CHAPTER 14
FIORELLA P.O.V.
The steel door is thick, but not thick enough to block out the absolute bullshit coming from the hallway.
I’m sitting on the edge of this miserable cot, wrapped in Angelo’s heavy tactical jacket, straining to catch the low, vibrating rumble of his voice talking to Renato.
The generator is humming in the background, a constant annoying drone, but the words 'eliminazione' and 'Alessio' cut right through the static. Deadass. The kill order. I’m picking at a loose thread on the cuff of Angelo's jacket, my fingers trembling so violently from pure, unadulterated rage that I accidentally rip the seam. Did he even hesitate? The audacity of this man. I am a Silvestri. I practically built the social front of his entire empire, and he’s treating me like an asset with a negative ROI.
He didn't even try to bargain. I can hear them out there counting my days like I’m already a corpse. Is my life worth so little to him?
I stand up, letting the heavy jacket slide down my arms a bit as I walk over to the rusted metal sink in the corner.
The cold air bites at my bare ankles. I tilt my head back under the flickering overhead light, staring at the deep purple-red mark Angelo left on my throat earlier.
It’s slick under my fingertips, a literal brand.
In the underworld's unhinged language, it told Renato I was taken. Claimed. It’s the only thing keeping his men from treating me like a common hostage.
I press my thumb hard against the center of the bruise, welcoming the sharp sting that grounds my spiraling brain.
Bastardo, you did this on purpose. This is my only protection now.
A bruise for a life. He marked me to save me.
I'm his property, and the sickest part is that it's the safest thing I've ever been in my entire twenty-nine years.
I lean closer to the cracked mirror bolted above the sink.
The woman staring back at me is completely feral.
My silk gown is a literal rag, stained and clinging to me like a bad memory.
My long chestnut hair is a matted nest of curls.
The amber eyes staring back look hollowed out.
There’s nothing left of the villa in those eyes.
I don't recognize the Silvestri princess anymore, and honestly, good riddance.
She was weak. I use a damp corner of my slip to wipe a smudge of soot from my cheekbone, revealing the stark paleness beneath.
I look like a ghost. The princess is dead.
Maybe I should just break the glass and use the shards.
My fingers trail up from my jaw to the diamond earring in my left ear.
Alessio bragged about installing a tracker in this jewelry 'for my safety.' The ultimate control freak aesthetic. I hover my fingers over the cold, hard facet of the stone. I could rip it out right now and flush it. But then I realize the absolute chaotic potential of keeping it. I twist the earring until the post pinches the back of my earlobe hard, drawing a tiny, hot bead of blood that tastes metallic on my fingers. You’re watching me, aren't you, Alessio? This little stone is a lie. Let them come. Let them find exactly what’s waiting for them in the dark. I’m the bait now. I'll keep it. For now.
The claustrophobia of this concrete box is suddenly too much.
I start pacing, the vibrations of the floorboards under my thin soles making me want to scream.
The air is too thin in here. My anger at Alessio is a physical weight, a literal heat in my chest that needs to detonate.
I smell the rain coming through the vents, mixing with the stale cigarettes and gun oil on Angelo's jacket.
The heavy thud of boots approaches the door, followed by the rattle of the handle.
He's coming to finish the news. I am coiled tight, ready to strike.
I kick the leg of the cot, the metal screeching against the floor in a sound of pure frustration.
Come in and face me. I'm done hiding. I won't let him see me cry, because there are no tears left for that clown.
The door opens and Angelo kicks it shut behind him.
He looks like death warmed over—exhausted, his dark eyes shadowed, but his sheer size still fills every inch of the cramped space.
He’s holding a black duffel bag. He drops it to the floor with a heavy thump that echoes in the small room.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches me, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the knife at his belt.
He wipes a smear of black grease from his muscular, tattooed forearm straight onto his jeans, staring me down, waiting for me to break.
The scent of gunpowder and male sweat rolls off him.
"You heard them," he says, his voice a low, gravelly scrape. "Renato doesn't whisper well."
"The bag is for the move," I say, not breaking eye contact.
"Don't just stand there like a statue. Are you going to scream, or are you going to listen?"
