But his warning echoed:I'll know immediately.
And even if I called for help—what would I say? "I married a mafia Don under duress"? Who would believe me? Who could help me?
My father had made his position clear: I was on my own.
The truth settled over me like a weight. There was no rescue coming. No escape. No hero.
If I was going to survive this, I had to do it myself.
I opened a browser and started researching. Not escape plans. Something else.
I typed:Cesare Monti.
Time to understand exactly who I'd married.
The search results were extensive. Cesare Monti was a public figure—sort of.
CEO of Monti Industries–real estate, technology investments, import/export. Billions in legitimate business. But between the lines, hints of the other empire: "alleged connections to organized crime," "rumors of mafia ties," "under investigation but never charged."
Photos of him at charity galas, business conferences, always in expensive suits, always with that cold, controlled expression.
A few articles about his father—Vittorio Monti, killed six years ago in a "business dispute." Cesare took over at twenty-eight.
I found photos from last night of our wedding, and it gave me vertigo to see them. Already circulating in society pages. I barelyrecognized myself: the woman in the photos looked elegant, composed, happy.
The performance was flawless. No one would guess the truth. How had I managed that, especially considering my body had been fighting the effects of being drugged? Adrenaline, maybe. The threats.
One headline:"Monti-Lombardo Alliance: Power Couple or Power Play?"
Both, I thought bitterly.Definitely both.
Hours passed. I researched, read, tried to piece together my new reality and the man I was now tied to.
Lunch appeared in the kitchen—the invisible housekeeper. I picked at it.
Afternoon stretched into evening. My first full day as Cesare Monti's wife, spent entirely alone in a penthouse prison.
I tried to paint—there were art supplies in one of the guest rooms, another thoughtful provision. But everything I created looked violent. Angry. Trapped.
Evening came. The city lit up below me like a galaxy. Beautiful and unreachable.
I showered, changed into another of the silk nightgowns from the closet. This one was emerald, less revealing than some. It felt like cream against my skin, but I missed the pajama pants at my apartment, the oversized t-shirts.
Cesare had said he'd be late. Don't wait up.
But I couldn't sleep. Not yet.
I sat in the living room, watching the city, watching the elevator door.
Waiting for my husband to come home.
It was past midnight when I heard the elevator—technically Day 2, though it felt like the longest day of my life was still continuing. I'd dozed off on the couch, woke to the mechanical sound.
My heart rate spiked.
The doors opened. Cesare stepped out.
He looked tired—jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw.
