Chapter 7
MELANI
Maybe I shouldn’t have run my mouth at the man who handcuffed me.
I should have buttered him up, coaxed him into undoing these damn cuffs. I sigh wearily, attempting to roll my shoulders and restore some circulation. It barely helps. I can’t even knock on the door to get his attention—not that I’m delusional enough to think that would accomplish anything.
I wander further into the room, taking it in properly now.
The space radiates understated wealth, from the beige walls to the stunning city-at-night wallpaper stretching behind the big bed.
Side tables flank it on either side, each topped with art deco lamps.
A soft-looking rug, probably expensive as hell, runs the length of the bed, and off to the side sits a small dining table with two chairs, paired with a double sofa.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room this beautiful and tastefully furnished in my whole life. Too bad it’s just a cage.
My feet carry me towards the wall-length window, and the view steals the breath right out of my lungs. Manhattan spreads out beneath me, glittering and endless, almost perfectly mirroring the cityscape frozen behind the bed. We have to be on the top floor. The penthouse level.
“This is how the rich and wealthy live, huh?” I mutter to myself, mesmerized despite my situation.
Then I force myself to look away from the hypnotic view and start searching for a possible way out.
If I had thought I might slip out through the window, that idea is dead now.
No way I would survive jumping from this height.
I’m a lot of things, but I’m not suicidal.
Would being here really be so bad, though? I’d be in this luxurious room, safe from the enemies hunting me. If I play my cards right—play him right—I could find out what happened to Luciano and maybe even come up with a plan to save him.
But what about Mamma? Each time she leaves for ‘work’, I worry she won’t make it home.
That someone will recognize her. That she’ll disappear next.
And what happens if I don’t come home tonight?
Would she know it wasn’t my choice? Or would she think she’s losing me too, so soon after Luciano went missing?
God, she’ll be crushed. She can’t lose both her children.
A throbbing headache blooms at my temple, the pressure building until I have to squeeze my eyes shut.
I need to sit. Or lie down. Anything to make it stop.
The bed calls to me like a siren song, and when I sink onto it, I nearly moan at the softness.
It’s like being cradled by clouds. For a brief, stupid second, I let myself believe maybe I can sleep.
I tip forward and end up sprawled face-down, arms stretched uselessly behind me.
The position is awkward. there’s no way I’ll fall asleep like this, which means I’m in for a long, miserable night with nothing to distract me but my own thoughts.
I bury my face deeper into the mattress, twisting slightly, trying to find some version of tolerable that won’t make my shoulders scream—and that’s when my bladder decides to join the party. Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
How the hell am I supposed to pull down my panties to pee with my hands cuffed behind me?
The question opens the door to darker thoughts.
I’ve been deluding myself that I’m somehow safer here, but the truth is I barely know anything about Ivan Petrov beyond the meager scraps I could find online.
What if he still plans to kill me? What if this is some sort of psychological torture designed to break me?
If he really thinks I’m a spy, that might be exactly what he’s doing. Leave the little spy in a pretty room, let her marinate in discomfort and fear all night, and by morning she’ll spill every secret she has for the simple promise of removing the handcuffs.
I hate how effective it already feels.
My bladder presses more insistently, and a frustrated tear slips down to the bridge of my nose. I grind my face into the sheet to wipe it away, refusing to fall apart over this.
Getting up seems like the next logical step, but I quickly realize I’m stuck. No hands mean I’m not able to push myself off the mattress. What follows is a humiliating wiggle downwards until gravity takes over and my knees hit the floor with a solid thud.
Pain flares, sharp enough to sting my eyes. “Fatti sciddicari, Melani,” I mutter. Let it roll off you like water. I suck in a steady breath, then another, and force myself upright.
One of these doors has to be the bathroom. I approach the nearest one, turning my back and straining my arms as far as the cuffs allow. My fingers scrape wood, then metal. Thankfully, it opens easily. I turn around, already bracing for disappointment.
Instead, my breath leaves me. “Bedda Matri.” Beautiful Mother. I’ve never seen a bathroom like this, never even come close to imagining one.
The marble floor is so dark and polished that it reflects the chandelier hanging overhead.
A chandelier. In a bathroom! I let out a short breath that might be a laugh, because my brain doesn’t know where to put that fact.
The rest of the room just keeps escalating.