I don't even look at the bag. I step right into his personal space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his broad chest hits my face. I tilt my chin up defiantly. I demand the truth.
"What's the price on my head, Angelo?" I snap, my voice steady. "Tell me the number."
He crosses his arms over his chest, the fabric of his black shirt pulling tight over his biceps. He’s trying to play the brutal messenger, but I’m not playing the victim.
"Is it enough to buy a new car? A boat?" I press, getting louder. "I want to know my worth to the Silvestri name. Don't lie to me. Cazzo, tell me."
Angelo steps closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark growl.
He gives me the number. Fifty thousand euros.
It’s a fucking joke. A mid-level enforcer’s salary.
The insult hits me harder than a fist to the jaw.
Alessio hasn't just ordered my death; he’s put me in a bargain-bin clearance sale.
I dig my nails into my palms until I break the skin, focusing entirely on the small, sharp pain to keep my face completely blank.
The cold floor seeps through my soles, a distant drip echoing from the sink. His eyes never leave mine.
"Fifty thousand? That's it?" I spit. "I've spent more on a weekend in Capri. He’s insulting me even now. My life is worth a cheap watch to him. Stronzo... he thinks I'm that easy to erase."
The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. It’s dry, jagged, and aggressively ugly. It bounces off the concrete walls like broken glass. Angelo watches me, his aggressive posture shifting into something like wary fascination. He totally expected me to sob, but this is just pure comedy.
"Fifty thousand. I should be offended," I say loudly. I wipe a stray, hysterical tear from my eye with the back of my hand. "He always was a cheap bastard. Do you think he’ll pay the assassin in cash? He’s already spent the inheritance. You’re the only one who treats me like I’m valuable, Angelo."
Angelo’s hand shoots out, his calloused palm gripping my jaw. His fingers dig deep into my cheeks, forcing my head up. He rubs his rough thumb over my lower lip, pulling it down slightly to expose my teeth.
"You have no family left, Fiorella," he says, his breath hot against my face. "I'm the only thing that remembers you're alive. They've already burned your clothes and changed the locks. You're a ghost in a silk dress."
I want him to squeeze harder to block out the noise in my head.
"Look at me," he commands. "I'm your only world now."
I don't pull away. I step fully into the cage of his arms, my chest brushing the hard plates of his tactical vest. The tattoos on his forearms flex against my skin. I grab his thick wrists, not trying to move them, just locking him in place so he can't back up.
"I don't want to be rescued," I tell him, my voice completely deadpan. "I want to burn it down with you. Make me the reason he loses everything. He thinks I'm dead? Fine. Let's show him what a ghost can do. I'm yours, Angelo. Use me."
He leans down, his forehead pressing hard against mine. His eyes are dark as oil slicks, searching for any trace of a lie. The scratch of his stubble against my skin sends a harsh thrill down my spine.
"I'm a butcher, Fiorella," he rasps, giving me one last out. "There is no happily ever after in my shadow. If you walk this path, you never get clean again. You're asking to be a part of the slaughter. Are you sure, little princess?"
I let go of his wrists and reach for the collar of his shirt. My movements are desperate, uncoordinated as I fumble with his buttons. I prefer the butcher who is honest about his sins over the brother who hides behind a legacy.
"I’d rather be in hell with you than in that house again," I whisper fiercely. "Kill them all. Teach me how to be like you. I don't want their name anymore. Cazzo, touch me like you mean it."
Angelo lets out a raw, possessive growl that goes straight to my core. His hands slide down from my face to my waist, crushing the ruined silk of my slip. He bites down on the sensitive skin right where my neck meets my shoulder, claiming me again, his teeth scraping sharply.
"You're mine now," he mutters against my skin. "I'll use every bit of you. We'll leave nothing but ashes. You belong in the dirt with me. Say it. Say you're mine."
The tension shatters. I yank him down by the collar, our mouths colliding in a violent, unapologetic kiss. There is zero romance here; it’s a collision of absolute rage. I accidentally scrape his lip with my teeth, and we both swallow the hot copper taste of his blood.
"Give me everything," I demand against his mouth. "Don't stop. I want to feel the wall against my back. Harder. Bastardo..."