Chapter 2
Sienna
The engine cut to silence outside a sleek high-rise that screamed wealth and power. I stared up at the building through the tinted window, my reflection ghosting back at me—pale face, torn wedding dress, eyes wide with a mix of fury and fear I refused to acknowledge.
This was it. My new cage.
Luca appeared at my door before I could brace myself, offering his hand like a gentleman. Like he hadn't just kidnapped me. Like I hadn't just chosen his protection over whatever bloodbath awaited me otherwise.
I ignored his hand and climbed out myself, legs unsteady after the adrenaline crash. The humid night air hit my face, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust. Behind us, the city sprawled—a glittering maze of lights and shadows, freedom just out of reach.
"This way, Mrs. Romano," he said, the title scraping against my nerves like sandpaper.
"I'm not your wife yet," I snapped.
"Semantics." His hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance with proprietary ease.
"The ceremony's tomorrow. Might as well get used to it.
" His gaze dropped to the torn hem, then slowly traveled back up.
"Though we'll need to do something about that dress.
Can't have my bride looking like she just escaped from someone else. "
Two men in dark suits flanked the glass doors—security, obviously. They nodded to Luca with the practiced deference of soldiers greeting their commander. Their eyes slid over me with careful neutrality, but I caught it—the flicker of curiosity, the assessment.
Word would spread fast. The Moretti princess, caught and claimed.
The lobby was all marble and modern art, sterile in its perfection. Our footsteps echoed as Luca led me to a private elevator, using a keycard to access it. The doors slid shut with a whisper, trapping us in reflective steel.
I watched our distorted images in the polished walls—his, tall and controlled in a dark suit; mine, a mess of white silk and dark hair, looking like exactly what I was: a woman who'd tried to run and failed.
The elevator climbed silently, the numbers ticking higher and higher. When we finally stopped, the doors opened directly into a sprawling apartment—no hallway, no other units. Private access. His domain.
It wasn't a prison. That would have been easier to hate.
Instead, it was beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, the view breathtaking even in my current state. Modern furniture in blacks and grays, sleek lines and expensive taste—nothing I hadn't seen in my father's various properties.
But then my eyes caught on something unexpected.
An entire wall of books—and not the decorative leather-bound sets wealthy men bought to look cultured.
These were worn, read, annotated. I spotted philosophy texts, poetry collections, histories of art and war.
Sticky notes flagged passages. A weathered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo sat on a side table, bookmarked halfway through.
Luca Romano read. Really read.
The discovery unsettled me more than the penthouse, the guards, even the kidnapping itself. It was easier to hate a monster. Harder to hate a man who underlined passages in Dante.
A gilded cage, just like I'd thought in the car. Pretty enough to make you forget you couldn't leave.
"Your room is down the hall," Luca said, his voice breaking through my dazed observation. "Second door on the right. I had clothes brought in—your size, I'm told."
I turned to stare at him. "How did you—"
"I've been planning this for a while, principessa." That infuriating smirk played at his lips. "I'm thorough."
The word sent a chill down my spine. How long had he been watching me? Preparing for this? And why hadn't I seen it coming?
"The bathroom is stocked with whatever you need," he continued, moving toward the kitchen like this was a normal conversation. Like he was showing a guest around, not a captive. "There's food if you're hungry. I'd recommend eating something—you look like you're about to pass out."
The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and granite, but what caught my attention was the covered dish on the counter, still warm.
When he lifted the lid, steam rose carrying the scent of arancini—Sicilian rice balls, crispy and perfect.
My favorite. The kind my nonna used to make before she passed, the recipe I hadn't tasted in years because no restaurant got it quite right.
My traitorous stomach clenched with hunger.
I wanted to throw something at him. Wanted to scream. But exhaustion was creeping in, making my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish. When was the last time I'd eaten? Before the wedding that wasn't. Before I'd run.
Before my world had tilted on its axis and I'd ended up here.
"I'm not hungry," I lied.
"Your stomach says otherwise." He set out a plate with casual efficiency. "Eat, Sienna. It's not poisoned, and you'll need your strength."
