Chapter 3
Savannah
The house is too quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, the kind that leaves a stillness in the air and magnifies every fear you have.
I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands folded in my lap like a girl waiting to be told what she did wrong.
The mattress is too soft, the sheets are too clean, and they smell like fresh laundry and expensive detergent and a life that was never meant for me.
Nice things always make my stomach twist, because nice things are a lie.
They are what people give you when they don’t know what to do with your broken parts, so they try to cover them.
The hallway outside my door is empty, but the guards are there.
They’re always there. They stand far enough away that they can pretend they’re not holding me hostage, far enough away that it looks acceptable.
Cassio says it’s for protection. I call it proof I’m being kept.
My phone’s gone, my keys are gone, and I don’t get to choose for myself anymore.
I stare at the closed door until my eyes start to burn. The handle is brass, shiny gold, the kind that never looks touched even though people touch it all day. I blink hard. No tears. Not yet. Tears make you soft, and being soft is the easiest way to get broken.
I stand and walk to the mirror. The carpet under my feet feels thick and quiet, like it was made to muffle sound.
I look at my reflection like I’m looking at a stranger.
My long black hair has been brushed, my skin is smooth and silky, and my hazel eyes look empty.
I raise my hand and press my fingertips to my cheek like I’m checking if I’m real.
My skin is warm, my fingers are cold, and my pulse is too fast.
My breath catches. My shoulders tighten.
I lower my hand and turn away, because I don’t look at myself too long anymore.
Sometimes, if I look too long, I see her, the little girl who learned how to hold her breath, the one who learned how to stop making noise, the one who learned that silence can keep you alive.
A knock sounds. My body flinches, and my heart jumps like it’s trying to outrun the sound. I hate that.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens. Not Cassio. Not yet. it’s one of the women from the house, older, sharp-eyed, the kind of woman who knows where the bodies are buried and smiles anyway.
She smells like lotion and cigarette smoke that clings to her clothes.
Her hair is pinned back tight, and she holds a garment bag in one hand.
Black. Heavy. Formal.
My stomach tightens.
“Miss Amato,” she says politely.
Polite means nothing. it’s just a mask people use. I stare at the bag. “What is that.”
She steps closer, and my room suddenly feels smaller. “For tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is the transfer. My throat feels raw. “I didn’t ask for it.”
She doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften in the smallest way, like she’s human for half a second. “it’s required.”
Everything is required. She hangs the garment bag on the closet door. The zipper clinks softly. The hanger creaks. Small sounds that feel too loud when you’re trapped in a quiet room. Then she pulls out a second item, a necklace.
Gold. Simple. Elegant. The lamp hits it and it flashes, glows. It looks like a beautiful statement piece, but I know what it’s . A golden shackle.
“This is from Cassio,” she says.
My fingers curl. “Tell him I don’t want it.”
The woman pauses, and then she says, very softly, “it’s not about what you want, miss.”
My pulse jumps again. I hate that she’s right. I hate that everyone knows she’s right. She sets the necklace on the dresser and turns to leave, but before she does, she looks back at me.
“Eat something,” she says.
Then she’s gone. The door closes again. The click is quiet, but it’s loud inside my head.
I walk to the dresser and stare at the necklace. The gold implies warmth, but the metal is cold and hard. To the outside world it looks like a beautiful gift from a loving brother; on the inside it’s another way to control me. I pick it up and my fingers tremble.
I don’t know why. I do know why. it’s anger and fear and shame all mashed together until my hands can’t decide which one to obey.
The gold is cold against my skin, and my stomach rolls.
I set it down quickly. My breath turns shallow.
My chest tightens like someone just squeezed me.
I press my palms to the dresser and lean forward, trying to ground myself.
it’s just gold. it’s just a necklace. it’s not.
My vision blurs. The room shifts. For a second, I smell bleach, sharp, clean, chemical, the kind of clean that burns your nose and lingers in your throat. I don’t want to smell bleach. I don’t want to remember why I know that smell.
I squeeze my eyes shut and I count. One. Two. . Four. My fingers dig into the wood edge of the dresser. The varnish is smooth, too smooth, slippery, like it doesn’t want to give me anything to hold onto.
I open my eyes. The smell is gone. The room is back. The necklace is still there, waiting like a promise I never made.
Another knock comes. This time it’s one knock, heavier. A man. My spine goes straight, my shoulders lock up, and my body switches into survival mode.
* * *
“Come in,” I say.
Cassio walks in like he owns the air I breathe. Dark suit, no tie, not a hair out of place. He looks like power. He looks like the person who saved my life and decided it belonged to him after. He shuts the door behind him.
