Chapter 5 Camilla
The lock clicks with finality behind me.
I stand frozen in the center of what might be the most beautiful prison cell in existence.
Beige silk wallpaper with subtle gold threading catches the afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
A four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in ivory linens.
Persian rugs in deep burgundy and gold warm the marble floors.
Fresh white roses sit in a crystal vase on the antique writing desk.
It's exquisite. It's luxurious.
It's a damn prison cell dressed up like a five-star luxury resort.
I walk to the windows first, my heels clicking against the marble.
Lake Maggiore stretches endlessly below, its surface like polished glass reflecting the mountains that rise on all sides.
The view is breathtaking, postcard perfect.
I press my palms against the glass, searching for any way to open the windows.
Nothing.
They're sealed shut.
I'm not a guest. I'm not even really a prisoner in the traditional sense. I'm inventory. A valuable item stored in climate-controlled conditions until the transaction is complete. He might as well have put me into a box.
My reflection stares back at me from the window. My wedding dress torn and stained, makeup smeared, dark hair falling from its elaborate updo. I look like a bride in a horror movie, which feels fitting.
I turn away from the window and begin exploring. The ensuite bathroom is marble and gold, complete with a clawfoot tub and separate glass shower. Expensive toiletries line the vanity. Someone has anticipated my needs and that thought gives me the creeps.
The armoire holds women's clothing in assorted sizes. Designer pieces, all in neutral tones. Silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, tailored pants. Even lingerie in delicate lace and satin. The sight of it makes my stomach turn. How long has this been planned? How much does Renato Vitiello know about me?
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my wedding dress pooling around me like spilled cream. Six million euros. That's what he demanded for my safe return. Triple what the Rossis owe him.
My father can't pay it. The thought comes suddenly, but I know it's true. Papa's bad investments over the past two years have bled us dry. The marriage to Lorenzo was supposed to save us, a prestigious alliance that would bring Rossi money into our family coffers.
And those fucking Rossis?
Lorenzo didn't even try to stop my kidnapping. If he won't fight for me, why would his family bankrupt themselves for me?
They won’t.
The afternoon sun shifts, casting longer shadows across my prison. Forty-four hours. That's how long I have for someone to prove they value me more than money.
Instead of crying, I feel hollow but strangely clear. If no one is coming for me—and deep down, I suspect no one is—then I need to figure out how to save myself.
The sound of the lock disengaging makes me jump.
Renato Vitiello steps into the room without knocking, closing the door behind him. He's still wearing the designer suit from earlier, looking every inch the successful businessman rather than the man who destroyed my wedding hours ago.
"Settling in well, I see," he observes, taking in my messy hair and ruined makeup.
I stand up, straightening my spine, though I feel ridiculous still wearing the wedding dress. "What do you want?"
"To ensure my investment is settling in." He moves into the room. "This villa has very specific rules. I thought you should understand them."
"Rules?"
"Protocol, if you prefer." He walks to the window, and I catch a scent of his cologne when he moves past me. "Rule one; don't attempt to leave this room without permission. The doors are monitored, and my men have instructions to use whatever force necessary to maintain security."
"And rule two?"
"Don't hurt or damage yourself." His eyes sweep over me, assessing. "Bruises, cuts, anything that affects your condition. I have significant money invested in your wellbeing."
The clinical way he talks about my body disgusts me. "How considerate."
"Rule three; cooperation is rewarded. Defiance is... discouraged." He turns from the window to face me fully. "I can make your stay here quite comfortable, or quite unpleasant. Your choice."
"And what exactly does cooperation look like in your eyes?"
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, at my directness.
"Answering questions honestly. Following instructions promptly. Making my life easier while we wait for your families to come to their senses."
"My families." I stand up, smoothing my torn wedding dress. "You keep saying that like both of them care enough to pay."
"They will."
"Are you sure about that? Lorenzo abandoned me in a cathedral full of witnesses. My father arranged my marriage to cover his debts." I step closer, close enough to stare straight up into his dark eyes. "Neither of them values me at six million euros."
"We'll see."
