sting sharpens, but I don’t let go.
“You don’t remember enough,” he says again. “That’s the problem.”
“I’m trying.”
“You don’t need to try.” His voice stays level. “You need to stop forcing it.”
He steps closer to the sink, but not into my space.
Like distance is a choice he’s making, not a habit.
“Francesco Ricardo doesn’t deal in accidents,” he says. “If you were beside him, it was because you had value to him.”
“I don’t know why.”
“That’s fine.” A pause. “You will.”
He reaches into his coat, turns a lighter once between his fingers, then puts it away without using it.
“Listen carefully,” he says. “I don’t deal in confusion. I don’t deal in panic. I deal in clarity.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“Right now, you don’t have it.”
My grip tightens on the sink.
“So what am I to you?”
The question hangs there.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
When he does, it’s simple.
“Right now,” he says, “you’re a variable I am yet to decide.”
The words are blunt and final.
He steps back toward the door.
“Food. Medical care. Information. You’ll get what you need.”
I watch him. “And after that?”
He stops at the door but doesn’t face me fully.
“After that,” he says, “you’ll be clear enough.”
A pause.
“The next time we speak, you’ll decide something important.”
My throat tightens. “Decide what?”
His voice doesn’t change.
“Whether you want to live,” he says, “or whether you don’t.”
The words sit in the room too long.
He continues.
“Whether you’re useful,” he adds, “or not.”
Silence.
Then he opens the door.
The guards straighten outside.
He steps through without looking back.
“The lock stays,” he says once.
Then the door shuts.
The sound of it locking follows.
And he is gone.
Rain kept hitting the windows long after Lorenzo left.
I sit on the edge of the bed with the blanket wrapped around my shoulders and stare at the fire burning low across the room. The estate is too quiet for a house this large.
No televisions.
No music.
Just distant footsteps now and then, doors opening somewhere deep in the hallways, the muted crackle from the fireplace.
And the lock on my door.
Every few minutes, I feel it again.
Still locked.
My head throbs behind my eyes. Not enough to stop me thinking. Just enough to make every thought feel slower than it should.
Francesco.
Palermo.
The images come in flashes that disappear before I can hold onto them properly.
A man yelling in Italian.
Then nothing.
I press my palms against my eyes until they hurt.
I don’t know what I did.
Or what was done around me while I smiled through it.
A knock comes.
Two taps.
Before I answer, the lock clicks.
The door opens.
The door opens, and a woman steps inside carrying folded clothes over one arm.
Mid-fifties maybe. Dark grey dress. Hair pinned tightly behind her head.
Her eyes flick toward me once before lowering immediately.
“Mr. Nero asked these be brought.”
Her English carries a faint Italian accent.
I look at the clothes. Black sweater. Cream blouse. Dark jeans.
Not hospital clothes anymore.
“Thank you.”
She crosses to the chair near the bed and sets them down carefully.
“You should eat more tomorrow,” she adds quietly. “The doctor says weakness slows recovery.”
I watch her.
“You know who I am?”
A pause.
“I know Mr. Nero carried you into this house three nights ago.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lucia.”
“Do you work for him?”
“I work for this house.”
Not the same thing.
She turns toward the door.
“Wait.”
She stops.
“What kind of man is he?”
She hesitates carefully at first.
Finally, she says, “The kind who remembers everything done for him.” Then her expression shifts slightly. “And everything done against him.”
Before I can ask anything else, she leaves.
The lock clicks again behind her.
I stare at the closed door for several seconds.
Then I stand slowly and walk toward the window.
Rainwater slides down the glass in uneven lines. Beyond the courtyard walls, the city glows faintly beneath the storm.
I press my forehead lightly against the cold window.
Two guards remain outside beneath the archway.
One smokes.
The other watches the gate.
Neither looks bored.
This place runs too smoothly for that.
My gaze drifts higher toward the east side of the estate.
Lights glow behind a row of tall windows on the second floor.
A shadow passes briefly behind one curtain.
Lorenzo.
Probably working.
Deciding whether I become useful or discard.
The thought should terrify me more than it does.
It doesn’t.
Instead, I find myself remembering the way he looked at me.
Not close or far.
Just undecided.
And I hate—quietly, completely— that part of me is still waiting for him to come back.