I sink onto the edge of the bed, my wedding dress pooling around me like spilled cream. Six million euros. That's what he demanded for my safe return. Triple what the Rossis owe him.
My father can't pay it. The thought comes suddenly, but I know it's true. Papa's bad investments over the past two years have bled us dry. The marriage to Lorenzo was supposed to save us, a prestigious alliance that would bring Rossi money into our family coffers.
And those fucking Rossis?
Lorenzo didn't even try to stop my kidnapping. If he won't fight for me, why would his family bankrupt themselves for me?
They won’t.
The afternoon sun shifts, casting longer shadows across my prison. Forty-four hours. That's how long I have for someone to prove they value me more than money.
Instead of crying, I feel hollow but strangely clear. If no one is coming for me—and deep down, I suspect no one is—then I need to figure out how to save myself.
The sound of the lock disengaging makes me jump.
Renato Vitiello steps into the room without knocking, closing the door behind him. He's still wearing the designer suit from earlier, looking every inch the successful businessman rather than the man who destroyed my wedding hours ago.
"Settling in well, I see," he observes, taking in my messy hair and ruined makeup.
I stand up, straightening my spine, though I feel ridiculous still wearing the wedding dress. "What do you want?"
"To ensure my investment is settling in." He moves into the room. "This villa has very specific rules. I thought you should understand them."
"Rules?"
"Protocol, if you prefer." He walks to the window, and I catch a scent of his cologne when he moves past me. "Rule one; don't attempt to leave this room without permission. The doors are monitored, and my men have instructions to use whatever force necessary to maintain security."
"And rule two?"
"Don't hurt or damage yourself." His eyes sweep over me, assessing. "Bruises, cuts, anything that affects your condition. I have significant money invested in your wellbeing."
The clinical way he talks about my body disgusts me. "How considerate."
"Rule three; cooperation is rewarded. Defiance is... discouraged." He turns from the window to face me fully. "I can make your stay here quite comfortable, or quite unpleasant. Your choice."
"And what exactly does cooperation look like in your eyes?"
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, at my directness.
"Answering questions honestly. Following instructions promptly. Making my life easier while we wait for your families to come to their senses."
"My families." I stand up, smoothing my torn wedding dress. "You keep saying that like both of them care enough to pay."
"They will."
"Are you sure about that? Lorenzo abandoned me in a cathedral full of witnesses. My father arranged my marriage to cover his debts." I step closer, close enough to stare straight up into his dark eyes. "Neither of them values me at six million euros."
"We'll see."
"Yes, we will." I hold his gaze steadily. "And when we do, what happens to inventory that no one wants to claim?"
The question hangs between us, and I see something shift in his expression. Not quite discomfort, but something close to it.
“No need to waste time thinking about something that’s not going to happen,” he says.
"Because you're so confident in their love for me?"
"Because I'm confident in their understanding of consequences if their debts aren’t paid."
