Chapter 7
P aolina
The villa is so quiet this time of morning I can hear the cicadas from the olive groves. I smooth the skirt of my maxi dress, tie a silk scarf around my hair, and make my way toward the pavilion where Nora scheduled today’s Pilates session.
The path to the pavilion winds through the colonnade, sun spilling in golden shafts between arches of pale stone.
The island is impossibly beautiful—bougainvillea trailing in fuchsia curtains, lemon trees heavy with fruit, the sea glittering far below like shards of sapphire.
It’s tranquil in a way I never imagined life could be.
I slow when I see Alberto, the gardener, crouched among the roses. His hands stained with soil, his straw hat tilted to keep off the sun. He glances up, face creased with a smile and offers me a small basket. Inside, peaches glow, warm from the vine.
“For you, signorina,” he says softly.
“Thank you.” I press a hand to my belly. “She thanks you, too.”
He chuckles, tapping his heart. “Always the best for you.” He gestures toward the bouquet waiting on the low stone wall—gardenias and lilies, tied neatly with twine. “For your rooms.”
I take the flowers, inhaling their sweetness. His careful arrangements, fresh blossoms always brighten my suite in every vase. It almost feels like home. Almost.
“I’ll put everything inside for you, signorina.”
“Thank you, Alberto.” I smile kindly and wave.
Walking on, I can’t deny the truth. If not for the kidnapping and being held in gilded captivity, this island would be paradise. A place to breathe. A place to raise a child in beauty and safety.
But the knowledge that he stole me here hovers like an ominous cloud. No matter how soft the sheets or how sweet the fruit, I can’t forget.
Halfway down the colonnade, I pause.
Donatello.
He doesn’t see me, and I don’t dare call his name.
He’s on the patio, shirtless, wearing nothing but black gym shorts that hang low on his hips.
Muscles ripple down his chest and arms as he lifts heavy free weights in the raw Sicilian sun.
Sweat runs in rivulets, tracing over olive skin pulled tight over every hard line of him.
Most men with his money prefer air-conditioned gyms, sleek chrome machines, personal trainers who coddle them.
Not Donatello Romano. He takes the punishment head-on.
Iron. Stone. Sweat. He is all man, forged in the heat of this land, every rep another reminder he’s a La Cosa Nostra enforcer built for violence.
And yet—when his hands touch me, when his voice drops low in the dark—he is gentle.
My thighs press together before I can stop them. Pregnancy hormones, I scold myself, heat climbing through my chest. Everything is sharper now—every glance, every brush of his body against mine at night when he holds me. Desire blooms quicker, harder. Madonna , it’s embarrassing.
Confusion tangles with the want. How can I ache for the same man who kidnapped me? Who tore me from my life, from my mother, from every choice I thought I had?
I wish I had a friend to talk to. Someone who could tell me if it’s normal to feel this—anger and longing tangled so tightly they choke me.
A snort escapes me. A friend. Cara used to be that. And look how that turned out—my so-called best friend spread beneath Aldo’s body in the confessional while I stood outside like a fool .
“Signorina?”
A polite cough startles me. I turn to find my Pilates instructor waiting by the studio doors, towel slung over her arm. Her smile is professional, but her eyes—oh, her eyes—slide past me, flare hot, then linger on Donatello’s glistening back.
Something ugly twists inside me. Jealousy. Possessiveness.
“He’s busy,” I say, voice sharp as glass. “Shall we? Or do you have other plans?”
Color rises in her cheeks as she stammers, “Of course… I mean no, signorina.”
I lift my chin, holding my head high like a queen, and sweep past her into the studio, pretending the jealousy didn’t rattle me to my core. Once in the changing room, I sag against the wall, covering my eyes with a hand. Get it together, Paolina.
I let the mixed emotions shed from my mind as I take off my dress and pull on leggings and a matching sports bra. With a nod to my reflection in the mirror, I head to the Cadillac.
The instructor is overly polite and attentive. Good. I do not regret my snarky response.
