I push the thought away and focus on getting dressed. Someone—I don't want to know who—has provided me with clothes in exactly my size. Jeans, sweaters, even underwear that fits perfectly. The efficiency of it is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
I have never been a hard sleeper, but apparently, sleeping on the equivalent of a cloud and a parade could march through my bedroom and I wouldn’t know it.
Then another thought occurs—did he drug me?
I think back and we all ate and drank the same things. I didn’t feel drugged when I went to bed. I was just that tired.
The pregnancy. I remember a friend of mine a couple of years ago said she felt like she’d been shot in the ass with a tranquilizer.
The hallway outside my room is wide and elegant, lined with artwork that probably belongs in museums. Like actually in museums. I was dealing with criminals. The stuff was probably heisted and sold on the black market.
But as I explore, I start to notice other things. The subtle cameras tucked into crown molding. The way certain hallways seem to have staff members who aren't really cleaning but are definitely watching. The fact that every window I pass has a clear view of guards patrolling the grounds.
This isn't just a house. It's a fortress.
I follow the scent of coffee and bacon down a sweeping staircase, past oil paintings of stern-faced men who share Dante's bone structure. Family portraits, I realize. Generations of Sokolovs who probably ruled their piece of Chicago with iron fists and Italian leather shoes. The old school mobsters that carried around Tommy guns.
The kitchen is enormous, all granite counters and stainless-steel appliances, but it feels warm and lived-in. Mila sits at a breakfast bar, her legs swinging as she works through a plate of pancakes cut into star shapes.
"Hannah!" She beams when she sees me. "You're awake! Maria made pancakes—do you want some?"
A woman in her fifties looks up from the stove, her kind face creased with smile lines. She nods at me with the sort of polite distance that suggests she's been instructed not to get too friendly with the prisoner.
"Can I just make myself a cup of tea?" I ask.
“I’ll get it,” Maria says. “Would you prefer coffee instead?”
“No, thank you.”
I have to remember coffee is a no go for now. I need to find out what is safe and what should be avoided.
"Papa says coffee is not good for ladies," Mila announces with the authority of someone repeating adult wisdom she doesn't fully understand. "He drinks it all the time though."
"Your papa sounds like a hypocrite."
Mila giggles like I've said something delightfully scandalous. "What's a hypocrite?"
"Someone who?—"
"Someone who says one thing and does another."
The voice comes from behind me. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Dante moves into the kitchen with that predatory grace, looking annoyingly put-together in dark slacks and a white shirt that is perfectly pressed and without a single blemish.
"Papa!" Mila launches herself from her stool. Dante catches her like he does the same thing every morning. "Hannah is having breakfast with me!"
"I see that." His eyes meet mine over his daughter's head. I have to work not to shiver under that blue gaze. "Sleep well?"
"Like a baby.”
"Good." He sets Mila back on her stool and moves to the coffee machine. "Coffee?"
"I thought you said it wasn't good for ladies."
"I said a lot of things." He pours himself a cup, the motion casual and controlled. "Would you like some or not?"
My stomach churns at the smell, the same way it has every morning for the past two weeks. "I'm fine. Maria is making me some tea."
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can see the truth written on my face. But he just nods and takes a sip of his coffee.
