Chapter 5 #2
"Did you make this?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
A slight smile—almost. "No. The housekeeper comes early. You won't see her—she's discreet."
Of course there was a housekeeper. Of course I wouldn't even have privacy in my own home.
This wasn't my home.
I poured coffee from an espresso machine that probably cost more than my car. Took a cornetto I had no appetite for.
Sat at the island—not next to him, but not far away either. Uncertain of the rules.
We ate in silence for a moment. Surreal. Yesterday I was free. Today I was having breakfast with my mafia Don husband.
"Did you sleep?" Cesare asked, not looking up from his laptop.
"Some." A lie. Maybe three hours total.
"You'll adjust." Not comforting—just factual.
More silence. Then: "I have meetings today. You'll stay here."
"All day?" The idea of being trapped in this gilded cage for hours made my chest tighten.
"Yes. The penthouse is secure. You have everything you need."
"Except freedom," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes snapped to mine—sharp, warning. "Freedom is relative, Paola. You're free from poverty, from danger, from uncertainty. That's more than most people have."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither did I. Yet here we are."
Cesare closed his laptop, gave me his full attention. It was intense—he didn't do anything halfway.
"We need to establish some ground rules."
I set down my coffee. "I'm listening."
"First: you don't leave this penthouse without my permission and my security. Not to the lobby, not to the street, nowhere."
"I'm a prisoner then."
"You're protected. There's a difference."
I didn't agree, but didn't argue. Pick your battles, Paola.
"Second: no contact with your old life. Not your friends, not your colleagues. No one can know where you are or what happened."
This one hurt. "My friend Anna will worry—"
"I already told you, someone will handle it. She’ll know you’re alive at the very least."
The violation of it—he was impersonating me, controlling my entire life. "You can't just cut me off from everyone I know."
"I can and I have. It's for your safety and mine."
I stood, anger overwhelming fear for a moment. "This is insane. You can't keep me locked up here like—like some princess in a tower!"
Cesare stood too, much more gracefully than I had. "Can't I?"
He was taller, broader, infinitely more powerful. The reminder was physical and undeniable.
But I'd spent twenty-four hours terrified. I was exhausted. And exhaustion made me reckless.
"What's your plan, Cesare? Keep me prisoner forever? I'll go crazy. I'll—"
"You'll adjust," he repeated, voice harder now. "Everyone does."
"I'm not everyone!"
"No," he agreed, stepping closer. "You're my wife. Which means you live by my rules."
I wanted to scream, to throw something, to run.
But there was nowhere to go.
Cesare watched me on the edge of breaking down. His expression shifted to one of calculation. He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then: "The study—third door on the left—has a desk, a computer, internet access."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You told me last night you're passionate about your work. Renaissance art. Curation." He was remembering our conversation from the dance. "You need something to occupy your time or you'll go insane locked in here."
The fact that he'd remembered, that he'd actually listened during that brief moment at the reception, surprised me.
"Stay productive. Research your art. Read. Work on whatever projects interest you. Just stay out of my business files."
It wasn't freedom. But it was something. A concession I wasn't expecting.
"You're letting me use the internet?" Suspicion colored my voice.
"It's monitored. Try to contact anyone, try to call for help, and I'll know immediately. But for legitimate research, yes. Consider it... an investment in keeping you sane."
Still controlled. Still watched. But more than I'd had a minute ago.
And the fact that he'd remembered my passion for art, that he was providing this based on what I'd told him—it was the first sign he saw me as a person, not just a problem to manage.
"Why?" I asked. "Why give me anything?"
Cesare was putting on his suit jacket, preparing to leave for his meetings. He paused.
"Because a broken wife is useless to me. I need you functional, sane, able to appear in public without falling apart."
Always strategic. Always self-serving. And yet...
"And?" I sensed there was more.
He looked at me for a long moment. "And because you're not the enemy. You're collateral damage. There's a difference."
It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered. It shouldn't matter.
But somehow it did.
He headed toward the elevator. I followed—keeping distance but drawn to understand.
"When will you be back?" The question sounded too domestic, too wife-like.
"Late. Don't wait up." He pressed the elevator button.
"Cesare—"
He turned. Waited.
I didn't know what I wanted to say. Thank you? I hate you? Help me?
"Nothing. Never mind."
The elevator doors opened. Cesare stepped in, then paused.
"Paola. The one week deadline stands. Use this time wisely. Think about what happens next. Make your choice."
The doors closed before I could respond.
Day one. Alone. Six days left.
The silence was overwhelming. No street noise ninety floors up. Just the hum of climate controlled air and my own breathing.
I walked through the penthouse, exploring properly now.
Living room: expensive art—though I could take a closer, disbelieving look at originals I didn’t even know existed—uncomfortable-looking furniture, no personal touches.
