CHAPTER 6
FIORELLA P.O.V.
I pace the four-meter span of this concrete fucking cage until my bare feet go entirely numb against the stone.
I hold my arms up in the flickering fluorescent light, examining the fresh bruises mapping out exactly where his massive hands clamped down on me.
The marks are stark, angry purple against my skin, clashing with the jagged, torn hem of this emerald silk gown.
This dress cost more than the cars his street-level thugs drive, and right now, it’s just a ragged flag of a war I didn't ask to fight.
My family's name is supposed to be a bulletproof vest in Sicily. Turns out, it’s just a highly specific death warrant.
"I am not a victim. I am a Silvestri." I mutter it to the empty room, but the walls don't care.
I stop pacing and pick at a loose, shimmering thread on my bodice, winding the damn thing around my index finger tighter and tighter until the tip goes violently purple and throbs with my heartbeat.
"Think, Fiorella. Think or die in the dark. "
The hum of the ventilation system overhead sounds like a distant swarm of feral bees, dragging the smell of damp earth and old iron through the cell.
Growing up, the Ferraro name used to be a whisper in my father's house—a problem dealt with, a ghost story for the adults.
Now that ghost is a perfectly sculpted wall of muscle with his hand actively wrapped around my throat.
If I can't outmuscle him, I have to outplay him. I remember the way Angelo looked at me earlier. I saw the unhinged, predatory hunger swimming in those oil-slick eyes. He wants to erase my brother’s legacy, yeah, but he wants to use my body as the eraser.
Fine. If my blood won't save me, my skin will.
I just need to lure him in close enough to snatch that black folding knife I saw clipped to his tactical vest.
"He’s a man. They all bleed the same way," I whisper, uncoiling the thread from my finger. "Let him think he’s won. Let him get comfortable."
I lick my thumb and deliberately smudge the dirt on my cheek.
I need to look vulnerable, broken, completely devoid of the Silvestri arrogance.
It makes my stomach churn, the idea of willfully submitting to the touch of the man who slaughtered my family's associates.
I hate that my body reacted to his proximity before.
I force the thought down. It was just adrenaline.
Pure, biological survival instinct. It wasn't a choice.
I start staging the trap. I deliberately slide the thin silk strap of my gown down my left shoulder, letting the fabric dip dangerously low over my chest. I sit on the edge of the flimsy cot, then let myself slide down to the cold concrete floor, arranging my limbs in a pose of total, exhausted surrender.
I fan out my dark chestnut hair against the ugly grey wall behind me.
I bite down hard on my lower lip until it swells, letting the pain bring a dark, honeyed flush to my mouth that perfectly mimics the aftermath of a rough kiss.
"I can't do this anymore," I practice whispering to the empty air. "Please, Angelo... just for a moment."
The cold of the floor seeps straight through the thin silk of my slip, making me shiver. Somewhere down the hall, the heavy, metallic 'thud-clack' of the outer security door echoes. He’s coming. I feel like a lamb painting itself red for the wolf, just hoping the wolf chokes to death on the wool.
The heavy steel door of my cell groans in protest on its hinges.
Angelo steps into the frame, his massive silhouette immediately blotting out the harsh light from the hallway.
He’s carrying a fresh bottle of water. His eyes lock onto my position on the floor instantly, scanning the room for threats before he even fully steps inside.
The sheer physical gravity the man exerts makes it hard to pull air into my lungs, let alone execute an Oscar-worthy performance.
He pauses at the threshold. His nostrils actually flare, like an animal scenting a shift in the atmospheric pressure.
"You’re quiet today, Princess." His voice is gravel and grit. "The floor is a cold place to sleep."
The deadbolt gives a sharp click behind him. He steps closer, bringing the heavy scent of his cologne with him—expensive leather cut with cold rain. He looks bigger in the dark. Like a mountain that just decided to get up and walk.
I don't look up immediately. I let a soft, jagged breath escape my swollen lips. When I finally raise my amber eyes to meet his, I make sure they are swimming with perfectly practiced tears. I reach out a trembling hand toward the plastic bottle in his grip.
"I'm so thirsty, Angelo."
He doesn't step forward to offer the bottle. He stops just out of my reach, holding it loosely by his side, forcing me to sit there and acknowledge that he holds the literal water of life.
I rub my wrists together, drawing his attention to the faint red fingerprints he left there hours ago. "Do you enjoy watching me like this? Like an animal?"
