22. Victoria
VICTORIA
Ido not sleep.
The room stays dark for hours, but my mind refuses to stay quiet. I lie beneath the sheets with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling until the shadows begin to thin.
My mouth still feels bruised.
I turn onto my side and press my face into the pillow, but the memory follows me there too.
Lorenzo in the corridor.
His hand at my waist.
His mouth on mine.
My fingers gripping his jacket instead of pushing him away.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
That is the part I cannot forgive.
Not him.
Me.
Because I kissed him back.
Because for one terrible moment, I forgot the locked doors. I forgot I’m still a captive watched by the guards. I forgot the lab, the chemicals, the men who lower their voices when I pass.
I forgot I am here because he decided I would be.
My stomach tightens.
I sit up and push the covers away.
The suite is silent. The black gown from last night hangs over the chair near the wardrobe. Maria must have placed it there before leaving. The fabric carries faint creases at the waist.
His hands did that.
I look away at once.
“No,” I whisper.
The word barely reaches the room.
I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Cold water runs over my hands, then my face. I grip the edge of the sink and keep my head bowed until my breathing settles.
When I finally look in the mirror, I almost do not recognise myself.
My hair is loose around my shoulders. My eyes are red. My lips are swollen enough to tell the truth even if I never say a word.
I touch them before I can stop myself.
Then I drop my hand.
If I stay here, I will start waiting for him.
The thought lands quietly.
I do not fight it.
I know what happened.
I was jealous.
The realisation arrives cold and sharp.
Not because of Bianca.
Because of him.
Because the moment I saw her touch him, something ugly twisted inside my chest.
Fear never did that.
Fear keeps its distance.
This felt personal.
That makes it dangerous.
I dress up for the day.
Dark trousers. A blouse. Flat shoes. Nothing that feels chosen by him.
The pearls remain shut inside the velvet box.
I leave them there.
A knock sounds at my door.
Before I can answer, a woman’s voice carries through the door.
“Miss Vitale? Are you ready for breakfast?”
I glance once at the velvet box before turning away.
“Yes,” I call back. “Though I’d prefer to eat in the dining room.”
Silence follows.
It is not the usual arrangement. Meals are brought to my room without question, without discussion. I ask anyway, not knowing whether the request will be refused.
The maid hesitates on the other side of the door.
“Allow me a moment, Miss Vitale.”
I hear muffled voices in the corridor. The maid asks the two guards stationed outside my door whether such a thing is permitted. Another pause follows.
Then one of the men answers.
“It is allowed.”
A moment later, the maid speaks again.
“You may come down, Miss Vitale.”
When I open the door, the guard outside straightens.
“Good morning, Miss Vitale.”
His eyes do not move to my mouth, but his face tells me enough.
He knows not to look.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Right this way.”
Two men escort me.
Neither is Rocco.
Neither is Mateo.
I notice it is unusual before we reach the stairs.
The older guard walks on my left. The younger one stays two steps behind. They are armed, but they do not carry themselves the same way Lorenzo’s closest men do. They check corners. They glance at the windows. They look trained, not trusted.
My hand tightens around the railing.
The house feels thinner this morning.
Fewer voices. Fewer footsteps. Fewer men posted at the usual doors.
I keep walking.
In the small dining room, breakfast waits under silver covers. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Coffee. The chair at the head of the table remains empty.
I sit.
The maid pours coffee with both hands.
“Will Don Nero be joining me?” I ask.
Her wrist jerks. A small splash of coffee stains the white saucer.
“No, Miss Vitale.”
I lift my gaze to her face.
She wipes the saucer too quickly.
“He left before sunrise.”
“With Matteo?”
“Yes.”
“Rocco?”
She hesitates.
That is enough of an answer.
“Yes,” she says.
I nod and reach for the cup.
The coffee is hot. I swallow it anyway.
Outside the open doorway, the two guards speak low. Not low enough.
“Any word from Cicero?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Rocco went?”
“And Mateo. North team too.”
“Christ.”
“Keep your voice down.”
A chair leg scrapes under my hand.
Cicero.
The name from dinner.
The name tied to rumours about a woman who should be dead.
I lower my knife to the plate without making a sound.
The younger guard speaks again.
“They think it’s the leak?”
The older one answers after a pause. “Don wouldn’t take half the house for anything less.”
Half the house.
I stare at the toast on my plate.
My pulse begins to beat harder, but I keep my face still. I cut the toast into four pieces. Then eight. Then smaller.
Another voice enters the hall.
A man I do not recognise.
“The service road is still blocked. Repair crew says the south camera line is dead until noon.”
The older guard curses under his breath. “Why today?”
“Ask the storm.”
“Does the Don know?”
“He left before the crew found the break.”
Silence follows.
The knife slips in my hand.
South camera line.
Dead until noon.
I make myself breathe through my nose.
The service road runs beyond the old greenhouse. I have seen it from my window every morning. It curves past the trees, then disappears behind the stone wall. I have watched supply vans take that road. Gardeners. Maintenance workers. Once, a laundry truck.
There is a gate there.
Not the main gate with four guards and cameras above the pillars.
A service gate, but smaller.
Used by people nobody notices.
I put the knife down.
My hand is steady now.
That is what frightens me.
The door opens wider, and the older guard steps inside.
“Are you finished, Miss Vitale?”
I look down at the food I have not eaten.
“Yes.”
“Would you care to return to your suite or the lab?”
The lab.
The safe answer.
The answer everyone expects.
I dab my mouth with the napkin and rise.
“I have a headache. From yesterday. I’d rather walk first.”
His brows pull together.
“Inside?”
“The garden.”
“The west garden is clear.”
I shake my head. “Too much light this morning.”
There is no sun.
He glances toward the window, then back at me.
I let my shoulders fall a little. Not too much. Enough to appear tired.
“The path near the greenhouse is shaded,” I say. “I only need air.”
The younger guard shifts behind him.
The older guard thinks.
I watch him do it.
He is not refusing because he has no direct order to refuse. He is not agreeing because he knows repairs are underway. He is trying to choose the option that will cause less trouble.
At last, he nods.
“Five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
The older guard touches the radio clipped to his shoulder.
“West garden walk. Miss Vitale. Five minutes.”
Static crackles.
Then a voice answers.
“Copy.”
The sound settles heavily in my stomach.
They are logging my movements.
Of course they are.
I lower my eyes and keep walking.