Chapter 11 #2
"Now you stay. You adapt. You survive." I move up behind her. Not touching, but close enough that she can feel my presence. My heat. "I know what this is. I'm not going to lie to you about it. You're here against your will. You can't leave. That makes this a cage no matter how nice the bars are."
"Then why pretend otherwise?"
"Because I don't want you to hate me. Not forever." I rest my hands on her shoulders. She tenses but doesn't pull away. "I want you to want this eventually. To want me. To forget there was ever a time before."
"And if I never do?"
"Then I'll settle for having you anyway." I turn her to face me. "But you will. You already are. Last night proved that."
Color floods her cheeks. "Last night was a mistake."
"Last night was inevitable. We both wanted it. We both needed it." I cup her face, thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "And we're going to do it again. And again. Until you stop lying to yourself about what this is."
"Which is?"
"Obsession. Possession. The only thing that matters." I tighten my grip slightly. "You're mine, Francesca. Not because you chose it. Because I decided it. And I don't let go of what's mine."
She should pull away. Should slap me. Should tell me to go to hell.
She doesn't.
We stand there in the morning light, the city sprawling beneath us, and something shifts. Not surrender. Not yet. But an acknowledgment. An understanding.
She's not going to fight me. Not today.
I take it as the victory it is.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
She blinks at the sudden change of subject. "What?"
"Morning. You need to eat." I step back, giving her room to breathe. "I'm making breakfast. Sit down and wait."
She stares at me. "I'm not hungry."
"You will be." I move to the fridge and start pulling out ingredients. "Eggs, pancetta, bread. Real food."
"You know what I eat for breakfast."
"I know everything you eat." I set a pan on the stove. "You skip lunch half the time because you're too busy at the hospital. You eat too much takeout. Your nutrition is shit, Francesca. I'm fixing that."
She watches me crack eggs into a bowl. "This is surreal."
"What is?"
"You. Making breakfast. Talking about my nutrition. Like you have any right to control what I eat."
"I have every right." I heat olive oil in the pan and add the pancetta. The smell fills the kitchen. "Sit. Watch."
"I don't—"
"Sit."
She sits.
I cook in silence for a while. I let her stew. I let her think. When I finally speak, I don't look at her. "Tell me about Mrs. Kowalski."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know you. The real you, not just the version I've been watching from a distance." I stir the eggs. "Months of surveillance tells me what you do. Not who you are."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, maybe because she needs the illusion of normalcy, maybe because she's tired of fighting, she starts talking. About the hospital, about her patients, about the old woman on the fourth floor who reminds her of her grandmother.
I listen. I file every detail away. I'm building the profile, learning the weak points, finding the levers.
We eat at the island. The food is good. She doesn't want to admit it, but I can see it in her face.
I pour her more coffee. We talk. Or rather, I ask questions and she answers because silence is worse.
It's not normal.
It's never going to be normal.
But it's a start.
I lead her to the library when we're done. The shelves are floor-to-ceiling, filled with everything from first editions to dog-eared paperbacks. She runs her fingers along the spines.
"You read."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. I just..." She's holding a volume of poetry. Neruda. "I didn't think mob enforcers were big on literature."
"Most aren't." I take the book from her and flip to a marked page. "My mother was a teacher before she married my father. She made sure I could read more than just gambling ledgers and police reports. She wanted me to be more than what I became."
"What else don't I know about you?"
"Ask."
"What's your favorite book?"
"The Count of Monte Cristo." I put the Neruda back on the shelf. "Revenge, justice, patience. Man spends years planning his revenge. Becoming someone new. Taking everything from the people who took everything from him."
She's quiet. Processing the implicit threat.
Good.
"Favorite music?"
"Opera. Puccini, mostly. Some Verdi." I pull out my phone and connect it to the sound system. A moment later, "Nessun Dorma" fills the penthouse. "You know this one?"
She shakes her head. I turn up the volume and let Pavarotti's voice wash over us.
"Turandot. The prince wins the princess at dawn." I watch her as she listens. "Vincerò. I will win. He doesn't ask. He doesn't beg. He takes."
"Of course he does," she murmurs.
We spend the afternoon like that. Music plays. She asks about the books. I answer honestly, watching her relax incrementally. We dance around what this is, what she is to me, what I'm willing to do to keep her.
Late afternoon, I start making dinner. Pasta from scratch, sauce that's been simmering since noon. She watches me work, silent.
"Something to say?" I ask without looking up.
"You do this when you're thinking. Planning." She gestures at the pasta. "It calms you down."
Smart girl. "My grandmother said a man who can't feed his family can't keep them. She made sure I learned."
"Did she know what you do?"
"She knew. Died disappointed." I cut the pasta into ribbons. "A heart attack. She dropped dead in her kitchen. Last thing she said to me was 'Find a good woman and feed her well.' So here we are."
She doesn't laugh. Just watches me work with something complicated in her eyes.
We eat at the table. The pasta is perfect. The sauce is rich and deep. She makes a small sound of pleasure when she tastes it.
I file that away for later.
We talk through dinner. I ask about her family. Her childhood. She asks about the life, the neighborhood, the choices that weren't really choices.
She's relaxing. Letting her guard down. Laughing at something I say about one of Sal's more ridiculous schemes.
Then she stops. Catches herself. The horror that crosses her face is almost funny.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Francesca."
"I'm laughing. With you. About your life, your work, your crimes. Like it's normal. Like this is normal." Her fork clatters against the plate. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you." I reach across the table and take her hand. "You're doing what you need to do to survive. Making the best of a bad situation. It's human nature."
She tries to pull her hand back. I hold on.
"Let me go."
"No."
"Luca—"
"You're allowed to laugh. You're allowed to enjoy dinner.
You're allowed to be comfortable here." I tighten my grip.
"Doesn't mean you've given up. Doesn't mean you've surrendered.
Just means you're smart enough to know that fighting every moment of every day will destroy you faster than I ever could. "
"I shouldn't be comfortable. I should be terrified."
"You are terrified. I can see it in your eyes.
But you're also hungry and tired and human.
" I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
"So you eat the food I make and you listen to the music I play and you let yourself breathe for a few hours.
And slowly, piece by piece, you forget why you were fighting in the first place. "
She looks at our joined hands. "I hate that you make sense."
"I know."
"I hate that I'm starting to forget this is a cage."
"Good." I turn her hand over and press my thumb against her pulse. Feel it racing. "That's the point, tesoro. That's always been the point."
She finally looks at me. "That's the most dangerous thing of all, isn't it? Not the guns or the violence or the war you started. It's this. The moments where I forget to be afraid."
"Yes."
"What happens when I stop forgetting? When this becomes normal?"
"Then you're exactly where I want you. And we can stop pretending you're not mine."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't argue. Just sits there with her hand in mine, looking at me like I'm a puzzle she can't solve.
My phone buzzes on the table.
I ignore it. Let whoever it is wait. Right now, the only thing that matters is the woman in front of me and the fact that she's stopped fighting.
For tonight, at least.
Tomorrow, I'll deal with the Bratva. Tomorrow, I'll handle Morozov and his threats to the Commission.
Tonight, I'm taking her back to bed. And this time, I'm making sure she understands exactly what belonging to me means.