At least I have my own clothes now.
That thought should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
Because the second I pull on my underwear, my brain flashes to the image of men in my apartment, looking through my drawers, touching my things, choosing what to pack. I try not to think about hands lifting lace, deciding what to pack for me.
I swallow down the spike of nausea that rises with it.
The queasiness keeps coming in waves. Sometimes it’s nothing but a sour churn, sometimes it’s sharp enough that I have to stop and brace my palm against the back of the couch and breathe until it passes. I’ve told myself it’s stress. Adrenaline. Not eating enough. Too much thinking. Not enough sleep.
Anything. Anything but… something else.
I’m restless, yet tired. And I want Antonio.
Which is another problem, because where is he right now?
Not here.
Of course he isn’t.
I’m the one locked inside like a priceless vase, and he’s out having a face-to-face with his brother like it’s a normal Tuesday errand. I know I’m guarded—I can feel it, even when I can’t see it. The subtle sounds in the hall as guards make their rounds. The faint sound of the elevator periodically. The knowledge that if someone tried to force their way in, they’d be met long before they reached this door.
But that doesn’t stop my mind from spiraling.
Was it necessary? Did it have to be in person right now? Couldn’t this meeting have been a phone call? A video chat?
I’ve been working virtually all damn week, dodging questions about where I am, why I disappeared on Monday. But Antonio can’t skip one damn meeting?
A knock snapsthrough the apartment.
I freeze mid-step.
My heart goes careening into my throat.
Antonio was very clear: no one comes to this door without his say, and he didn’t tell me anyone was coming.
I move toward the door, every nerve alive and buzzing. I’m not supposed to open it. I know I’m not. I’m supposed to let Antonio handle it. That’s the protocol. That’s the rule.
But Antonio isn’t here.
And the door has no peephole.
I stop short of it, staring at the smooth wood, almost confused.
What kind of apartment door doesn’t have a peephole?
How am I supposed to see who’s on the other side?
My hand goes to my phone in my pocket, and I pull it out, thumb hovering over Antonio’s name.
A third knock comes, harder, and I flinch.
Then a woman’s voice calls through the door, calm and unmistakably directed at me.
“Elsa. It’s Bianca.”
My breath catches.
“Bianca Conti? I’m Giovanni’s wife. And I’ve got cannoli.”