After the session, my muscles hum pleasantly. I shower in the spa, scrubbing away sweat and frustration, then slip into my dress. It stretches comfortably over my belly, soft against my skin.
I’m stepping into the corridor when a door opens across the way .
Donatello emerges from the men’s changing room, hair damp, droplets running down his temple. His handsome face flushed from exertion, olive skin warm with color. When his gaze finds me, it’s like the rest of the hall disappears.
“Would you like breakfast?” His voice is low, certain.
I blink, caught off guard. “Yes.”
He extends his hand. I hesitate only a second before placing mine in his. His palm is warm, and his grip steady. He raises his phone, calling the chef. “Whatever she wants,” he orders. Then, looking at me, he asks, “What will it be, bella mia ?”
“Um…” I clear my throat. “Fruit. Eggs. Toast.”
He nods once. “You’ll have it.”
We walk together to the courtyard, sunlight dappling the stones. He asks, “How was your session?”
“Good,” I say, then flush. “Not as… intense as your workout.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I’ve betrayed myself—I was watching him. His chuckle is low, rich.
He squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you noticed.”
My heart flutters.
The chef’s staff delivers plates, steam curling from eggs, fruit sliced into gleaming jewels. We eat slowly, talking in low voices about nothing and everything—how the sea looked this morning, how strong the baby’s kicks have become, how he prefers black coffee to espresso .
When we’re finished, I lean against the pillows in the shaded corner of the courtyard. The sun is warm, the fountain trickles, and for a moment it feels… normal. Breakfast with a man. Talking. Smiling.
Except I’m not free. I’ve been kidnapped. Forced to stay. The contradiction coils tight inside me, a knot I can’t untangle. And no one to talk to.
We slip into a comfortable silence. Bees buzz, flitting from one fragrant flower to the next. A koi splashes its tail in the fountain. Waves slap against the cliffs. Serenity.
Sleep pulls at me before I realize I’ve drifted sideways.
When I wake, it’s to the sensation of being lifted. Donatello’s arms cradle me against his chest. I blink up at him, groggy.
“Rest,” he murmurs.
His arms are solid around me, steady as stone, and I can’t stop the little sigh that slips out. For a moment I let myself melt into him, cheek against his chest, breathing in the clean scent of soap still clinging to his skin.
Aldo could never have carried me like this.
Not my full, voluptuous body. He would’ve mocked me, set me down halfway across the room with some cutting remark about my curves.
Donatello doesn’t even flinch. He carries me from the courtyard all the way through the villa as if I weigh nothing, as if holding me is the most natural thing in the world.
If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is normal. That I’m not a prisoner. That I’m just a woman being carried to bed by the man she loves.
And it feels… good. Too good.
Once inside the suite, Donatello sets me gently on my feet. His hands linger on my hips, large and firm, anchoring me in place. He stares down at me with an expression I can’t read—dark, intent, unreadable, as though a hundred thoughts war behind those obsidian eyes.
Then his fingers curl in the fabric of my dress, bunching it at my thighs, dragging it higher.
My breath catches, heat flaring through me.
He lifts it over my head in one smooth pull, leaving me bare in the lamplight's glow. My heart hammers. For one wild moment I think—no, I know —he’s about to fuck me, finally, and my body aches with the want of it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns away, pulls the bedding back, and guides me down with unexpected gentleness.
He helps me into the cool sheets, tucking the covers around me with the same care a man might use with glass.
A hand smooths over my hair before he takes the chair in the corner, broad shoulders bent, eyes fixed on me.
Watching. Guarding. Always protecting. Always there.
Disappointment burns low in my belly, shameful and sharp. I wanted him. God help me, I still want him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and chide myself. He kidnapped me. I shouldn’t crave his touch, his heat, his weight pinning me down. Especially when I don’t know if I want to run from him—or to him.
But as the mattress cradles me and his shadow lingers at the bedside, I can’t stop the thought from whispering through me.
Maybe it would be easier if he had.