My body still hummed from the encounter, every nerve tuned to his presence, even long after he left. I lay there in the cold sheets, staring at the ceiling as the shadows moved across it with the slow crawl of morning. Sleep hadn't come. I wasn't sure if it ever would again. What Marcello did last night wasn't just touch. It was a possession, a claim wrapped in heat and punishment. My skin felt both branded and starved, aching for more while screaming for distance. I didn't know how to exist in a body that now recognized him so deeply.
I forced myself up, one limb at a time, every motion stiff with confusion. My bare feet hit the cold floor like it was punishment, grounding me in a reality I had been avoiding. The opulence around me mocked my presence. Golden fixtures, heavy curtains, marble that gleamed like ice. Nothing about this place welcomed me. It wasn't a home. It was a fortress, and I was the trespasser who had triggered every alarm. I pulled a silk robe over my bruised soul and moved toward the mirror, unsure of what I would find.
There she was. The girl I had pretended to outgrow. Eyes that looked older than eighteen, lips bitten raw from silence. My hair was a mess, but it wasn't vanity that made me study myself. It was the question burning in my chest. Who had I become in Marcello's world? A prisoner? A temptress? A target? Last night had shown me something I never wanted to admit. I still had power over him, the kind that scared even me. But what was the use of power if it left me just as broken as the man I had ruined?
Downstairs, the silence was not empty. It was loaded. I heard voices before I reached the hall. Marcello's men were speaking in low tones, but they stiffened the moment they saw me. They pretended not to watch, but I felt their eyes, measuring me, judging every step. One even nodded, more to himself than to me, as if I were confirming some internal suspicion. I walked past without a word, my chin raised to hide the quiver that wanted to show. I hated this new world where every gesture was a performance, every breath a strategy.
Marcello waited in the dining room, sharp in a tailored black suit. Not a wrinkle in sight. Not a strand of hair out of place. He read the paper like he wasn't the reason my heart beat like a trapped bird in my chest. The table was set for two, and the food untouched. I didn't sit. He didn't speak. We stared at each other across a silence that spoke in screams. His eyes told me I had passed some test, but another one was coming. One that wouldn't just bruise my skin but carve deeper.
"Eat," he said at last, folding the paper without looking at me. "You'll need your strength." His voice was calm, but the edge was there, hidden like a knife beneath velvet. I hesitated, unsure if he meant it as a kindness or a threat. Probably both. I took the seat opposite him, my movements slow and deliberate. I picked up a fork and forced down a bite of eggs that tasted like sawdust. He sipped coffee, watching me through lashes too long for a man so dangerous. The tension between us pulsed like a heartbeat.
I had questions. So many. Why me? Why now? What did he really want from me beyond revenge? But I said nothing. Not yet. Because deep down, I already knew. He didn't just want me to suffer. He wanted me to unravel. To want him the way he used to want me. To beg for mercy he would never grant. And the terrifying part was that a piece of me, the part I had buried deep beneath guilt and fear, wanted it too. Not the pain. Not the control. But him. Just him. And that scared me more than anything else.
I thought breakfast would be the end of it, that I would be sent back to the room to rot in silence while he plotted his next punishment. But when he stood and nodded toward the hallway, I followed. Not out of obedience, but out of curiosity. Or maybe fear. With Marcello, those two feelings were so tightly woven I could no longer tell the difference. I walked beside him like a shadow with no control over its shape, aware of the way he moved, steady, powerful, aware of me but never touching.
He led me to a part of the mansion I had never seen before. The hallway turned darker, the windows narrower, and the walls here were not decorated with art but cloaked in silence. Then he opened a door that was not locked but felt like it should have been. Inside, a room stretched wide and sterile. At the center stood a long table covered in paper files and photographs. My stomach knotted. I knew this was no ordinary room. It was a war room. His war room. And I was the enemy he had been studying.
"Sit," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. I did not argue. The chair was colder than the marble floors, but I refused to flinch. He stepped behind me and laid a folder in front of me. My name was printed on the cover. Liliana Ainsworth. Not Russo. I swallowed. He flipped it open and revealed pictures of me, smiling, crying, unaware. Dates. Times. Locations. Some were from years ago. Others were from last week. I turned each page slowly, each image a slap, each note a blade. He had been watching me for far longer than I imagined.
"You ruined my father," he said quietly, standing just behind my right shoulder. "With a single lie." His voice did not shake. It did not rise. It simply pressed into me like a weight I could not lift. I stayed silent. There was nothing I could say that would matter. Not when he had built this shrine to his grief and pointed every spotlight at me. "Did you ever wonder what it did to a son, watching his father fall into disgrace? Watching him drink himself to death while your name stayed clean in every report?"
My hands trembled over the photos. I had not known. Not like that. I knew the lie had consequences, but I never imagined the man behind it had a son like Marcello. And I definitely never imagined that son would turn his grief into an empire. "You could have asked," I whispered, finally finding my voice. "I would have told you the truth." He laughed, cold and bitter. "I do not need your truth now," he said. "I needed it ten years ago. Now I only need one thing." I turned to look at him. His eyes locked onto mine, and I saw it then. Obsession, not hatred.
He wanted me broken, yes. But he also wanted me his. Every glance, every touch, even his silence, none of it was pure revenge. It was possession, born of betrayal. And I could not lie to myself any longer. That twisted part of me, the part that remembered his hands on my hips and his mouth on my neck, craved it. Craved the man who hated me more than anyone else ever had. Maybe because he was the only one who truly saw me. All of me. Even the parts I tried so hard to kill off.
He stepped closer and leaned in. "You are going to help me destroy the rest of them," he murmured. "Every person who helped cover your mistake. Every name you wrote in blood and left untouched. You are going to pay the debt your lie created." I did not agree. I did not protest. Because somewhere in that command was something worse than punishment. It was a confession. He did not just want me ruined. He wanted me close. Even if it meant dragging me through hell to get it. And I was already halfway there.