Chapter 6
P aolina
“We’ve landed.”
I straighten, hand instinctively bracing my stomach. “Where are we?”
“You’ll see.”
Two words. Nothing more.
The cabin door opens, cool sea air rushing in. It carries salt and jasmine, a softness at odds with the iron grip that closes around my arm as he guides me down the steps. The tarmac gives way to a sleek helipad where a black helicopter waits, blades thumping impatiently.
Fear claws my chest. “Another flight? Donatello, I?—”
“Shhh.” His hand presses to the small of my back, steady but inescapable. “It’s short.”
The helicopter swallows us. Darkness cloaks the world outside as we rise. I cling to the seat belt, nerves frayed. Donatello watches me without blinking, every inch the predator guarding his prize. The baby shifts, unsettled, and I murmur soft nonsense under my breath, trying to calm both of us.
Ten minutes later, a jeweled horizon appears: an island rising from black water, its edges traced in golden light.
Villas with wall sconces gleam like pearls nestled amongst up-lit flowering trees and manicured lawns.
Additional landscape lighting marks the paths between the villas and recreation areas.
A grass tennis court, a pool glimmering turquoise even at night with its cabana flanked by chaise lounges, and a boat dock lined with sleek yachts and jet skis round out the resort feel.
In the center, a courtyard spilling with fuchsia and purple bougainvillea and teak seating areas offer sanctuary.
A stunning paradise, despite the patrols of armed men.
My breath catches. “Where are we?”
“My island.” His tone holds no arrogance, only fact. “Your home now.”
The helicopter settles on the villa’s helipad. Staff waits—two men in dark suits, a woman in white, another man with a doctor’s bag. They move with quiet efficiency, bowing their heads as Donatello leads me towards them.
The primary villa towers, all pale stone and sweeping arches, lanterns casting honeyed light over carved balconies. My sneakers whisper against polished marble as he steers me inside past a pair of sentries.
It’s too much. Too beautiful. Too… trapped.
The atrium opens around us, ceilings soaring, chandeliers glittering like captured starlight. The scent of ylang-ylang and salt water lingers in the air. For a heartbeat I almost forget myself, caught in the spell of opulence. Then his hand tightens, reminding me I’m not a guest.
I’m a possession. His possession.
“You can’t keep me here.” The words escape sharper than I intend.
“I can,” he replies smoothly, eyes narrowing. “And I will.”
I whirl to face him, chin lifted despite the tremble in my knees. “Donatello—this is kidnapping.”
“No.” His large hand frames my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with deceptive gentleness.
“This is protection. For you. For our child. You think the world outside would give you safety? Aldo would let you live after you embarrassed him? Your father’s wrath would spare you?
” His grip tightens. “Here, no one can touch you. Here, you are mine.”
The word burns through me—mine—both terrifying and shamefully thrilling.
“I don’t want this,” I whisper.
“You don’t know what you want yet.” His gaze hardens to obsidian. “But by the time my daughter is born, you’ll love me. That’s my vow. ”
A shudder rolls through me. “You can’t force my love.”
“Can’t I?” He tilts his head, lips curving in a smile that isn’t kind. “I’ve already taken your fear, your body, your flight. Love is next. And I’ll make sure when you give it, it’s because you’ve learned the truth: no one else will ever worship you as I do.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” His hand drops to my belly, spreading warm and firm across the swell. The baby shifts as if recognizing his touch. His voice lowers, husky and certain. “And what I don’t know yet, I’ll learn. Every sigh, need, secret. You’ll give them all to me.”
I step back, desperate for space. “You can’t buy me.”
“Not with money,” he says simply, then rubs my belly. “I already own you with something greater.”
I can’t breathe.
He turns, issuing commands in rapid Italian to the staff. The woman in white—clearly a nurse—steps forward. The doctor follows, murmuring about prenatal checkups and supplements.
“No,” I snap, backing up. “You can’t?—”
Donatello’s hand settles heavy on my shoulder. “Yes. The doctor will examine you. You’ve lost weight when women gain during pregnancy. You’ll eat, rest, and be healthy. No arguments, Paolina.”
I choke on fury. “And if I refuse?”
His eyes flash, dark fire. “You won’t. Because it’s not just you anymore. It’s her . And before I let you risk my daughter, I’ll lock you in my bedroom instead of allowing you to roam free here.”
