I'd lost my sister to betrayal. My freedom to forced marriage. My apartment, my job, my art.
And now I'd lost my best friend too.
I followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen.
It was as stunning as the rest of the penthouse: professional-grade appliances that belonged in a restaurant, marble countertops, another wall of windows overlooking the city.
Cesare sat at the kitchen island with an espresso and his laptop.
He was already dressed in tailored black pants, a crisp white dress shirt, no tie yet. Hair still slightly damp from his own shower. A Rolex caught the light on his wrist.
He looked alert despite what could only have been a few hours of sleep. Maybe four at most.
He looked up when I entered. Those gray eyes tracked over me—assessing my choice of clothes. I saw the flicker of recognition that I'd chosen the least provocative options available.
"Good morning," he said. Neutral. Polite. Like this was normal.
"Morning," I managed.
He gestured to the counter. "There's breakfast. Coffee. Help yourself."
I saw what he meant: a spread laid out like a hotel buffet. Pastries, fruit, yogurt, cheeses, cold cuts. Far too much for two people.
"Did you make this?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
A slight smile—almost. "No. The housekeeper comes early. You won't see her—she's discreet."
Of course there was a housekeeper. Of course I wouldn't even have privacy in my own home.
This wasn't my home.
I poured coffee from an espresso machine that probably cost more than my car. Took a cornetto I had no appetite for.
Sat at the island—not next to him, but not far away either. Uncertain of the rules.
We ate in silence for a moment. Surreal. Yesterday I was free. Today I was having breakfast with my mafia Don husband.
"Did you sleep?" Cesare asked, not looking up from his laptop.
"Some." A lie. Maybe three hours total.
"You'll adjust." Not comforting—just factual.
More silence. Then: "I have meetings today. You'll stay here."
"All day?" The idea of being trapped in this gilded cage for hours made my chest tighten.
"Yes. The penthouse is secure. You have everything you need."
"Except freedom," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes snapped to mine—sharp, warning. "Freedom is relative, Paola. You're free from poverty, from danger, from uncertainty. That's more than most people have."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither did I. Yet here we are."
Cesare closed his laptop, gave me his full attention. It was intense—he didn't do anything halfway.
