CHAPTER 5
ANGELO P.O.V.
Cazzo, get a grip. I’m standing here in the outer room of this concrete shithole slicing coarse, crusty bread and hard pecorino cheese with clinical precision like I’m opening a fucking deli instead of holding a hostage.
It’s clown behavior. I violently stab a piece of cured salami onto a dented metal tray, the sound of steel clanging on steel ringing right through my skull and bouncing off the sterile ventilation hum of the bunker.
I’m trying to shake the phantom sensation of her skin from my palms after that last encounter we had where I caged her against the wall, but my hands feel hot, permanently stained with the friction of her fighting me.
I’m furious with my own biological response.
I should feel absolutely nothing but the cold, hard satisfaction of a debt collector cashing a check written in blood ten years ago.
She’s a Silvestri, not a woman. Just a means to an end.
But the way she looked up at me with those honey-amber eyes has left this lingering heat in my gut that I can’t extinguish no matter how hard I try to rationalize it.
I slice the knife down aggressively and accidentally cut the bread way too thin.
With a frustrated growl I discard the ruined slice, my thumb pressing down so hard into the flat edge of the blade that I almost draw my own goddamn blood.
My old man always used to say the Silvestris were like sirens—pretty to look at until they dragged you under the water and drowned you in their bullshit.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m already treading water and I don’t even realize it yet.
I drop the knife and lean my full weight on the metal desk, staring straight at the flickering black-and-white security monitor.
There she is. A ghost-white shape pacing the small corner of the inner cell.
Her expensive silk dress is an absolute ruin now, just a smudge of high-end luxury against the grime of my underground bunker.
I track the way her chest heaves with every ragged breath she takes through the static-filled hum of the monitor.
Still standing. Why are you still standing?
She’s refusing to sit down. Refusing to weep.
It’s unhinged. I feel this dark, voyeuristic pull toward her resilience that I deadass don’t want to accept, this creeping admiration for the way she holds her head high even when she thinks no one is watching her rot.
I reach out, my index finger tracing the curvy outline of her figure directly on the screen, my fingernail clicking sharply against the cold glass.
Look at you, little princess. You’re wrecked but you won't fold.
It makes the urge to physically force her to her knees almost unbearable.
Don't make me break you further, I think, but I know it's a lie because breaking her is exactly what I came here to do.
I kick the door. It swings inward, casting a harsh, rectangular wedge of yellowish light right into the pitch-black cell.
I fill the doorway completely, letting my broad shoulders block out the only exit, a dark omen in heavy tactical gear.
I don't step in immediately. I just stand there letting her eyes adjust to the intrusion.
Fiorella shrinks back, recoiling into the darkness like a cornered animal.
The physical disparity between us is jarring even to me.
I look like a goddamn machine built for war, and she looks like a broken doll in ruined, dirty silk.
The sudden glare of the light makes her squint.
She immediately reaches down and pulls the torn hem of her dress down over her knees, a tiny, futile gesture of modesty that makes my eyes darken instantly.
"The light hurts, doesn't it?" I say, my voice scraping out low.
She freezes.
"Don't move," I tell her. "I can smell your fear from here." It would be so easy to just keep her locked in the dark until she begged for a single ray of sun. But I need her mind intact for the psychological warfare that’s coming.
I walk in and kick a small wooden stool toward her with the toe of my boot. It screeches violently across the concrete floor, making her flinch before I drop the metal tray onto it with a bone-jarring clang. The smell of the salty cured meat instantly fills the small, damp space.
"Eat." My voice sounds like gravel grinding on wet stone.
She is clearly starving. I can literally see her stomach muscles tensing at the sight of the food.
But that toxic Silvestri pride acts as an invisible barricade.
She crosses her bare arms over her chest, looking everywhere in the room but the tray in front of her.
She clinches her jaw so fucking hard a small muscle in her cheek pulses rhythmically under her skin.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry," I snap. "Eat. Now."