"Yes, we will." I hold his gaze steadily. "And when we do, what happens to inventory that no one wants to claim?"
The question hangs between us, and I see something shift in his expression. Not quite discomfort, but something close to it.
“No need to waste time thinking about something that’s not going to happen,” he says.
"Because you're so confident in their love for me?"
"Because I'm confident in their understanding of consequences if their debts aren’t paid."
I almost laugh. "You mean their fear of you, rather than their love for me."
"Fear is a powerful motivator. One of the most powerful. Possibly even more so than love."
"So is greed. And pride. And the simple fact that damaged goods are worth less than pristine ones." I gesture to my torn dress, my disheveled appearance. "How much am I worth now, after being kidnapped from my own wedding? Half of the amount you’re demanding? A quarter?"
"You're overthinking this and you’re distraught."
"Am I? Or am I the only one thinking clearly?" I turn away from him, moving back to the window. "Tell me about this villa. How long have you owned it?"
The change of subject catches him off guard. "For years. Why?"
"Just curious about my prison." I trail my fingers along the windowsill. "It's beautiful. Expensive. The kind of place where you bring valuable things until you’re tired of them."
"Yes."
"How many other women have stayed in this room?"
"That's not relevant to this situation."
"Isn't it? I'm trying to understand the business model." I turn back to face him. "Do you always house your collateral in such luxury?"
"When the collateral is worth six million euros, yes."
"But what if the collateral isn't worth that much? What if the market doesn't support your asking price?" I sit back down on the bed, crossing my legs with deliberate grace. "Do you lower your standards accordingly?"
He's studying me with something that might be respect. "You're remarkably calm for someone in your situation."
“I prefer to understand my circumstances." I meet his gaze directly. "So tell me about the other women that have been in this room."
"There haven't been other women in this room."
"Then what makes me special enough for the luxury treatment?"
"Your value." He moves closer to the bed, but doesn't sit. "You're Colombo blood. That means something."
"To whom?"
"To the kind of people who pay premium prices for quality."
"You're talking about selling me. Trafficking me."
"I'm talking about exploring other business options only if your families fail to meet their obligations." He checks his expensive watch. "Speaking of which, you'll join me for dinner in an hour. I'll show you more of the villa afterward, the parts you'll need to know."
"And if I refuse to have dinner with you?"
His smile is sharp. "Then I'll drag you there. But you'll find the evening much more pleasant if you cooperate."
After he leaves, I stand and pace the room, my mind working furiously. The conversation revealed more than he probably intended. There haven't been other women. This isn't his usual business model. Which means either I'm special somehow, or this situation is different than he's letting on.
I walk to the armoire and select clothes for dinner, a cream silk blouse and black trousers that fit perfectly. Too perfectly. How long has he been planning this?
An hour later, exactly as promised, the lock clicks open.
"Ready for dinner? I hope you’re hungry.” Renato stands in the doorway, once again immaculate in his tailored suit.
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have choices. The question is whether you'll like the alternatives."
He leads me through the villa with the easy confidence of a man showing off his domain. The halls are wide and elegant, lined with expensive art and antique furniture. Everything speaks of wealth, taste, and power.
"The main floor," he explains as we walk. "My offices, the library, formal entertaining spaces. You won't be given access to it."
"Because I'm not a guest."
"Exactly. You’re valuable cargo with a limited stay."
We pass a large salon with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. The view is even more spectacular from here, the mountains reflected in the darkening water.
"The view is breathtaking," I murmur despite myself.
"I thought you'd appreciate it. The view from your room is nice, but this is the real showcase." He pauses by the windows. "The villa was built in 1847 by a Milanese textile baron. He wanted a retreat where he could display his wealth without interference from business rivals."
"And now it's your retreat for displaying your power over kidnapped women."
"Now it's my retreat for conducting delicate business without interference from authorities." He turns to face me. "There's a difference."
"Is there? And what might that be?"
"Intent. The textile baron wanted to show off. I want to be left alone."
We continue the tour through a library lined with leather-bound books, a wine cellar filled with rare, expensive bottles, and finally to the dining room.