"How did you—" I gestured at the arancini, hating that I wanted them, hating that he'd known.
"I pay attention." He poured himself a drink, watching me with those ice-blue eyes. "It's what keeps people alive in our world."
I stared at the plate, war raging inside me. Accepting his food felt like accepting him, like admitting I needed what he offered. But my body made the choice my pride couldn't—my hand reached for an arancino before I could stop myself.
It tasted exactly like my grandmother's. Perfectly crispy outside, creamy inside, the saffron and peas balanced just right. I hated that it was delicious. Hated that he'd gotten it right.
I hated even more that he watched me eat it with something like satisfaction in his eyes.
"Finish the plate," he said, finally pulling out his phone. "Get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow."
The dismissal was clear—now that he'd ensured I'd eat, I was expected to just... go to my room. Like an obedient child who'd been fed and was now being sent to bed.
Instead, I stood my ground, lifting my chin in defiance. "I want to call my sister."
"No."
The flat refusal made my temper flare. "She'll be worried—"
"She'll be fine." His eyes lifted from his phone, cold and unyielding. "She's been informed you're safe. That's all she needs to know for now."
"You can't just cut me off from my family—"
"I can, and I am." He set the phone down, giving me his full attention now. The shift was predatory, dangerous. "Until the marriage is finalized, until the alliance is secure, you don't contact anyone without my approval. That includes your sister."
Rage bubbled up, hot and fierce. "Isabella is seventeen. She's not part of this world yet. She doesn't deserve—"
"To worry about you?" He moved closer, invading my space with calculated precision. "Then give her a reason not to. Marry me tomorrow. Smile for the cameras. Play the happy bride. And once everything settles, you can call her all you want."
"Or would you prefer I send you back?" His voice dropped, taking on a cruel edge.
"I'm sure Ricci's nephew is still waiting.
From what I hear, Dante Calabrese was quite disappointed when his bride didn't show.
Though given his reputation with women, maybe you made the right choice running.
" His eyes glinted with dark knowledge. "Three previous 'wives' dead under suspicious circumstances.
But I'm sure the fourth time would've been different. "
The manipulation was so blatant, so coldly effective, I wanted to claw his eyes out.
"How long?" I asked, the question scraping out of my throat.
"How long what?"
"How long is this marriage supposed to last? Forever? Until one of us dies? Or is there an expiration date on this prison sentence?"
Something flickered in his expression—not quite sympathy, but close.
"Two to three years. Long enough to stabilize the alliance between our families, neutralize the threat from Giuseppe and Ricci.
Once the situation is secure, we arrange a quiet annulment.
Irreconcilable differences. Both families save face, the peace holds, and you get your freedom back. "
The clinical way he laid it out should have been reassuring. A timeline. An end date. Proof this wasn't forever.
Instead, it felt hollow. "So I'm on loan. A temporary wife to solve a temporary problem."
"You're a strategic alliance that benefits both our families," he corrected. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"And what happens if I refuse to play along for two years? If I make your life hell every single day?"
His smile was cold. "Then those two years will feel much longer for both of us. But the terms don't change. You're mine until the arrangement ends."
"I hate you," I whispered.
"I know." He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with unexpected gentleness. The touch sent an unwanted shiver through me. "But you'll marry me anyway. Because the alternative is watching your family bleed."
He was right. God help me, he was right.
I jerked away from his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. The torn wedding dress suddenly felt obscene—a reminder of the wedding I'd run from, the prison I'd chosen instead.
"Where will you sleep?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
"My room is at the end of the hall." His expression shifted, something almost like amusement flickering in those ice-blue eyes. "Worried I'll come for you in the night, principessa?"
"You try it, and I'll kill you in your sleep."
He laughed—actually laughed, the sound rough and genuine.
The laugh transformed his face—softened the harsh angles of his jaw, the sharp line of his cheekbones.
He was taller than I'd fully registered during the chaos of my escape, broad-shouldered in a way that made him fill doorways, command space without effort.
Dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it too many times tonight.
And those eyes—ice-blue and calculating, the kind that missed nothing, saw too much.
He was handsome in a dangerous way. The kind of beautiful that came with a warning label. The kind my father had always told me to avoid.
No wonder he thought he could control me with a look.
I'd seen Luca Romano before, of course. Five years ago at a charity gala—I'd been seventeen, barely paying attention to the sons of crime families circling like sharks.
He'd been there with his father, just another arrogant heir in an expensive suit.
I'd glanced in his direction once, maybe twice.
He'd been handsome enough, but softer somehow.
Lankier. Less... substantial. Nothing that held my interest.
Then he'd gone to prison for two years.
The man standing before me now bore little resemblance to that entitled prince I'd dismissed.
Prison had stripped away whatever softness he'd had and rebuilt him into something harder, more dangerous.
His frame had filled out—broader shoulders, solid muscle that spoke of hours spent in a prison yard with nothing but time and violence.
His jaw was sharper, his movements more controlled, like a predator who'd learned to survive by being stronger and more ruthless than everyone else.
Where the old Luca had moved with casual arrogance, this one moved with lethal purpose. His eyes held shadows that hadn't been there before—the kind that came from seeing too much, surviving too much.
Once, I'd barely glanced in his direction.
Now, I couldn't seem to keep my eyes off of him.
And that terrified me more than anything else about this nightmare.
"There she is. I was starting to worry you'd broken."
"Never," I promised, injecting every ounce of venom I possessed into the word.
"Good." He stepped back, creating distance between us. "Broken things are useless to me. I need you fierce. I need you fighting."
The statement confused me, but I was too exhausted to unpack it. Too overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the span of a few hours.
I turned toward the hallway, desperate to escape his presence, to find some corner where I could fall apart without an audience.
"Sienna."
I paused, but didn't look back.
"The windows don't open," he said quietly. "And there are guards posted at every exit. Don't waste your energy trying to run."
The practical warning shouldn't have hurt. But it did. A reminder that no matter how pretty the cage, I was still trapped.
I walked down the hall without responding, finding the second door on the right just as he'd said. Inside, the room was impersonal but comfortable—a large bed with expensive linens, a dresser, a door that presumably led to the bathroom.
On the bed lay a garment bag and several shopping bags, all from high-end boutiques I recognized. My new wardrobe. My new uniform.
I ignored them all, moving to the window instead.
The view was different from this angle—the river visible in the distance, bridges strung with lights like jewels.
Somewhere out there, Isabella was probably crying, wondering where I'd gone.
My father was probably smoking his cigars, and I couldn't help wondering if he was relieved or furious.
Had this been his plan all along? Had he orchestrated my 'escape' knowing Luca would be waiting?
Or had I truly ruined whatever arrangement he'd made with the Calabrese family?
And I was here. Trapped forty floors above the city, waiting to marry a man I despised.
My legs finally gave out. I sank to the floor by the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The torn wedding dress pooled around me like a shroud.
Tomorrow I'd marry Luca Romano. Tomorrow I'd smile and play my part. Tomorrow I'd become someone I didn't recognize.
But tonight, alone in this beautiful cage, I let myself cry.
Silent tears tracked down my face as the city lights blurred and swam. For my lost freedom. For my sister who'd have to face this world alone now. For the future I'd never have—the choice to love someone freely, to build a life on my own terms.
Gone. All of it, gone.
When the tears finally dried, I pulled myself to my feet. My reflection in the window showed a woman I barely knew—hair wild, dress destroyed, eyes red but defiant.
I would survive this. I would find a way to protect Isabella from this fate. And somehow, someday, I would make Luca Romano regret the day he caught me running.
That promise—that spark of rebellion—was the only thing I had left.
I turned from the window and began unzipping the ruined wedding dress, letting it fall to the floor like a shed skin. Tomorrow I'd put on a new one. Tomorrow I'd walk down another aisle and bind myself to a monster.
But tonight, I was still Sienna Moretti.
And I would never truly be his.