A freestanding soaking tub sits on a raised platform at the far end, sculpted smooth and deep, with brushed-gold fixtures curved so elegantly they almost feel wasted on something meant for bathing.
Along one wall, a walk-in rain shower stretches behind crystal-clear glass, fitted with multiple jets hidden flush in the stone so water can cascade like a waterfall. As I step inside, soft LED strips embedded in the ceiling shift from cool white to a warm amber, like the room is responding to me.
Opposite the shower, a double vanity spans the space—a single block of onyx, lit from beneath so it glows faintly, topped with twin sinks and tall, beveled mirrors framed in matte black.
Even the small details whisper luxury: polished stone trays, silk-lined drawers, heated towel racks with plush white towels.
If only I had free use of my hands to explore properly.
The thought sours my momentary awe and drags me back to reality.
I didn’t come in here to admire marble and chandeliers.
My bladder is at its limit. I make my way to the pristine toilet, turn my back to it, and bend forward to lift the lid with my bound hands.
Then I hook my fingers into the waistband of my skirt and do an awkward little shimmy, inching fabric and panties down together.
Once they pass my knees, they pool at my ankles.
Relief hits the second I sit, a quiet sigh slipping out as my bladder finally empties. Wiping turns into a contortionist’s nightmare, but somehow I manage.
Getting dressed again, however? Impossible. No matter how much I wiggle, bend, or stretch, I can't do it. My skirt and panties remain stubbornly around my ankles, mocking my efforts. “Vaffanculo,” I hiss and give up.
Naked from the waist down, I leave the bathroom, frustration burning hot in my chest. This is absurd. Degrading.
I pace the length of the room, muttering to myself in a mix of English and Italian as my mind churns. Someone will come to check on the prisoner in the morning. They have to. Which means I need a plan. Not just a vague hope, but an actual, actionable plan.
Step One: Get these fucking handcuffs removed. This isn’t sustainable long-term.
Step Two: Don’t get killed. Even if Vanya won’t let me go yet, I need to stay alive. Be nice to him, even if it physically pains me to do so.
Step Three: Gain access to the rest of the suite. I can’t snoop for information about Luciano if I’m locked in this room. Which circles back to step two—be nice to fucking Vanya.
My mind drifts back to the office with his hand wrapped around my throat, the elevator with his cock pressed to my hip, and my pussy clenches in response.
Being nice to him wouldn’t exactly be a hardship if he keeps getting physical with me like that.
A dull ache seeps into my legs, then spreads until my whole body feels like a kaleidoscope of soreness and exhaustion.
So with a defeated groan, I flop face-first onto the bed, certain I won't sleep a wink tonight.
The click of a door opening snaps my eyes open.
Pain follows as I stir beneath the covers, a groan tearing out of me just as the door swings wider and a strange man walks in carrying a tray.
The delicious aroma hits me, and my stomach betrays me with a loud growl, reminding me I didn’t have dinner last night.
The man pauses, his brows furrowing as he takes me in on the bed. I must look like hell.
I attempt a small smile, but it probably lands closer to a grimace.
He shifts his jacket aside, deliberately showing me the gun holstered at his hip, as he approaches and sets the tray on the table.
As if I’m in any condition to pull a stunt right now.
My entire body is screaming in agony. I can barely sit up, let alone attack an armed man.
“Smells delicious,” I say hoarsely, then clear my throat. “Thank you.”
He rears back like I just slapped him. Apparently, polite prisoners aren’t in his usual repertoire. He gives a stiff nod and turns to leave.
“Wait!” The word comes out too loud, tinged with a bit of my panic. He stops, looks at me with those same knitted brows, and I try another smile. “I can’t—I can’t eat with my hands cuffed behind me like this.”
I shift to show him, misjudge the movement, and tip sideways with a sharp yelp as pain lances through me.
Tears slip down my face as I struggle to sit back upright without flashing him.
I’m successful on the third try. When I finally look up, his expression seems a little more sympathetic to my plight.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Petrov,” he says gruffly. “He has the key.” Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the smell of food I can’t reach.
I keep my eyes on the closed door, hope flaring despite myself. A ridiculous wish surfaces—that Vanya might come with the key himself instead of just sending it with the guard.
I squash the thought. It doesn't matter who uncuffs me as long as I’m freed.