Matteo was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the door.
He swiped his keycard.
The lock clicked open.
"You're not a prisoner anymore," he said, his voice steady. Certain. "You could leave if you wanted to."
I stared at him. At the open door. At freedom I'd been craving for almost two weeks.
"Is that true?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.
"Yes." Matteo stepped away from the door. Giving me space. Giving me the choice. "Walk out. Right now. I won't stop you. You're free, Stefan."
My heart hammered.
This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since Matteo caught me. Freedom. The ability to leave. To go back to my life—whatever was left of it.
I stood up slowly. Walked toward the door. My legs felt shaky. My breath came too fast.
I reached the threshold and stopped.
Looked out into the hallway. At the stairs that would take me down to the club. To the street. To whatever came next.
Where would I go?
Home? To a father who'd sent me here to die? Who was cooperating with the FBI and signing his own death warrant? Who'd probably disown me for getting caught and bringing shame to the family?
To my brothers? Who'd never valued me anyway? Who'd probably see my failure as confirmation that I was useless?
To friends? I didn't really have any. Not real ones. Just acquaintances from the events I'd been forced to attend. People who knew Stefan Romano the pretty trophy, not Stefan the person.
I had no money. No resources. No allies. Giuseppe had probably frozen my accounts when I disappeared. Assumed I was dead or a liability.
And even if I found somewhere to go, I wouldn't be safe. Matteo had explained it. Giuseppe's cooperation with the FBI made me a target. The other families would come after me to get to him. Or to punish him. Or just to send a message.
Walking out this door didn't mean freedom.
It meant running into a different kind of cage. Or more likely, running straight toward a bullet with my name on it.
But that wasn't why I wasn't moving.
I wasn't moving because some part of me—large and impossible to ignore—didn't want to leave.
Didn't want to walk away from Matteo. From the domestic intimacy we'd been building. From the way he looked at me like I mattered. From the safety I felt in his arms even though objectively I shouldn't feel safe with a man who'd kidnapped me.
Was this Stockholm syndrome? Trauma bonding? My brain doing mental gymnastics to justify feelings that didn't make sense?
Probably.
But it felt real anyway.
The connection between us felt real. The way Matteo listened when I talked. The way he brought me Thai food and worked on his laptop while I read. The way he touched me like I was precious. The way he'd said "you're brilliant" like he actually believed it.
That felt real.
Even if it shouldn't. Even if it was fucked up and complicated and probably the result of captivity and isolation and my desperate need for someone to value me.
It felt real.
