I climb into the massive bed on shaking legs, pulling silk sheets up to my chin. Alessandro dims the lights but doesn't undress, just settles back in his chair with his whiskey, watching me in the darkness.
"Sleep well, Mrs.Rosetti," he says, and there's something almost mocking in the title.
I close my eyes, but sleep is impossible with him there, a patient predator waiting for me to break. Every breath feels too loud in the silence, every shift of the sheets a betrayal of my wakeful state.
Tommy's face floats behind my eyelids—my brother, rotting in prison while I play dress-up in silk and diamonds. This is for him, I remind myself. Every lie, every moment of terror, it's all for him.
But Tommy can't protect me from Alessandro Rosetti.
4 - Emma
The bedroom door doesn’t lock from the inside.
I discover this after waking alone and immediately testing the heavy brass handle three times, my fingers searching for a mechanism that doesn't exist. The realization settles in my stomach like ice water. Beautiful or not, it's still a prison.
This morning, alone for the first time while Alessandro handles business, I can finally breathe. I'm still wearing my white lace lingerie from the wedding, my wedding gown and Alessandro's suit and shirt both crumpled on the floor. I can hardly put the dress back on, so I slip into his button-up shirt from the wedding, which covers me to mid-thigh, then I search for escape routes.
But every test reveals the same truth: there aren't any.
The suite Alessandro brought me to sprawls across what must be half a floor of the mansion. Everything gleams with wealth I used to polish for others: marble floors that reflect the afternoon light, silk curtains in deep burgundy. The bed dominates the room, massive and draped in fabric so soft it feels like sin against my skin.
But luxury means nothing when you're trapped. For Tommy, I remind myself. I'm doing this for Tommy.
The question that haunts me most isn't whether Alessandro will discover my deception. It's where the real Frances Hewson has gone. Mrs.Hewson said she "vanished," but people don't just vanish—not wealthy heiresses with trust funds andconnections. Either Frances is dead, or she's somewhere out there, living a life she chose over this gilded cage.
And if she's alive, what happens when she decides she wants her name back?
I move to the windows next, seven of them stretching from floor to ceiling along the east wall. My fingers find the latches, ornate gold pieces that look functional. They don't budge. I try harder, putting my full weight behind it. Nothing. The glass is thick, too thick, and when I press my palm against it, I feel the subtle strength that speaks of reinforcement. Bulletproof, probably. Definitely sealed.
Outside, Chicago spreads beneath me, close enough to see people walking the streets, far enough that they'd never hear me scream. Guards patrol the grounds below, their patterns precise and overlapping. No blind spots. No gaps in coverage. Every exit watched by men who look like they'd shoot first and never bother with questions.
Mrs.Hewson promised to call about Tommy after the wedding night. Has she? Is he safe? I have no way to know, no way to ask without revealing everything. The weight of the ring on my finger, five carats, drags my hand down with each movement.
My next target is the phone on the bedside table. Elegant, cream-colored with gold accents, but when I lift the receiver, silence greets me. I try different combinations: 9 for an outside line, 0 for an operator. Nothing. A small digital display blinks: "Enter authorization code."
Through the door, I hear low male voices discussing something in Italian. Words I don't understand but recognize the tone: business, the kind conducted in shadows. A reminder that my husband's wealth comes from blood.
Every door I test tells the same story. The bathroom, which is stocked with half-used makeup remover he certainly doesn’tuse, connects only to the bedroom. The closet, filled with women’s clothes in a variety of sizes, has no other exits. Even the terrace door, which opens easily enough, leads to a balcony with walls too high to see over and a forty-foot drop on the other side.
But I do have one minor victory. Behind what looks like a decorative panel near the bathroom, my fingers find a seam. The panel swings inward on silent hinges, revealing a narrow service corridor that smells of lemon polish and industrial cleaner—scents that make my chest ache with familiarity. The passage stretches into darkness, but a draft of warmer air suggests it leads somewhere open, maybe to the roof or an upper floor meant for staff access. I memorize the panel's location, how the hidden latch feels under my fingers, before closing it carefully and moving back to the terrace door just as I hear footsteps approaching.
I'm still standing at the terrace door, measuring the impossibility of climbing down, when I hear the main door open behind me. My spine straightens instinctively, and I taste fear, metallic on my tongue.
"Admiring the view?"
Alessandro's voice slides through the room like whiskey, smooth and intoxicating.
I turn slowly, not wanting to seem startled even though my heart hammers against my ribs. He stands in the doorway, suit immaculate despite the late hour, watching me with those green eyes that seem to see straight through my deception. His gaze rakes my body, taking in my exposed legs before adding, "Though I have to say, the view from here is much better."
"It's beautiful," I say, which isn't a lie. The suite is gorgeous. A golden cage is still gold, after all.
"I had it redesigned when I knew you were coming." He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoes. "The closet is stocked with everything you'llneed. Versace sent their entire spring collection when they heard Alessandro Rosetti had taken a bride."
Bride. Not wife. The distinction feels important somehow, like I'm still just an acquisition rather than a person. I notice the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders as he moves closer, and I hate myself for noticing.
He reaches me in three strides, and I force myself not to step back. Running shows fear, and fear is weakness in his world. When his hand settles on my lower back, fingers splaying possessively, the heat of his palm burns through the silk blouse I'm wearing, one of the many expensive pieces that appeared in "my" closet.
He shows me the rest like a king displaying his castle. The bathroom with its sunken marble tub. The dressing area with mirrors on three sides and lighting that would make an actress weep with envy. Everything screams luxury, privilege, wealth beyond measure. Wealth built on violence.
