Chapter 1 #2
He jerks away from her like he touched fire. “Boss, I was just—”
“Did I ask for your excuses?”
His mouth opens. He retreats two full steps.
I walk toward the center, eyes fixed on her. She doesn’t look up, not at first.
I hate that it bothers me.
“Fabio,” I say, keeping my eyes on her. “What do we know?”
“Her name is Zoe,” he says. “No last name, and nothing verifiable. Claims to be a maid, but there’s no record of her. We found her alone in the mansion, no explanation. Could be just some girl left behind when the place was cleared out.”
“She was left behind?” I echo.
“That’s what it looks like. She says she’s been there her whole life. Doesn’t know much else.”
She lifts her head.
That same pair of green eyes meet mine.
There’s a tremble in her fingers, a twitch in her jaw—but her stare doesn’t break. It hits me like cold iron.
“They probably forgot about me,” she says quietly.
Her voice isn’t strong, but it doesn’t shake. Not like it should.
Pain lodges behind my ribs. I shift my weight to shut it up.
Her arms are covered in finger-shaped bruises. There’s a cut near her collarbone. She looks like she belongs in a hospital bed. Or a grave.
Not my basement.
But here she is.
“And that’s what you want me to believe?” I ask, tone flat.
She blinks. “I don’t care what you believe.”
Her defiance is like a spark in a room full of dry air.
My men react instantly.
Another one, Tomaso, steps forward. “She needs to learn who she’s speaking to.”
His hand lifts—stupidly.
“Are you disobeying orders?” I snap.
He freezes mid-motion, palm hovering inches from her face.
“No, Don Viselli,” he says, lowering it. “Just trying to keep her in line.”
“She’s not your responsibility,” I growl. “None of you are to touch her again. That clear?”
Murmured affirmatives pass between them. Fabio says nothing, but his jaw ticks.
I turn back to her.
She’s watching me. Not pleading.
I hate that I respect it.
“She stays in my room,” I say.
Fabio steps closer. “Nico, think about that. She’s an unknown. If she’s connected to what happened to Eva—”
“She stays in my room,” I repeat, louder.
The silence that follows is solid. Heavy.
Fabio finally nods. “Understood.”
I give the order with a glance, and two of the soldiers move forward.
Zoe doesn’t fight them. Her body is limp, but her eyes never leave mine. Even when she passes by, barely upright and still bleeding she keeps watching.
Like she’s waiting for me to prove something.
And maybe I already have.
I pour another glass of scotch.
It burns going down, but not enough.
The bottle’s half gone. The cigarette between my fingers is burning. I don’t even like the taste, just the distraction.
Fabio left hours ago. Everyone knows not to bother me after midnight.
And yet, I’m still pacing the hallway outside my own damn room. I shouldn’t have asked for her to be kept in my room, but I didn’t have the heart to have her locked in a dark basement just after I found her in the dark.
Now what am I supposed to do with a random, scared woman in my room? Do I kick her out? She could try to run and get killed. I don’t want that yet. Do we sleep in the same room? She and I? Alone? Or do I just sleep in the guest room? Leaving her unsupervised in my room.
I drag a hand down my face. I can’t avoid it forever.
With a sigh, I flick the cigarette, toss it to the floor and push open the door.
She’s there.
Curled in the far corner, her back against the wall like she’s bracing for war.
Her hands and feet are still tied. Rope digs into her ankles. Her dress is stained and torn at the hem. One sleeve hangs off her shoulder, revealing the deep purple of a bruise that crawls up her arm like something alive.
Her head snaps up when I enter.
Her hair falls over one eye, matted and tangled, auburn strands. She looks at me like she’s preparing to die.
“What the fuck is this?”
Why was she tied up?
I cross the room and drop to one knee.
“Who tied you like this?”
I grab the rope at her wrists, her hands are oddly soft, I subconsciously loosen my grip as I saw through the knot with a knife I pulled from my boot. There are blue and red patches on her palm, from burns and falls. She jerks as the knife gets closer to her skin but doesn’t pull away.
The bindings fall and I see a short slit on her wrist. It’s only partly healed, she must have attempted and failed.
Her hands lower uncertainly, like she’s not sure freedom is real.
I work on her ankles next. “They had no right,” I mutter.
“Did you give them permission?” Her voice is hoarse.
“No.”
“Then they didn’t need one.”
She flexes her fingers, red marks blooming against her pale skin.
I stand and drop a tray of food on the nightstand.
“Eat,” I command.
She watches me then crawls toward the tray. Her movements are cautious. She picks up the bread first and tears off a piece.
I sit in the chair across from her. Elbows on my knees.
She eats like someone used to going hungry.
“You were in that house for how long?” I ask.
Her hands pause, the crust of the bread halfway to her mouth.
“My whole life,” she says, eyes fixed on the tray.
“Your name’s Zoe.”
She nods once.
“You’re Santino blood?”
Her lips twist slightly. “By accident.”
“What does that mean?”
She lifts her eyes to mine. They’re too big for her face. “It means I was born by mistake. And they made sure I never forgot it.”
I don’t say anything.
She shifts the sleeve up her arm. Dark bruises bloom down her bicep. Finger-shaped. Some old. Some not.
“I was the girl they hit when the whiskey ran out,” she says. “The one who scrubbed the floors while the men played cards.”
My jaw locks.
She swallows another bite and keeps going like she’s listing groceries. “I learned to cook at seven. I learned to lie at nine. I stopped crying by eleven. That’s about when they stopped noticing I was there.”
“And you think I’ll believe that?” I ask.
Her chin lifts.
“I don’t care if you believe it,” she says. “It’s still true.”
She’s shaking. Her shoulders are tight, fingers twitching. But her eyes don’t move.
They stay on mine.
“Why didn’t you run?”
“Where?” she breathes. “Who would’ve taken me in? Another Don? Another basement?”
Silence sits between us for a long moment.
Then she sets the bread down.
“Can I take a bath?”
“What?”
“I asked,” she murmurs, “can I take a bath?”
Her voice is quiet, but the way she says it lands like a challenge.
Her dress slips slightly as she shifts her legs under her, revealing a sliver of thigh through a torn seam. She doesn’t pull it down.
My mind flashes. I force myself to stand.
“There’s a bathroom through that door,” I say.
She rises on shaky legs. Her knees buckle slightly, but she doesn’t ask for help.
She walks past me.
As she passes, she brushes just close enough for her scent to hit me—lavender and iron.
I clench my fists.
I don’t know if I want to protect her, or put her out of her misery.
But when the door clicks shut behind her, I’m still standing in the same place. Breathing her in.