"I hate that I'm starting to forget this is a cage."
"Good." I turn her hand over and press my thumb against her pulse. Feel it racing. "That's the point,tesoro. That's always been the point."
She finally looks at me. "That's the most dangerous thing of all, isn't it? Not the guns or the violence or the war you started. It's this. The moments where I forget to be afraid."
"Yes."
"What happens when I stop forgetting? When this becomes normal?"
"Then you're exactly where I want you. And we can stop pretending you're not mine."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't argue. Just sits there with her hand in mine, looking at me like I'm a puzzle she can't solve.
My phone buzzes on the table.
I ignore it. Let whoever it is wait. Right now, the only thing that matters is the woman in front of me and the fact that she's stopped fighting.
For tonight, at least.
Tomorrow, I'll deal with the Bratva. Tomorrow, I'll handle Morozov and his threats to the Commission.
Tonight, I'm taking her back to bed. And this time, I'm making sure she understands exactly what belonging to me means.
12
FRANCESCA
Dinner is over.
The plates have been cleared—by him, not some invisible staff. He cooked. He served. He cleaned up while I sat at his table drinking wine and watching him move around his kitchen like this is normal. Like we're normal.
Now we're on the couch. Some Italian crime film is playing on the massive screen. Subtitles scroll across the bottom. I don't really understand what's happening. It's something about revenge and blood feuds and men who don't forgive.
On brand, I think, and almost laugh.
I'm in silk pajamas from the delivery that arrived this afternoon—boxes and bags of clothing, lingerie, things I didn't ask for but that fit perfectly anyway—drinking wine from a crystal glass, curled up on his couch like I belong here.
I should not be comfortable. I should not feel safe... but I do.
And that's the problem, isn't it? I've endured this whatever this is—being kept, controlled, owned. Days of trying to find the angle that makes sense and coming up empty every time.
So I stopped looking.
I let myself sink into the couch. I let myself watch the subtitles scroll across the screen. I let myself pretend that the man sitting next to me is just a man and not a killer.
His phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at it, frowns, ignores it.
"Work?" I ask.
"Probably." He doesn't elaborate. He just refills my wine glass and settles back against the cushions.
I should ask more questions. I should push for information about the war, the Bratva, what's happening outside these walls. But I don't. Because right now, in this moment, I don't want to know. I just want to exist in this pocket of stillness before everything inevitably goes to hell.
Luca shifts beside me. His hand finds my ankle, thumb stroking the bone there absently. It's not sexual. It's just touch. Contact. It's proof that I'm here, that I'm his, that I haven't disappeared. I should pull away. I don't.
The elevator dings.
The doors open and a man is standing there—right there in the penthouse—gun already drawn.