My knees weaken. He catches me, guiding me to a velvet chair like I’m fragile glass. The doctor kneels beside me, gentle, efficient, while Donatello looms close enough I can’t forget who orchestrates every second.
When they finish, he dismisses them with a flick of his fingers. Only we remain.
“You took my phone,” I whisper.
“Of course.” He sits across from me, sprawling in the chair like a king. “No calls, texts, or begging for rescue that will never come.”
“I don’t want your money. I’ll pay you back.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze drilling into me. “You owe me nothing but yourself. And that, bella, I’ll take in full.”
My heart races, torn between fear and the shameful thrum of want.
His hand rises, cupping my cheek again. “Fight me, Paolina. Scratch, bite, run. It only makes the hunt sweeter. But when you finally give in—and you will—I’ll be there. And you’ll know you’ve always belonged here.”
His thumb strokes over my lower lip, possessive, final.
I want to scream. Weep. Give in.
Instead, I whisper the only truth I dare: “I hate you.”
His smile sharpens, satisfied. “Good. Hate first. Love after. Both bind you to me. ”
He rises, towering over me, and gestures toward the staircase that curves up into shadow. “Come. You’ll see our rooms. Rest while you can, bella mia . The island is yours… but the world outside is gone.”
My legs move because his will directs them. Marble stairs rise as the villa stretches above, magnificent and gilded. But every step feels like a door locking shut behind me.
When I reach his suite—four-poster bed dressed in white silk, balcony overlooking endless sea—I know the truth.
I am no longer running.
I am caught.
And Donatello Romano intends to make sure I never want to escape again.
“How long will you be gone?”
The question slips out before I can swallow it.
It hangs in the sun-washed bedroom between the open balcony doors and the suitcase he hasn’t zipped.
Salt air spills through gauzy curtains, carrying the faint thrum of the Mediterranean Sea below the cliffs and the citrus note of lemons from the grove.
Two months on this island have taught me the rhythm of Donatello’s life. He comes. He goes.
Business draws him away overnight, sometimes until dawn, always back before the sun has the nerve to set without him.
I stay. Staff tends to me like a queen who never asked for a crown—fresh fruit on silver trays, meals tailored to cravings I don’t admit out loud, appointments I never book appearing on a discreet schedule.
The obstetrician checks me every week; the nurse visits daily with a calm smile and a blood-pressure cuff.
Morning swims smooth the weight from my hips while the baby rolls like a sleepy dolphin in my rounded belly.
The pool glitters. The Med welcomes me with cool hands.
Afterward, the spa/fitness pavilion claims the hours between lunch and dusk with prenatal massage that loosens the ache beneath my shoulder blades and low-impact yoga and Pilates.
All done and taught by trained professionals.
Aside from the kidnapping, Donatello has been good to me.
That is a dangerous truth to admit, even in the privacy of my head.
No sex. Not once. At night he pulls me into him, and we sleep locked together, his hand splayed across the round of my belly as if he can cradle the baby through skin and bone.
Sometimes the length of him hardens along my backside; sometimes the restraint in his body feels like the loudest thing in the room.
He never moves beyond holding me. Even though he always could, he doesn’t.
The absence breeds want like heat breeds storms.
I haven’t spoken to Mamma. The burner phone lies crushed on a road somewhere. Papà’s anger is a door I refuse to open even in memory. Silence is mercy—distance, survival .
Donatello pauses with his watch in his hand. Dark eyes flick to my face, reading more than I say. “A few days.”
A few days. It hits harder than it should. This will be the first time he’s gone longer than a night.
Surprise blooms into something lonelier than I expect, an ache that starts low and widens until I have to press my palm there to catch it.
“I’ll manage,” I say, because pride is a habit that learned to walk before love knew how to crawl.
“You will,” he agrees, not as a question.
He sets the watch on his wrist, then steps in to brush a thumb beneath my eye as if he can smooth the sleeplessness away.
“Nora will stay close. The doctor is on call. Security is the same. Swim only when the flags are green. Eat more in the morning. Rest after dinner.” His mouth softens at the corners.
“And text me when you want me. I’ll answer. ”
“Bossing me from the sky now?” It comes out lighter than I feel.
“Yes.” The word is simple. Then he adds, “And because I want to kiss you before I go.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Naturally. Lips find mine, warm and steady, a promise pressed into a goodbye.
The kiss is not hunger. It’s claim and comfort and a thousand things I’m not ready to name. My fingers curl in his shirt, anyway. The baby rolls and stills, as if listening .