Perhaps it’s time to demonstrate more concretely what resistance costs—not through physical punishment, which Danny clearly disapproves of, but through systematic removal of the small comforts she still enjoys.
The books in her room, the view from her window, the illusion that her cooperation matters.
She needs to understand that there is no negotiation, no leverage, no path forward except complete submission.
And the sooner she learns that lesson, the more useful she’ll be for the Torrino alliance.
“Dinner is over,” I announce, standing. “Maria will escort you back to your suite.”
She stands too, trying to be nonchalant, but I can see how angry she is.
The way she’s clenching her fists, the way those pink spots remain on her cheeks.
As she follows Maria from the room, I watch the way she holds herself.
Her spine is straight despite the pain, chin raised despite her defeat.
She’s more resilient than I anticipated, which means I’ll need to adjust my approach.
Clearly, comfortable captivity and verbal denials aren’t enough to break her spirit.
I return to my office and pull up the security feeds, watching as Maria escorts her back to her suite.
The lock clicks behind her, and through the camera I see her walk to the window and stand there for a long moment, one hand pressed against the glass.
From this angle, I can see her reflection in the window.
I can see the moment her careful composure finally cracks and tears start sliding down her cheeks.
She cries silently, shoulders shaking with sobs she won’t let anyone hear.
Good. That’s what I need to see.
The cracks forming, the facade breaking down when she thinks no one is watching.
It’s only a matter of time before those private breakdowns become her permanent state.
I close the laptop and pour myself three fingers of whiskey.
She’s stronger than I expected, more intelligent than I anticipated.
But that just means breaking her will require more precision, more patience, more systematic dismantling of every hope she’s clinging to.
Antonio Conti’s daughter is going to suffer for his transgressions. That’s justice, pure and simple.
The whiskey is smooth and satisfying—just like this revenge will be when it’s finally complete.
7
GIULIANA
Maria arrives at my room at exactly noon with three other women I’ve never seen before—a makeup artist with a rolling case so full of products it would make a teenage girl squeal, a hair stylist carrying what looks like a professional salon’s worth of equipment, and a woman who introduces herself as Sophia from some boutique whose name I don’t catch but that apparently caters exclusively to “discerning clients.”
“Mr. Marchetti has selected your ensemble for this evening,” Sophia says, laying garment bags across my bed with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “We’ll begin with hair and makeup, then dress you closer to departure time.”
I want to say something—protest, resist, remind them I’m capable of dressing myself—but again, what’s the point?
Everything about tonight is Luca’s choice, from my clothing to my jewelry to the words I’ll be allowed to speak.
