Chapter 7
NIKKI
Istill can't believe my suitcase didn't make the trip.
Guess when you're kidnapping someone, carefully stowing their luggage away in the trunk isn't a priority.
Everything I own; designer heels, makeup, charger cables, even my favorite leather jacket is all gone.
All replaced with a drab wardrobe Rafe apparently wants me to wear.
I open the closet again, for the third time this hour, as if the clothes are going to magically rearrange themselves into something I'd actually wear in public. It's ridiculous. Every single hanger holds some variation of beige, cream, or off-white.
The textures are all expensive, cashmere and silk and linen, but the colors? Ugh! They're designed to make you disappear. To be quiet. And QueenNikki is anything but quiet.
"Yuck," I mutter, pulling out an oatmeal-colored sweater. I drop it back onto the hanger with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a whine.
Dinner is at seven. My stomach’s a traitor, roaring like it wasn’t kidnapped along with me.
There's a knock at the door. Soft, polite. As if we're doing some kind of weird Airbnb etiquette exchange. "Hello, esteemed prisoner. Here's your artisanal gruel."
"Come in," I call out, my words a little too loud. I pluck a drab cardigan off a hanger and fling it on as if its armor. A shield made of expensive fabric.
Great, it's him again.
Rafe.
Sucking up all the oxygen in the room like a vampire.
He's dressed in another perfectly tailored suit, this one charcoal with a crisp open collar that shows just enough throat to make my brain glitch. No tie, of course. The suit hugs his frame, emphasizing broad shoulders, and a body that clearly wasn’t built behind a desk.
"I thought you said dinner was being delivered," I say, hands on my hips, my words dripping with exaggerated disappointment.
"Don't tell me I've been stood up by a tray of food.
That's low, even for you. I'll admit my standards for romantic dinners are already pretty low these days, but a no-show from a porcelain plate? That's just insulting."
He steps in, not saying anything right away. Classic Rafe, letting the silence do the heavy lifting. Let the tension thicken until it clogs your lungs, until you're drowning in it. It's his signature move and I hate it even when I realize it’s intentional.
"I wanted to speak before the meal," he says. "You'll be joining me in the dining room tonight."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is this a date? Because you should know I don't usually dine with guys who kidnap me. That's a personal boundary of mine. No matter how many expensive beige sweaters you give me, that's still a hard pass."
"It's not a date."
"Right. So, it's just good old-fashioned coercive dining. Totally chill. I feel so much better knowing this isn't a romantic gesture. Just another power play to sit through."
I follow him through the villa. I don't know why I go.
Maybe because I'm tired of being in that room with the walls closing in on me.
Or maybe because I want to see what he looks like across a table instead of across an interrogation file.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a tiny, desperate shred of curiosity.
A morbid desire to see what fresh hell he's cooked up for me tonight.
The dining room is sleek, modern. All polished stone and glass that overlooks the gardens.
But oddly, it's warm in its own way. The scent of rosemary and garlic lingers faintly in the air, mingling with beeswax and smoke from the tall taper candles flickering down the center of the table.
The table itself is long, carved from something that looks like black walnut.
Minimalist but imposing, like everything else in this damn villa.
In front of my seat, there’s a plate already waiting, risotto, creamy and golden, with a drizzle of deep green herb oil and flecks of shaved parmesan melting at the edges.
Next to it, grilled vegetables arranged like art, the kind of meal you post before you eat.
It smells… good. Frustratingly good. My stomach growls before I can stop it.
He gestures to the chair at the head of the table. I take a seat slowly, carefully, watching him. He takes the seat opposite.
"If there's poison in the risotto," I warn him, my words light, "I'll haunt you. In full glam. Every single day. Forever. I'll be the most annoying ghost you've ever had to deal with, and my social media numbers in the afterlife will be insane. You'll never have a decent night's sleep again."
He ignores my threat, or perhaps finds it amusing. He simply pours water into my glass.
"I'd like to talk about the video," he begins.
I groan. An actual, audible groan. "Of course you do. Let's bring the mood down. I was starting to feel like this was a charming candlelit dinner with my captor. We were having such a nice time. Now it's time for trauma and threats, right?"
"I need you to understand the severity of your actions," he says. "It wasn't only me in the video. There was someone else and their organization isn't pleased. They're depending on me to correct this situation quickly and quietly."
I frown at him. "What exactly are you saying?"
"I'm not the only person you should be afraid of. There are other people involved and they're very displeased with you and the situation. More so than me, if that's possible."
"And those people," I say, the words catching in my throat, "those people are dangerous?"
His expression doesn't change. "Very."
“Who are they? If I’m being threatened, the least you can do is tell me their name.”
“Scorpione Nero.”
The Black Scorpion.
I know enough basic Italian to translate the name. Honestly, it sounds terrifying.
For a second, I don't say anything. I pick up the fork, a small, shiny thing. I stare at my reflection in the polished metal, seeing a distorted, scared version of myself. The confident, sassy persona I project online, the one I use to face the world, feels incredibly flimsy right now.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now you're involved," he states, as if it's the most natural consequence in the world. "Whether you like it or not. Your exposure has made you a part of this. There's no going back."
I shake my head, a slow, insistent refusal. "This isn't fair. This isn't right. I didn't choose this. I was just making content. I was just living my life. I didn't choose to be a pawn in your criminal chessboard."
"Neither did I," he says.
I look up, startled. That's the first crack I've seen in him. A tiny one. But real. A flicker of something that sounds almost like… vulnerability. Or maybe just a shared burden. It's unexpected and makes me pause. He's always so perfectly controlled.
"Why are you like this?" I ask, pushing, leaning forward, trying to peel back another layer. "All control and cold logic. All strategy. Do you ever feel anything? Do you ever react? Get angry? Get scared? Or are you a robot in a fancy suit?"
He doesn't answer right away. "Feeling gets people killed." Then he reaches for his wine glass. His hand, for a fleeting moment, seems to hesitate. "You're not what I expected."
"Oh? What did you expect? An airhead with extensions and a ring light? Some vapid influencer who would just cry in a corner? Did you think I would just fall apart without Wi-Fi?"
"Something like that," he admits, the corners of his lips twitching, almost forming a smile.
"Well, surprise. I have some depth. I have a personality that goes beyond my follower count. And," I lift my hand, making a fist, "I have a mean right hook. Just in case you thought I was totally helpless."
For a split second he smiles. Barely. A ghost of a smile. But it's there. And it changes his face, softens it just for a second. It's unsettling.
He motions at my plate and I take a bite. The risotto is actually good, creamy and flavorful. But we eat quietly, carefully. Two animals circling each other in a dimly lit arena. The tension never really leaves, but it shifts.
For the first time, I feel like maybe I'm not just a prisoner. Maybe I'm a player in a game I didn't know I joined. A dangerous game, sure. But a game nonetheless. And I've always been good at games. Maybe there's a way I can play my way out of this mess and get back to my life.
When dinner ends, he walks me back to the room. He doesn't touch me, of course, or speak. Just walks beside me, his presence a heavy weight in the quiet hallway.
At the door, I turn. My hand hovers over the handle, not quite touching it. "Is this where I realize my life is over?"
"We'll talk in the morning," he says.
I step inside, and press my back against the door, heart thudding a frantic rhythm. Because part of me is absolutely terrified.
I don’t know what scares me more, what he’s already done, or what he’s still deciding to do.