"Would hysteria change anything?"
"No."
"Then it’s a waste of energy. I prefer to save my energy for things I can control."
"And what can you possibly control in this situation?"
She meets my eyes in the mirror again. "How I respond to it. I might not be able to control much, but I can control that."
The simple dignity in her voice impresses me.
"Lake Maggiore, boss," Matteo announces as we crest a hill. Below us, the lake stretches like a blue jewel between Italy andSwitzerland, surrounded by mountains reaching toward clouded sky.
We wind up a narrow mountain road lined with ancient trees. The villa appears gradually ahead, nineteenth-century stone and glass, terraced gardens, panoramic views of the lake below.
Camilla stares at it with obvious surprise. "This is where you're keeping me?"
"Disappointed? Not quite the torture chamber you imagined?"
"I don't understand. This place must cost a fortune to maintain."
"It does." I step out of the car and open her door, offering my hand like a gentleman. "But then, I can afford the best."
She ignores my offered hand and climbs out herself, her wedding dress trailing behind her on ancient flagstones. Even terrified and kidnapped, she moves with unconscious grace.
"Welcome to your new home," I say, gesturing toward the villa's entrance. "Try not to get too comfortable or attached to me. You’ll be leaving here and going home before you know it."
She looks up at the house, then back at me. "How long do you think I will be here?"
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less if your families come to their senses quickly."
She doesn't back away. Just looks up at me with those intelligent eyes and says, "I see."
Two words that somehow sound almost like a challenge.
Chapter 5: Camilla
The lock clicks with finality behind me.
I stand frozen in the center of what might be the most beautiful prison cell in existence. Beige silk wallpaper with subtle gold threading catches the afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. A four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in ivory linens. Persian rugs in deep burgundy and gold warm the marble floors. Fresh white roses sit in a crystal vase on the antique writing desk.
It's exquisite. It's luxurious.
It's a damn prison cell dressed up like a five-star luxury resort.
I walk to the windows first, my heels clicking against the marble. Lake Maggiore stretches endlessly below, its surface like polished glass reflecting the mountains that rise on all sides. The view is breathtaking, postcard perfect. I press my palms against the glass, searching for any way to open the windows.
Nothing.
They're sealed shut.
I'm not a guest. I'm not even really a prisoner in the traditional sense. I'm inventory. A valuable item stored in climate-controlled conditions until the transaction is complete. He might as well have put me into a box.
My reflection stares back at me from the window. My wedding dress torn and stained, makeup smeared, dark hair falling from its elaborate updo. I look like a bride in a horror movie, which feels fitting.
I turn away from the window and begin exploring. The ensuite bathroom is marble and gold, complete with a clawfoot tub and separate glass shower. Expensive toiletries line the vanity. Someone has anticipated my needs and that thought gives me the creeps.
The armoire holds women's clothing in assorted sizes. Designer pieces, all in neutral tones. Silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, tailored pants. Even lingerie in delicate lace and satin. The sight of it makes my stomach turn. How long has this been planned? How much does Renato Vitiello know about me?