Study: as promised, a desk with a top-of-the-line computer, bookshelves filled with business texts and Italian literature. Machiavelli. Dante. Books on strategy and war.
Gym: full equipment, mirrors, punishing and perfect. That explained the hard muscle I’d felt beneath his tux the night before…
Guest rooms: impersonal, unused.
Everywhere I looked I found wealth, control, and emptiness.
This was my life now.
I returned to the study and sat at the desk. Opened the computer—it powered on immediately, no password required for me. He was giving me access. Monitored access, but still.
I could try to email someone. Anna. The police. Anyone.
But his warning echoed: I'll know immediately.
And even if I called for help—what would I say? "I married a mafia Don under duress"? Who would believe me? Who could help me?
My father had made his position clear: I was on my own.
The truth settled over me like a weight. There was no rescue coming. No escape. No hero.
If I was going to survive this, I had to do it myself.
I opened a browser and started researching. Not escape plans. Something else.
I typed: Cesare Monti.
Time to understand exactly who I'd married.
The search results were extensive. Cesare Monti was a public figure—sort of.
CEO of Monti Industries–real estate, technology investments, import/export. Billions in legitimate business. But between the lines, hints of the other empire: "alleged connections to organized crime," "rumors of mafia ties," "under investigation but never charged."
Photos of him at charity galas, business conferences, always in expensive suits, always with that cold, controlled expression.
A few articles about his father—Vittorio Monti, killed six years ago in a "business dispute." Cesare took over at twenty-eight.
I found photos from last night of our wedding, and it gave me vertigo to see them. Already circulating in society pages. I barely recognized myself: the woman in the photos looked elegant, composed, happy.
The performance was flawless. No one would guess the truth. How had I managed that, especially considering my body had been fighting the effects of being drugged? Adrenaline, maybe. The threats.
One headline: "Monti-Lombardo Alliance: Power Couple or Power Play?"
Both, I thought bitterly. Definitely both.
Hours passed. I researched, read, tried to piece together my new reality and the man I was now tied to.
Lunch appeared in the kitchen—the invisible housekeeper. I picked at it.
Afternoon stretched into evening. My first full day as Cesare Monti's wife, spent entirely alone in a penthouse prison.
I tried to paint—there were art supplies in one of the guest rooms, another thoughtful provision. But everything I created looked violent. Angry. Trapped.
Evening came. The city lit up below me like a galaxy. Beautiful and unreachable.
I showered, changed into another of the silk nightgowns from the closet. This one was emerald, less revealing than some. It felt like cream against my skin, but I missed the pajama pants at my apartment, the oversized t-shirts.
Cesare had said he'd be late. Don't wait up.
But I couldn't sleep. Not yet.
I sat in the living room, watching the city, watching the elevator door.
Waiting for my husband to come home.
It was past midnight when I heard the elevator—technically Day 2, though it felt like the longest day of my life was still continuing. I'd dozed off on the couch, woke to the mechanical sound.
My heart rate spiked.
The doors opened. Cesare stepped out.
He looked tired—jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw.
Our eyes met across the room.
"You're awake," he said. Not quite a question.
"I couldn't sleep." The truth.
He moved toward me—predatory grace even when exhausted.
I should stand. Should move. But I was frozen on the couch, watching him approach.
He stopped in front of me. Close. Too close.
His hand reached out—I thought he'd touch my face. Instead, he grasped the edge of the couch beside my head, leaning over me, caging me in.
"Can't sleep? Or won't?"
His scent surrounded me: cologne faded, whiskey, something darker. Male. Dangerous. There was an edge to him tonight, a flash in his eyes as if he wanted resistance from me.
"Both," I whispered.
His gray eyes searched mine. "You're thinking too much. Calculating. Planning."
He was right. I was.
"Have you made your choice, Paola?" His voice was low, intimate. "About our... arrangement?"
I knew what he was asking. The one-week deadline. The consummation.
"It's only been one day," I managed.
"Six days left, then." His thumb traced my jawline—I hadn't even seen him move his other hand. "Time passes quickly."
My breath caught. His touch was electric, terrifying, addictive. I fought the impulse to correct him that it was now five days, since it was after midnight.
"I'm not ready," I said. Honest. Vulnerable.
"You won't be ready in six days either," he said matter-of-factly. "There's no preparing for this, Paola. Only surrendering."
The word surrendering sent heat through my body—wrong, unwanted heat.
He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear: "Sweet dreams, moglie mia." My wife.
Then he was gone, walking toward the bedroom, leaving me trembling on the couch.
I sat in the darkness, heart pounding, body betraying me with desire I didn't want to feel.
Six days. Six days until my choice was made for me.
Unless I made it first.