Her words hang in the air, heavy, like a bad taste.
She sees too much.
And despite everything, I don’t like the idea of her disappearing into the silence.
CHAPTER 9
NIKKI
Ican't sleep. Instead, I lie on the ridiculous designer mattress in this prison-chic suite, staring at the ceiling and praying for a miracle. All I get in return is a nagging feeling my life is over, and a case of existential dread.
By morning, I'm up before the sun, hair a messy bun, tangled from tossing and turning. I pad barefoot across the cold, polished floor and yank open the heavy curtains. The view is exactly the same as yesterday. A green, boring lawn, trimmed hedges, and a fountain so symmetrical it could be a screensaver. It’s all too perfect, as if I’m a patient in a luxury rehab center run by the mafia.
Another day in paradise, except to me it's my own personal hell.
Enzo brings breakfast, setting the tray down in a sacred ritual, precise and silent, then backing away like I'm a rabid raccoon about to spring. Probably fair. My mood is definitely bordering on rabid.
"Can I get some eggs with a side of justice?" I ask, my words too loud in the quiet room. "No? Just toast? Okay then. Fine. I guess I'll just chew on my despair instead. It's got a lot more flavor anyway."
He leaves without speaking. Whatever. I wasn't in the mood for small talk anyway. Or fake smiles. I'm tired of fake.
I poke at the perfectly arranged fruit, then sniff the coffee. It smells... normal. Too normal. Maybe he's trying to trick me. I push the whole tray away, then drag it back. Hunger beats pride.
The hours crawl by. The sun moves across the glass wall, painting squares of light on the floor. I pace. I stare at the ceiling. I try to remember the layout of the villa. Details. I need details. This is all I have now to fill my time while I'm slowly going insane.
By noon, I'm back in the dining room, after being summoned by Enzo. Rafe's already there, seated like a goddamn monarch at the head of the impossibly long table. Dark suit, darker stare. He's exactly where he wants to be, in control.
"You summoned, my Lord?" I ask, as I flop into the chair across from him. I make sure my movements are fluid, confident. No begging today. It didn't work anyway. "Should I curtsy, boss man, or just roll my eyes dramatically? Because I'm pretty good at the eye-rolling these days. It's a natural reaction to this whole situation."
He doesn't smile. Of course not. I don't think his facial muscles do that. Maybe they're surgically removed when you join the mafia. A prerequisite for the job. No smiling allowed or we'll cut your finger off.
"We need to talk about your future," he says, pushing a thin folder across the table toward me. It slides silently on the polished wood.
"Oh, good," I reply, picking up the folder. "Because I was just wondering how I might build my brand from inside an old villa slash jail cell. Is this a new collaboration? Maybe a 'QueenNikki x Italian Mafia: Hostage Chic Collection'? Or is this more secret info on me? Do you realize you're leaning into stalker territory? It's creepy. You should hear what happened to my last stalker."
I’m running my mouth again. Like that’s going to protect me. But the truth is, every word could be my last if I say the wrong thing.
"This is a contract," he explains. "You have two options. Option one, we stage your return. You go back to your life, but under our terms. Controlled posts. Monitored movement. No references to this place. No questions about your disappearance. You become a compliant public figure with a limited platform. Safe and protected. Watched at all times. You follow a script we provide for everything."
Curious, I open the folder. Inside are pictures of me. Old ones, new ones. Pictures I didn't know he had. My face, but empty.
"Well, this is… disturbing," I manage, the word feeling too small for the monstrous thing he's describing. To be me, but not me. To be a ghost of my former self, dancing to his tune.
"It's effective," he counters. "You play the role we script for you. You become a beacon of carefully controlled normalcy. And in exchange, you get your name back. Your face. Your platform, in theory. Your partial freedom."
My throat tightens. "So, I become your poster girl for silence. Your perfectly behaved prisoner, just outside the bars. A brand ambassador for quiet obedience."
"Exactly. You have visibility. Influence. That makes you uniquely valuable if we control the narrative. Otherwise, you’re just a liability to eliminate.”
"And the other option?"
"We make you disappear. Permanently. You cease to exist as Nikki Ricci. We relocate you under an alias. You get a fresh start in a controlled country with clean documents, a new history, and absolutely no online presence. No risk. No trace. But also, no old life. No one'll ever know who you are or were."
My stomach twists, a cold, hard knot. I stare at the pages. There are photos of me with different hair colors, different styles. Fake IDs with different names, different birthdates. A rental lease for a small apartment in Portugal. A flight itinerary I never booked. It's all so real. So meticulously planned. Even the handwriting on the rental agreement looked eerily neat, like someone had practiced being me.
"You already planned this?" I ask. The thought that he had this prepared, ready to deploy, long before I ever stepped into his car, freaks me out. I was twenty-four hours from being 'disappeared' permanently.
"It's a contingency plan," he says. "Not a preference. But a necessary consideration for anyone who compromises my security. We keep options like these prepared. You’re not the first problem I’ve had to erase. You just happen to be the prettiest one.”
