The thing about being a captive is that it doesn’t come with a rule book. Or even a how-to. I’m living day-by-day at someone else’s mercy. I don’t know if Raffaele is going to flip at some point and start deciding I need to earn my keep on my knees. Or use me as a punching bag. Or tell me to scrub his mansion with just a toothbrush.
Sometimes I wonder if the real punishment for my mom’s unpaid debt is the unknown. If he’s keeping me in suspense to stop me from becoming… numb? Complacent? I truly don’t know. But something tells me I don’t have the imagination to even conjure up ideas of what could happen to me.
“As my property, I need you healthy,” he continues, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside me. “And thatstarts with you eating regularly.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
I shake my head, determined to stand my ground.
He chuckles, but it isn’t a sound of mirth. No, it’s cold and dark. “Very well,” he states. “Then I have no use for you, and I might as well sell you to someone who doesn’t mind a woman determined to starve.”
My jaw goes slack as I take in his words. “Y-you’d sell me off?” I shriek, horrified.
Shrugging, he takes a drag of his cigar. I watch the smoke curl into a perfect ring that’s drifting toward the ceiling.
“It would be easier,” he muses. “Since you won’t eat.”
With shaking hands, I finally accept the plate. While the simple turkey and cheese sandwich looked good before, it doesn’t now. His words have tainted it, making it as appealing as a rotten apple.
“I-I don’t want to be s-sold,” I stutter around a bite. I force myself to take another bite, ignoring the ashy taste. “Please.”
Raffaele watches me eat, occasionally taking sips of his whiskey or puffs of his cigar. The silence between us should be uncomfortable, but the food and alcohol are creating a pleasant haze that dulls the edges of my fear.
When I finish the sandwich, he takes the empty plate and sets it aside. Then he gets the whiskey and pours us both more. I should refuse, but the alcohol is melting the knot of tension and fear in my chest, making everything feel slightly dreamlike.
As he returns to his seat, my eyes drift to the ornate chessboard positioned between us on a small table. The pieces are carved from some dark stone and what looks like ivory, the board itself inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“Do you play?” he asks, following my gaze.
“No,” I admit. “My dad tried to teach me when I was little, but I never learned.” The memory brings a pang of sadness. Dad, withhis patient smile, trying to explain how the knights move in their strange L-shapes while I fidgeted in my chair.
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, transforming his face from merely handsome to something that makes my heart flutter traitorously in my chest. “That’s a shame.”
“Why?” I ask, curiosity overcoming my caution.
He takes a sip of his drink, his green eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. When he sets it down, that half-smile still lingers. “Because we could have played for your freedom.”
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with possibilities. My breath catches. Is he serious? Could chess—a game I don’t even know how to play—really be my ticket out of here? Or is this just a form of torment, dangling hope like a baited hook?
“You’re joking,” I say finally, my voice barely audible over the crackling fire.
“Am I?” He shifts, muscles rippling beneath inked skin as he leans forward to pick up one of the chess pieces—a queen, black and gleaming. He rolls it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “Every game has stakes, Alina. The question is whether you’re willing to learn how to play.”
I stare at him, at this dangerous, beautiful man who holds my future in his hands as casually as he holds that chess piece. For the first time since being brought to his house, I feel something other than fear and resignation stirring inside me.
Hope? Determination? Or something else entirely—something that makes my skin prickle with awareness every time his eyes meet mine.
“I could learn,” I say quietly, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. “If we’re playing for my freedom, I want to try.”
Raffaele’s smile widens, showing straight white teeth that flash in the firelight. He sets the queen back on the board with careful precision.
Chapter 12
Raffaele
The words hang between us like smoke from my cigar, heavy with possibility. Her pale blue eyes widen slightly as she processes what I’ve just offered. A game for her freedom. A simple proposition with complex stakes.
I watch her face carefully, cataloging each flicker of emotion that crosses her features—hope, doubt, fear, determination. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, worrying the soft flesh in a way that makes my cock twitch against my sweatpants.
“And what do you want if you win?” Alina asks shrewdly, her voice barely above a whisper.