The plastic bottle crinkles slightly as his grip tightens. Heat radiates off his heavy combat boots. I want to scream at him. I want to claw his fucking eyes out, but I bury the rage under a thick layer of pathetic docility.
"Angelo," I whisper. Not the spit-filled 'Ferraro' I usually throw at him. Just his name, soft and broken. I beckon him closer with a weak flutter of my hand, my fingers grazing the empty air between us. "Come here. I just want to feel someone... something other than these walls."
Angelo shifts his weight. The heavy leather of his tactical vest creaks loud in the silence. His eyes narrow down to slits. He knows I’m a Silvestri, and my family always has a dagger hidden somewhere, even if it’s just in our teeth. But he’s stepping forward anyway.
He kneels, one knee hitting the concrete with a heavy thud that vibrates into my bones.
He’s close enough now that I can see the fine, pale scars crossing his jawline and the terrifying emptiness in his stare.
He lifts the water bottle and holds it to my lips.
The intimacy is immediately stifling. My plan is working perfectly, but the physical proximity is triggering a visceral, electric response in my chest that I absolutely did not authorize.
I take a slow sip, intentionally letting a few drops of water spill past my lower lip, tracking down my chin and soaking into the silk covering my chest.
"Slowly, Fiorella," he murmurs, his eyes tracking the water droplet all the way down. "You’re shaking. Is it the cold, or is it me?"
The cold plastic presses against my lip. The warmth of his breath washes over my forehead. I look up into those oil-spill eyes and realize how easily I could drown in them if I lose focus for even a second.
I reach up. My fingers are light, barely there, as I touch his forearm.
The coarse dark hair and the rock-hard muscle beneath his rolled-up sleeve feel burning hot to the touch.
He goes completely rigid, but I don't pull away.
I trace the edge of the black ink on his wrist—a crown of thorns circling the joint.
"You’re not as cold as you pretend to be," I say softly. "Your skin... it’s hot. Like a fever."
The rough texture of his tattoos drags against my soft fingertips. My own heart is thumping so hard against my ribs I’m genuinely terrified he can hear it. Focus, Fiorella. The right hip. The folding knife is clipped to his right hip.
I use his broad shoulders to steady myself as I slowly stand up, deliberately dragging my body up against his.
He rises with me, keeping the pressure constant.
The ruined emerald silk of my gown brushes against his rough tactical gear, the friction filling the small, dead space of the cell with an insane amount of tension.
He is a literal wall. I feel incredibly small, fragile, and acutely aware of how effortlessly he could snap me in half.
I tilt my head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of my throat. "Look at me, Angelo. Are you afraid of a girl in a ruined dress?"
I smell the sharp tang of gun oil radiating off his vest. His chest expansion brushes heavily against my breasts as he takes a breath. I can feel the metal clip of the knife pressing into my lower thigh. It’s right there.
I place my hands flat against his chest, sliding my palms right over his heart.
The rhythm is slow, heavy, completely unbothered.
The audacity of this man to not even be rattled by this.
I lean in, stopping with my lips hovering just inches from his, playing the perfect role of a broken woman desperate for a kiss.
He doesn't pull back. Instead, a smile cuts across his face. It’s a sharp, cruel, knowing expression. He knows exactly what the fuck I’m doing, and he’s going to let me try it anyway just to watch me fail.
I exhale a shaky breath against his mouth, tasting the stale, heavy air we are sharing. "Do you want to hurt me, or do you want to touch me? Make a choice, Angelo."
Angelo drops the water bottle. It hits the concrete with a dull thud that makes me flinch.
Before I can blink, he wraps a heavy, calloused hand around the back of my neck.
His thick fingers tangle violently into my hair, holding my head perfectly still.
He doesn't kiss me. He just leans in and breathes me in, inhaling the scent right off my skin.
His thumb presses hard into the sensitive dip right beneath my ear, hitting a nerve that forces a sharp gasp out of my mouth.
"You smell like expensive soap and desperate lies," he growls, his voice vibrating straight into my chest. "Is this the Silvestri way? Selling the body when the gold runs out?"
My scalp burns from the pull of his grip. My own perfume—jasmine and vanilla—mixes with his aggressive musk until I can't tell where I end and he begins. My skin is on fire. Move your hand, Fiorella. Now.