The bathroom door stands open. Dante checks inside first, a quick sweep that probably started as habit and became instinct.
"I'll wait. Take your time," he says.
I slip past him. The door closes, and I'm alone with my racing thoughts.
My hands shake as I wash them afterward. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled from restless fingers.
I open the door to find Dante leaning against the opposite wall, checking his phone. He doesn't look up as he starts walking, expecting me to follow. I do.
Back in the room, Dante doesn't leave immediately. He stands by the door, hands clasped in front of him like he's delivering a business report.
"I'll check on you in a couple hours." His dark eyes study me, cataloging something I can't name. "Lorenzo won't be comingtonight. If you need anything urgent, text him." Dante's tone stays neutral, professional. "He'll see it."
Where will he be? The question burns on my tongue. Is he at another restaurant? Meeting with his brothers? Planning how to use the information I gave him? Or maybe he's with someone. A woman who doesn't throw food at his face like a toddler.
But asking would be stupid. Childish. Exactly what he expects from me.
I nod instead.
Dante watches me for another beat, then turns to leave. The lock clicks behind him, that final sound that reminds me I'm still a prisoner, even if the cage comes with sandwiches and bathroom breaks.
The tray waits on the dresser. Turkey and swiss on wheat, cut diagonally. A bottle of water, still cold with condensation beading on the plastic. An apple, red and polished.
I carry the tray to the bed, sitting cross-legged with it balanced on my lap. The sandwich is good—better than good. Fresh bread, quality meat, crisp lettuce. Someone who cares about food made this. Not thrown together but crafted.
Each bite reminds me how dependent I am on their mercy. On Lorenzo's protection. Francesco must know I'm missing by now. Has he sent people looking?
The apple crunches between my teeth, sweet juice flooding my mouth whenhisface comes in mind.
I shouldn't be thinking about him. Not now, not when my life hangs by a thread. But sitting here in his building, wearing clothes from his dresser, eating food from his kitchen—it all brings back memories I've tried to bury.
God, I was so pathetic.
Fifteen years old, hunched over my laptop at midnight, typing "Lorenzo Sartori Chicago" into Google for the hundredth time. The search results were always sparse. A few mentionsin restaurant reviews, his name on business licenses. Nothing personal. No photos beyond a grainy image from some charity event where he stood in the background, half-turned away.
I'd stared at that photo until my eyes burned.
Marina caught me once, saw his name on my screen. "Who's that?"
"Nobody." I'd slammed the laptop shut so fast she laughed.
"Right. Nobody doesn't make you turn that red."
I told myself it was normal. Girls my age had crushes on actors, singers, their teachers. Mine just happened to be on a man who'd saved my life when I was eight. A man who moved through my uncle's world like a shadow—dangerous and untouchable. A man fourteen years older who probably has a girlfriend or even a wife by now.
The research I did on teenage crushes said they were healthy. A safe way to explore feelings. Except nothing about Lorenzo Sartori was safe.
At sixteen, I'd walk past his restaurants, never going in. Just... walking by. Hoping. For what? That he'd magically appear? And if he did, what?
At eighteen, starting college, I told myself I'd outgrown it. Stupid childhood fixation on a hero figure. Psychology 101 stuff.
At nineteen, Mom got sick, and I stopped thinking about anything except keeping her comfortable, managing her medications, holding her hand through chemo.
But when Francesco told me about Daniil, when I realized I had ten days before becoming a monster's bride, Lorenzo's name surfaced in my mind like it had been waiting there all along.
Not the police. They were in Francesco's pocket. Not my father's old friends. They answered to Francesco now. Lorenzo. Always Lorenzo.
The smart thing would have been anyone else. Anyone who didn't make my pulse skip when he entered a room. Anyonewhose voice didn't send heat pooling in my stomach when he said my name. Anyone who didn't make me feel like that fifteen-year-old girl with her first crush, desperate and wanting something she couldn't even name.