She doesn't move.
"It's not poisoned," I add, my tone completely flat.
"I have more creative ways to kill you." I know the feeling of real hunger, how it starts as a dull ache and turns into a frantic, rabid animal clawing at your insides.
I want to see exactly how long she can fight her own biology before the animal wins.
"Go rot in hell," Fiorella spits out, her voice raspy from a dry throat but still sharp with that aristocratic venom. "My brother will find you, Bastardo."
I just stare at her.
"You think this bunker can hide you from a Silvestri?
" she demands, her chest heaving, the heat radiating off her skin in waves.
She tries to stand up taller to project dominance, but her knees give a slight, betraying wobble from physical weakness.
She catches herself against the wall. "I’m not eating a single crumb from your hand. Keep your peasant scraps."
She's using her family name as a goddamn shield.
The problem is, that shield is already shattered into a million pieces, I just haven't shown her the wreckage yet.
I think about Alessio right now, probably sipping an espresso in his sun-drenched coastal villa while his sister rots underground.
The irony is a bitter pill I am more than happy to force-feed her.
I let out a harsh, humorless laugh that bounces loudly off the concrete walls.
Dust motes dance in the yellow beam of light between us.
"There is no 'Silvestri' in this room, Princess.
" I sneer the title like a slur, mocking her high-born status while she literally sits in the dirt.
"The princess in her tower. Except the tower is underground and nobody gives a fuck. "
"Fuck you," she hisses, her face flushing with indignation.
"You’re playing the martyr in a play that's already been canceled," I tell her, stepping closer and intentionally kicking a bit of loose dirt right onto the hem of her silk skirt.
I watch her flinch as the dark stain spreads into the expensive fabric.
"Your name is worth absolutely nothing here.
" She recoils from the word 'nothing' like I just slapped her. It’s the truth she fears most, the total erasure of her identity.
I’ve had enough of the talking across the room.
I take two slow, heavy steps, invading her personal space until I am mere inches from her face.
She tries to press backward, but she’s already out of room.
I plant my hands flat on the rough concrete wall on either side of her head, caging her in completely.
I don't touch her skin yet, but I know the heat of my body is rolling over her in heavy waves.
I'm making the very air in the room feel like it belongs entirely to me.
I want her breathing in my scent—gun oil, stale sweat, and cold rain.
She takes a sharp, frantic breath, her chest expanding and brushing directly against my tactical shirt.
I don't move back a single inch, forcing the contact to continue.
"Look at me," I command.
She stares stubbornly at my throat.
"You’re very small when you’re not standing on a pedestal," I say, my voice dropping an octave.
"The air you're breathing is mine. Remember that." I can feel her trembling now. It’s not just fear; it’s the visceral, uncontrollable physical reaction of a prey animal recognizing the predator is way too close to escape.
I lean in until my lips are a hair’s breadth from her ear, feeling the warmth of my own breath bouncing off her skin.
"You want the truth?" I whisper softly. So softly she has to lean in slightly just to hear me, an unconscious movement toward her captor that speaks volumes. "Alessio isn't looking."
She freezes.
"There are no search parties. No helicopters. No ransom calls. You’re a ghost, Fiorella. Alessio has already replaced you." I let the icy chill of my words hang for a split second before delivering the kill-shot. "The world moved on the moment I shut that door."
I feel a weird, momentary twinge of something in my chest. Not guilt. Never guilt. But a sharp recognition of exactly how much this information is going to destroy her reality. I push the feeling down violently. Total destruction is the objective.
"No," she gasps out, her voice cracking in half. She shakes her head violently side to side, her tangled chestnut hair whipping around and brushing my forearms. "He’ll kill you! He’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met!"
I just watch her with dead, cold eyes, waiting for her panic to peak. My calm is way more terrifying to her than my anger ever could be.
"You’re lying," she stammers, her eyes frantic, darting around my face looking for a tell. "You’re a liar and a goddamn monster."
"Am I?"