He looks at the necklace on the dresser, then he looks at me. “Tomorrow,” he says. Not a question. Not even a statement. A command.
I don’t answer. If I answer, my voice might crack, and if my voice cracks, he’ll think he won. He’ll think I’m a little girl again. Cassio’s gaze holds mine.
“Savan—” He almost says my name like he cares. Then it disappears, and his voice turns sharp again. “This is bigger than you.”
I laugh once and it comes out broken. “Everything is bigger than me,” I whisper.
Cassio’s jaw clenches. “don’t do that.”
“Do what.” My voice shakes now. I hate it. “Tell the truth.”
He steps closer. The leather in his shoes makes a soft sound on the carpet, a quiet threat. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he says.
“Yes you did,” I say. “You came here to make me obey.”
Cassio stops in front of me and looks down at me like I am a problem. “This treaty keeps the Italians safe,” he says. “It keeps the cartel contained. It keeps the Bratva from the borders.”
“And it uses me,” I say.
His eyes flash. “It protects you.”
The nerve of him. “You are giving me to a cartel man,” I whisper. “You call that protection.”
Cassio’s voice drops. “Gabriel Gonzalez is a powerful man. He has discipline. He is not known for losing control.”
I flinch, because the words don’t comfort me. They terrify me. Men who don’t lose control are the men who don’t stop. Cassio watches my reaction. Something shifts in his eyes, half a second of guilt, then it hardens. He reaches out and picks up the necklace.
My shoulders rise. My hands twitch like I’m about to grab my own throat. He notices. I hate that he notices. Cassio’s hand stills, then he sets the necklace back down, slow, like he’s reminding me he can touch what he wants but he’s choosing not to.
“Listen to me,” he says.
I don’t want to. I do anyway. Because I always do.
“A treaty is a temporary fix,” Cassio says.
“it’s a way to buy time.” My stomach turns, but he continues like he’s teaching me a lesson I never asked for.
“This time will allow us to plan.” His eyes narrow.
“And you are the way we ensure we get the time.”
My chest aches. “So I’m a pawn,” I whisper.
Cassio doesn’t deny it. He steps closer, voice low and deadly. “You are Alliance,” he says again. “You are my sister. You carry our name.”
My throat burns. “And if I refuse,” I ask.
Cassio’s eyes go cold. “If you refuse,” he says, “The Bratva keeps coming. People die. And you’ll still get taken by someone.” He pauses. “At least this way, I decide who owns you.”
My stomach drops so hard it feels like falling. I stare at him and I can’t speak, because the truth is ugly. Cassio thinks he’s saving me by controlling which monster gets me. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t.
His voice softens, just a fraction. “You will not be alone,” he says. “The Alliance will watch. I will watch.”
I shake my head slowly. “You can’t watch everything,” I whisper.
Cassio’s eyes flash again, but he doesn’t argue. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small envelope, then sets it on the dresser beside the necklace. The paper makes a soft thud.
“What’s that,” I ask.
Cassio’s mouth tightens. “The signed agreement. This peace lasts only as long as the cartel follows the agreement. And if they don’t , we go to war.”
I stare at the envelope and my pulse slows a fraction. it’s something. Cassio steps back and looks at me like he wants to say something else, something human, something soft, but he doesn’t. He turns toward the door, then stops with his hand on the handle. He doesn’t face me when he speaks.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rougher now, “you will not embarrass me.”
My throat closes. “I won’t,” I whisper.
Cassio nods once, then he leaves. The door clicks shut and the room feels smaller.
I stare at the necklace, the envelope, the garment bag, and my hands start shaking again. This time I don’t try to stop them, because I’m alone. Alone, there’s nothing to drown out the memories.
* * *
Dear Diary,
Shivers race down my skin. My belly clenches.
This pen feels like a lead weight in my hand. My fingers won’t stop trembling. The paper smells like ink and something faintly dusty, like it’s been waiting for me to tell the truth.
He keeps saying treaty. He keeps saying peace like it’s holy.
I feel sick. I feel small.
You’re my witness. Are you still judging me?
I am the sacrifice dressed in gold, a body tossed into the fold.
He set the price.
My body soaked in blood.
I’m shaking. My body remembers what my mouth cannot say, and I keep smelling bleach.
I can feel it running down my skin.
I can hear it dripping from my fingertips.
I can smell it. I can taste it.
And tomorrow…
Tomorrow I leave.
Tomorrow I belong to the cartel.
If I speak, People die.
If I stay silent, I will disappear.
And still, I won’t be the reason the war starts again.