The decision gives me exactly what they expect. Not my finest moment, not my proudest strategy, but I need to shatter this suffocating politeness before it drowns me.
The common area buzzes with afternoon laziness. Soldiers in casual clothes cluster around card tables; soldiers clean their weapons. Someone's radio plays old Italian music, the kind my father used to hum. The domesticity of it makes my skin itch.
I stride into the center of the room. Every eye is a weight. Good. Let them watch. I pitch my voice to cut through the low murmur of conversation.
"I need air. Real air, not recycled compound air."
The nearest guard doesn't even look up from his poker hand. "You need Pietro's permission to leave the grounds."
"Then get Pietro."
"He's busy."
I pace the length of the room, letting my agitation show. "What about Lorenzo? Is he busy too?"
That gets attention. Cards lower. Conversations pause. The radio suddenly seems too loud.
"You should return to your room, Miss Torrino." Another guard, older, more cautious.
"I want to see Lorenzo. Now."
The guards exchange glances, that universal male look of confusion when confronted with female emotion. One reaches for his phone, probably to call for backup. God knows they'd rather face bullets than tears.
"What's all this noise?"
Nico leans against the doorframe, tablet in one hand, espresso mug in the other. He watches me like I'm a bug under glass, something strange and fascinating he's waiting to see die.
"I need fresh air." The words come out more desperate than intended. "I need to leave this place for five minutes."
His eyebrows rise. "The princess wants a walk. How unexpected."
Heat floods my face. "I'm not a princess. I'm a prisoner."
"Prisoners don't usually get designer clothes and gourmet meals." He sips his espresso, examining me like I'm a particularly interesting spreadsheet. "Though I admit, tantrums in the common room are new. Points for creativity."
Vittoria appears behind him. "Sophia, are you okay?"
"Not really. Losing my mind, apparently." The admission cracks something inside me.
"Enough."
Lorenzo's voice isn't loud, but it slices through the noise, and everything just stops. He stands in the doorway looking at me.
"My office. Now."
I lift my chin, meeting his glacial stare. "You can ask, not demand."
Whatever it is that flashes in his expression is not good. Without a word, he turns and walks away, trusting I'll follow. Or maybe not caring if I do.
I follow anyway. What choice do I have?
His office is smaller than the one at the restaurant. No wasted space, no unnecessary decoration. Just clean lines and controlled environment, like the man himself.
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot.
"What exactly did you think that would accomplish?" His voice is quiet, but it carries the threat of a blade. "You want my men to see you as a spoiled child? Because congratulations, mission accomplished."
"I wanted?—"
