I need to plan a strategy and do it fast.
My fingers trace the ornate carvings along the edge of the writing desk as I pull myself forward, the wood smooth and cool under my touch. I select a sheet of expensive stationery, the paper so thick it has weight, and pick up the fountain pen.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to think like the businesswoman I never had the chance to become. Assets, liabilities, opportunities, threats.
I write "Assets" at the top of the page, the pen scratching across the paper in dark blue ink. My intelligence, which he's already acknowledged. My appearance, which commands premium prices from premium buyers. My bloodline—the Colombo name still carries weight despite everything. His interest, since he's intrigued by me specifically. And time, one to two weeks to influence the situation.
Under "Liabilities," I note my circumstances: no money, no outside resources, both families have apparently abandoned me. I'm constrained by physical barriers, locked rooms with their heavy brass mechanisms, armed guards whose footsteps echoin the corridors below. His reputation depends on following through with the auction.
For "Opportunities," I press the pen harder against the paper. His fascination with my responses. Auction preparation requires his personal involvement. Buyers haven't been contacted yet. He gave me weapons and privacy—signs of respect, or perhaps trust.
Finally, under "Threats," the ink flows faster as my thoughts accelerate. The timeline is his choice, not mine. Other buyers may be worse than my current situation. If I miscalculate, things deteriorate quickly. His business reputation is on the line.
I set down the pen, the small clink of metal on wood breaking the silence. My analysis stares back at me from the cream-colored paper, each word a cold assessment of my reality.
The pattern is clear—everything hinges on Renato Vitiello himself.
He's both my greatest threat and my only potential ally. Which means my survival strategy has to center completely on him.
But how do you manipulate a man who traffics human beings for a living?
You don't.
I tear up my strategic analysis, the sound of ripping paper sharp and satisfying. The pieces flutter to the floor like broken promises before I gather them, crushing the fragments in my fist before throwing them into the trash can.
Back at the desk, I reach for another sheet but stop myself. My hand hovers over the paper before I pull back, curling my fingers into my palm. This list is too risky to commit to paper. Instead, I rise and begin to move through the room, my bare feet silenton the Persian rug. The thick wool cushions each step, a luxury I barely notice anymore.
I title the mental list "What I know about Renato Vitiello" and begin cataloguing. He's intelligent, though not university educated. He values quality over quantity, evident in everything from this villa's architecture to the weight of the silverware at dinner. He respects strategic thinking, proven when he gave me weapons instead of taking them away. He's business-focused but not purely ruthless. He could have killed Lorenzo but chose psychological warfare instead.
My circuit of the room brings me to the full-length mirror. I stop, studying my reflection as if seeing a stranger. My hair needs brushing. Dark strands have escaped from behind my ears, framing my face in a way that's almost wild.
He watches me more than necessary. The midnight check, the extended conversation that serve no business purpose. And he's conflicted about something. I saw it in the tightness around his mouth when the families called me damaged goods.
The memory makes me press my palm flat against the mirror's cool surface, as if I could push through to some other version of this reality. I replay his face when he delivered the news about the families' refusal. Anger, yes. But not just at their defiance. Something else flickered in those dark eyes, something that looked almost like... protection?
No.
That's wishful thinking. But there was definitely something personal in his reaction to their rejection.
I resume my pacing, but this time with purpose. Physical movement helps me think, grounds me in my body when my mind threatens to spiral.
The auction is a business transaction. Renato gets money, buyers get what they want, I get... whatever survival looks like in that world. But business transactions can be modified, terms can be changed, deals can be restructured.
What would make him want to restructure this particular deal?
The knock on my door comes two hours later. I've positioned myself deliberately, perched on the window seat with my legs tucked beneath me. The sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the floor that stretch toward the door like grasping fingers.
"Come in," I call, keeping my position, my voice steady despite my accelerating pulse.
Renato enters carrying a leather portfolio tucked under one arm and what looks like several photographs in his other hand. He's changed into a different suit. Charcoal gray, with a subtle pinstripe that catches the light when he moves. His dark hair is perfectly styled, still damp at the temples as if he's recently showered. The scent of his cologne reaches me across the room—something with cedar and citrus notes, expensive and understated. Every inch the successful businessman about to close an important deal.
"I thought you might want to understand exactly what you're preparing for," he says. His shoes, polished leather that gleams like black water, makes soft sounds against the hardwood as he crosses to the writing desk. He sets down the materials carefully, aligning the edges.
I unfold myself from the window seat, feeling the stretch in my legs after sitting still so long. "How thoughtful of you. What is this? Market research?"
"Something like that." He gestures to the chair. "Would you like to sit? This might take a while."
"I prefer to stand." I roll my shoulders back, feeling my spine straighten. "Unless you're ordering me to sit?"
