He turns to look at me, something shifting in his expression.
"Good," he says, but there's less venom in it than before. He returns to the table, picks up the wine glass, holds it to my lips. "Drink."
The wine is rich, complex. Notes of black cherry coat my tongue. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, catching a drop, and the gesture is almost tender. The touch lingers, his skin warm against mine, and I see his breathing change, become less even.
A moment later, he is standing, his eyes burning with cold fury. He calls for his guards to remove the food and table, ignoring my protests that I'm still hungry.
As he's walking out the door, he turns and studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in those pale eyes. It almost feels like he's about to say something kind, or at least pleasant.
His smile is cold. "I hope your hunger makes the nightmares worse."
4 - Sofia
Iwait until 2 AM, when the compound breathes like a sleeping beast and the camera in my room completes its slow rotation away from the bathroom door.
The darkness presses against the windows with invisible weight. I've been tracking the camera's pattern for hours—twenty seconds of blind spot every three minutes. More than enough time for someone trained in shadows.
My Chanel clutch sits innocent on the vanity where I left it. The guards who searched it found nothing—designer lipstick, compact mirror, tissues. They don't notice the false lining, the way the stitching pulls just slightly wrong at one corner. Amateur hour, really. Even my youngest and most innocent cousin from New York, Carmela, could spot the deception if she looked.
In the bathroom, door closed, I work the lining free. The lockpick slides out—custom titanium alloy, thin as a credit card but infinitely more useful. A gift from my hacker cousin Milo last Christmas, though he probably didn't imagine I'd be using it to escape from a Russian compound. Thank you for the hardware, Milo. Thank you for the training, Nico.
I press my ear to the suite door. Silence. The guard rotation passed six minutes ago; I have another nine before they return. My pulse stays steady—this is what I was made for. Not sitting in a fake cage waiting to be broken.
The lock is sophisticated—electronic, with a manual override hidden beneath a nearly invisible panel. Forty seconds ofcareful manipulation, adjusting the angle, applying just the right pressure. The mechanism whispers rather than clicks, and I'm free.
The hallway stretches before me, lit only by emergency strips along the baseboards. I slip off my shoes—barefoot now, the floorboards cool beneath my feet but silent, so perfectly silent. Years of ballet trained me for this, moving on the balls of my feet, weight distributed perfectly, each step deliberate and soundless. Mother never imagined her daughter's dance lessons would serve this purpose.
I map as I move. East wing first—empty guest quarters, dust motes dancing in moonlight through uncurtained windows. The air tastes stale, abandoned. Three doors, all locked, but the emptiness has a particular quality. No one's been here in months.
West wing next—immediately different. Cigarette smoke and gun oil lingering in the air, the distant murmur of voices, light bleeding under doors. This is where life continues even at this hour. His territory. The scent makes my skin prickle—danger and masculinity concentrated into an invisible warning.
Behind one door, I spot it—a weapons cache behind a false panel, visible through a cracked door. I recognize the setup immediately. Same configuration we use. Are all mafia families this predictably paranoid, or did he study us that carefully?
The stairs beckon. Down leads to the main living area and, down again, cold air and the smell of bleach—the basement he threatened me with. My throat throbs at the memory of his touch, a collar I can't remove. Up leads to darkness and possibility.
I choose up, counting each step, memorizing the ones that creak.
The third floor feels different—more lived-in, more dangerous. A door stands slightly ajar halfway down thecorridor, blue light spilling across the marble like water. I approach slowly, listening for breathing, for movement, for any sign of occupation.
Nothing.
I ease the door wider, just enough to slip through sideways. The surveillance room opens before me—walls lined with monitors showing every corner of the compound. My trained eye counts quickly: sixteen screens, four angles per screen, comprehensive coverage. Professional setup, military-grade equipment.
But it's not the technology that stops my breath.
The corkboard covers half the far wall, and it's covered in photos. Dozens of them. No—more. Maybe fifty. Maybe a hundred.
All of me.
My legs move without conscious thought, carrying me closer. The images blur together at first—a kaleidoscope of my own face staring back from different angles, different days, different versions of myself I didn't know were being watched.
There—me at the opera three months ago, emerald dress catching the light as I laugh at something Marco said. I remember that night. We'd just closed the Detroit deal. I'd felt untouchable.
Another—leaving my favorite coffee shop, sunglasses on, phone pressed to my ear. The angle suggests the photographer was across the street, probably in a car. Patient. Waiting. Hunting.
Here—dancing at Emma and Alessandro's wedding, spinning with Nico, my head thrown back in genuine joy. One of the few times I'd let my guard completely down. But someone was watching even then.
Running at dawn in the park, earbuds in, ponytail swinging. I do that route three times a week. Have for years. How manytimes was he there, invisible, studying me like prey he's planning to devour?
