Chapter 7 Camilla
One opponent to another.
His words echo in my head long after the lock clicks shut behind him. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the small collection of weapons he generously left me. The fountain pen, the nail files, the hairpin. Evidence of a game I'm only beginning to understand.
He called me his opponent. An interesting choice of words.
I pick up the fountain pen, testing its weight in my palm. The gold nib catches the lamplight, sharp and gleaming. He knew exactly what I was planning to do with this. He watched me search for weapons, let me keep them, even gave me privacy to plan whatever comes next.
Why?
The answer comes to me slowly, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. He's intrigued by me. Men as powerful as Renato Vitiello don't get challenged often. Not intellectually, not emotionally, certainly not by the women they kidnap. I'm not behaving the way he expected me to.
And that fascinates him.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the lake. Tomorrow, if his plan works, I'll be back with the Rossis. Lorenzo will pay his family's debt, and I'll resume my life as his unwilling bride.
The thought doesn’t exactly make me any happier.
I could try to run. Test those weapons against Renato when he least expects it. But where would I go? Even if I managed to escape this villa, I'd be trapped in the Italian mountains with no money, no resources, no way to get home.
And if I were caught...
Running isn't the answer.
But maybe I don't have to run. Maybe there's another way.
I return to the bed and arrange myself where the cameras can see me, making sure he knows I'm thinking and planning. I pick up one of the books from the nightstand and flip through it slowly. As if I’d be sitting here reading the latest thriller while my life hangs by a thread.
After an hour of what I'm sure looks like brooding contemplation, I begin preparing for bed. I brush my hair carefully, select a silk nightgown from the armoire. It’s ivory colored, elegant but modest. All performed for an audience of one man.
But I don't sleep. Instead, I sit by the window and wait.
A little after 2 AM, I hear soft footsteps in the hallway. He's checking on me, making sure I'm not using those weapons he left me on myself.
I remain perfectly still, gazing out at the moonlit lake like a melancholy princess in a tower. In the window's reflection, I see the door open just wide enough for him to observe me.
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge his presence. Just continue my tragic vigil by the window.
After a full minute, the door closes again with the softest click.
Round one to me.
The next morning, I'm already dressed and composed when his key turns in the lock.
I've chosen my outfit carefully this time.
A white cashmere that brings out my coloring, black pants that suggest understated elegance.
Hair pulled back in a style that looks effortless but took twenty minutes to perfect.
"Good morning," I say before he can speak, accepting the coffee he offers. "Beautiful day. Perfect weather for travel back to the city, don't you think?"
He sets down the tray, and I catch the slight surprise in his expression. He expected to find me anxious about my impending return to the Rossis, or perhaps plotting some desperate last-minute escape.
Instead, I'm calm and pleasant. Almost cheerful.
"Sleep well?" he asks, settling into the chair across from me.
"Well enough. Though I kept thinking about our conversation last night."
"Which part?"
"The part where you called me an opponent." I take a sip of coffee, noting its perfect temperature, its expensive quality. "I've been wondering what you meant by that."
His dark eyes study my face. "I think you know exactly what I meant."
"Maybe. But I'd like to hear you explain it."
"You think strategically. You adapt to circumstances instead of breaking down." He leans back in his chair. "You’re looking for opportunities to exploit." His gaze travels over my face, my carefully chosen outfit. "You’re willing to use whatever tools are available to get what you want."
"And what do you think I want?”
“I'm not entirely sure."
I smile, letting him see that I'm pleased by his assessment. "Most people assume they know what women want. Security, protection, someone to take care of them."
"And you don't want those things?"
"I want to choose my own life. Make my own decisions. Not be passed from one man to another." I meet his eyes directly. "Strange concept, isn't it?"
Something flickers in his expression. Understanding, maybe, or respect.
"Your fiancé wouldn't have given you those things?"
"Lorenzo?" I almost laugh. "Lorenzo would have locked me in a different cage. Prettier, perhaps, but still a cage. At least you're honest about what you are."
"And what do you think I am?"
"A man who takes what he wants without pretending it's for my own good." I set down my coffee cup. "There's something refreshing about that kind of honesty."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between us. I can see him processing what I've said, trying to figure out if this is manipulation or genuine sentiment.
It's both, of course. But that doesn't make it less true.
"In a few hours, you'll be free to go back to your old life," he says finally.
"After being kidnapped from my own wedding?" I stand and walk to the window. "I think we both know I'll never be free, Renato. The question is who owns me next."
"Lorenzo will pay what he owes. His family's reputation depends on it."
"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like he already made his choice when he stepped aside and let your men take me." I turn back to face him. "He’s a fucking coward. But you know what? I almost hope he does pay."
"Why?"
"Because then I'll know exactly what I'm worth to him. Six million euros." I smile at the thought. "That's quite a compliment, don't you think? To be valued so highly?"
"You're not like anyone I've ever met," he says finally.
"I certainly hope not. Where would be the fun in that?"
The word 'fun' makes his eyebrows raise slightly. As if the idea of me finding any part of this situation entertaining is incomprehensible.
"You find this situation amusing?"
"I find it illuminating in many ways." I lean forward slightly. "For the first time in my life, I'm having a conversation with a man who sees me as an opponent. You have power over me physically, yes. But intellectually? Strategically?" I tilt my head. "I think we're very well matched."
Something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes. "You're playing a game."
"We're both playing a game. The question is whether we're playing by the same rules."
Before he can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, and I see his expression shift to something more businesslike.
"Duty calls?" I ask.
"Something like that." He stands, checking his watch. "Your freedom should be confirmed within the next few hours."
"How exciting. I hope I’m not expected to go through with another one of those dreadful weddings to make it official." I remain seated, looking up at him with what I hope appears to be mild interest rather than the intense calculation it actually is. "Will you miss me when I’m gone?"
The question catches him off guard. "Miss you?"
"Meeting you has been interesting. You’ll miss me when I’m gone. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime, under different circumstances."
"Perhaps."
But I can hear the doubt in his voice. Men like him don't socialize with women like me. After today, I'll return to my world of charity galas and society pages, and he'll return to his world of underworld business deals and violence.
Unless Lorenzo doesn't pay.
He walks to the door. "Goodbye, Renato," I say. "It's truly been educational."
I listen to his footsteps as he leaves, the lock clicking shut behind him. Then I return to the bed and wait.
Because I have a feeling this conversation isn't over.
And despite everything—the kidnapping, the fear, the uncertainty—I can’t shake the feeling he’s coming back.