Chapter 5 Camilla #2
"Impressive," I admit, taking in the crystal chandelier and mahogany table set for two.
"I believe in quality." He pulls out my chair with old-world courtesy. "In all things."
The dinner that follows is surreal. We have a civilized conversation over expensive food while my captor explains the finer points of his business philosophy. The scallops are perfectly prepared, and Renato is surprisingly knowledgeable about art and literature.
"You seem surprised," he observes, cutting into his beef.
"I am. You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A thug. Someone crude and violent."
"Violence is a tool, not a personality trait. I prefer more sophisticated approaches when they work. And when they don’t, violence is always a solid second choice."
"You mean kidnapping women from their weddings?"
"More like leveraging psychological pressure to achieve business objectives." He takes a sip of wine. "Speaking of which, your families should be receiving my terms about now."
My stomach tightens. "What terms?"
"Payment schedules. Account information. Consequences for non-compliance." His dark eyes study my face. "Standard procedure. Nothing to be concerned about."
"And if they don't comply?"
"As I’ve told you before, then we explore alternative arrangements."
I set down my fork. "Stop speaking in euphemisms. Tell me the truth. What alternative arrangements are you talking about?"
"The kind that ensure I don't lose money on this investment." He signals to someone I can't see, and moments later a server appears with a cloth-covered cart.
"I have something special for you to enjoy as dessert," he announces, pulling away the white cloth.
Oh my God. My wedding cake made of several stacked tiers of pristine white fondant with pink sugar flowers, slightly damaged from transport, but still recognizable. The bride and groom figures on top lean at drunken angles.
"What kind of a sick fuck are you? You stole my wedding cake?"
"Seemed a shame to waste it." He accepts a plate from the server and takes a deliberate bite. "Not bad, though a bit dry. Your family's baker cut corners on the buttercream."
I stare at the cake. A symbol of the life that was ripped away from me this morning and my composure finally breaks.
"You bastard," I whisper.
"It's your wedding cake. You should enjoy it. It’s not every day you get wedding cake."
"I can't eat it."
"You can and you will." He cuts a piece from a fresh slice and holds up the fork. "Open your mouth, Camilla."
"Fuck you."
"I wasn't asking." His voice drops to something dangerous. "Open your mouth, or I'll open it for you."
The threat in his voice is unmistakable. I part my lips slightly, and he guides the fork into my mouth. He’s right. The cake is dry and I almost choke on it.
"Good girl," he murmurs, cutting another piece. "Again."
This time I open my mouth without being told, hating myself for the submission but understanding the power dynamic he's establishing. There’s not a damn thing I can do and he knows it. He feeds me another bite, then another, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
"There," he says finally, setting down the fork. "See? Not so difficult."
My hands are shaking with rage and humiliation. "May I return to my room now?"
"Soon." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those calculating eyes. "First, finish your wine. Then I'll escort you back personally."
The walk back to my room feels like a funeral march. At my door, he stops and turns to face me.
"You did well tonight," he says. "Cooperation suits you."
"Go to hell."
He smiles but his eyes are cold. "I'm already there. The question is whether you'll join me willingly or whether I'll drag you down with me." He unlocks my door and steps aside. "Sweet dreams."
The lock clicks shut behind me, and I'm alone again. But now I understand something I didn't before. This isn't only about money.
This is about power.
Control.
The thrill of breaking something beautiful just because he can.
I walk to the writing desk and open the first drawer. Expensive stationary, fountain pens with gold nibs. I slip the heaviest pen into my pocket. Then I methodically search the rest of the room, every drawer, every corner, every possible hiding place.
By the time I'm finished, I have a modest collection of potential miniature weapons. Two nail files from the vanity, the fountain pen, a forgotten hairpin from the jewelry box. It's not much, but it's a start.
I also notice something else. Small red lights in the corners of the room—cameras. He's been watching me this entire time.
I force myself to continue as if I haven't noticed, but inside, my mind is calculating. If there are cameras, there might be blind spots. And if he's watching, it means he considers me dangerous enough to monitor. Or perhaps he’s worried I might be suicidal.
That's something, at least.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still within view of the cameras, and let my shoulders slump as if in defeat. Let him think his expensive villa and wedding cake mind games have broken my spirit.
He has no idea what he's awakened.
The taste of wedding cake still lingers in my mouth, but it no longer tastes like defeat. It tastes like fuel for the fire building inside me.
Less than two days until his deadline expires.
Outside my window, the lake reflects the stars like scattered diamonds. Somewhere in this villa, Renato Vitiello thinks he owns me.
He's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.