The duvet was a warm, safe layer between me and the world of angels above. I froze in position for what felt like a moment within the broad, sun-filled room, Dante's command ringing between us. Go. Eat. Dress up. A rather simple chain of orders. Yet because it not only spelled an order, it read deeply into an enormous choice. I could refuse. Scream-the-walls-down-and-fight-and-make-him-give-me-the-figurative-brute-force-behind-his-guards kind of uncommon way. Or obey. Swallow my pride, swallow my rage, and comport this as a war. A soldier doesn't win by charging headfirst into the enemy's strongest cannon; a soldier survives. A soldier watches, learns, and waits for the perfect moment to strike--but my fear was knot cold and hard in my stomach, and a fresh, chilling resolve formed around it: I would play his game. For now.
With a deep breath that felt like inhaling ground glass, I turned without a word and walked back down the white hallway to my room. I found the food sitting untouched on a tray. I dragged myself to take a few bites of apple and toast, the food tasting like ash in my mouth, probably quite literally. I needed the strength. Then I stepped into the adjoining bathroom, a cavern of grey marble and chrome, and let the hot water of the shower sluice over my skin, washing away the grime of the auction house but not the stain of what had happened there.
The black dress was outstretched on the bed, a slash of midnight against the white sheets. It was made of heavy crepe fabric, simple, severe, yet devastatingly elegant. I find it fit as if it had been made for me. Of course it did. When I looked in the ornate silver mirror, my heart lurched. With my wet hair bound up and my face pale, clothed in somber black, the resemblance to the woman in the portrait was more pronounced than ever. I looked like a woman in mourning. Like it or not, I was. I was mourning Alessia Romano.
When I walked back into the living space, I saw Dante standing at the glass wall with his back to me. He turned, eyes taking me in. There was no smile on his face, only a single calculated nod in approval. The gesture of a master satisfied with an obedient pet. Another wave of humiliation washed over me, and I crushed it, locking my expression into a neutral mask.
It was a silent descent in the elevator. In silence indeed, the Maybach moved. I kept staring out of the tinted window as buildings blurred past me, a world I was not a part of anymore. I had to collect information as ordered and break the suffocating silence for that very purpose.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice steady.
"To close a deal," Dante stated without glancing at me. His eyes were glued ahead at the road.
He said that only served to tighten the knot of anxiety in my stomach. A deal. Was I the deal? Was he selling me off to someone else? My mind sped through a hundred terrifying possibilities. Into the very heart of the financial district it drove-a canyon of shining skyscrapers and ambition. The car didn't stop at a fancy restaurant nor at an opulent hotel; it pulled into a private underground lot beneath a rather stern looking tower made of black glass and steel. A place of power, of money, and of secrets.
His guards escorted us from the car to a private elevator, and then to a corner office on one of the top floors. The office was in cold, corporate wealth: one single, huge mahogany desk in front of a wall of glass overlooking the city. Behind that desk sat a man in his late sixties with silver hair, a hawk-like nose, and eyes that, like everything else about him, held no warmth whatsoever. He was wearing a suit probably worth more than my father's car. He stood as we entered.
"Mr. Moretti," said the man in a voice like a dry rustle of paper, then nodded his head curtly at me with a professional but dismissive gaze. He is not awed by beauty or intimidated by power-a mere instrument, valuable, and effective.
"Sterling," Dante replied, lending magic to his tone as all business usually does; "Is it ready?"
"Of course," Mr. Sterling simply said and invited, with his hand, the two leather chairs to be occupied in front of his desk. Dante sat, and after a moment's hesitation, I did, too. My hands were slick with sweat; I surreptitiously wiped them on the black crepe of my dress.
Sterling slid a thin, leather-bound folder across the polished desk. The polished surface stopped right in front of me. Next to it was an expensive-looking gold-and-black fountain pen.
"Sign," Dante commanded in a low tone devoid of any emotions.
My eyes flitted between his cold face analyzing the folder. With a trembling hand, I opened the parchment rather revealing before me. It was just a single page of thick cream paper saturated by impenetrable legal jargon. The truth is, I didn't need to read too much into that fine print. It was rattling my blood to bits with emotion, the title at the top in bright bold letters.
AFFIDAVIT OF IDENTITY AND LEGAL ASSUMPTION
My my eyes ran up and down the lines, and my mind tried to assimilate the very words....do hereby renounce and relinquish the name Alessia Maria Romano... of my free and uncoerced will and accord... do hereby legally assume the identity and name of Isabella Elena Romano... to correct a misnomer established historically and in genealogy and rightfully reclaim my heritage...
I looked up at Dante with mouth agape at that horrible sight. This was madness beyond what I would ever have thought. He wasn't just calling me Isabella like an insult; rather, he was resorting to the power of the law-his innumerable wealth and strength-in order to make me Isabella. Forging my image from the world.
"You're out of your bloody mind," I breathed as I shoved the folder away from me. "This is crazy. No way I am putting my signature on it."
Dante didn't move by a whit. He leaned forward slightly, pinning me to the chair with his dark gaze. "You think this has to do with sentiment?" A dangerous whisper drew the low from his voice. "Alexia: it isn't fantasy; it's business."
He gestured to the lawyer. Sterling, looking bored, slid another document from a separate file toward me. It was a page from a trust, filled with account numbers and financial terms.
"My mother, Isabella Moretti, was the primary beneficiary of a number of private family trusts," Dante explained, his voice like chips of ice. "Upon her death, those assets were frozen, accessible only by a blood heir who legally carries her name. For years, they have been dormant. Untouchable." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "As Isabella, you unlock them. As Alessia, you are a worthless, sentimental trinket. I am not asking you to sign. I am telling you. You will give me back what my family is owed—both its name and its fortune."
The sheer, calculated brilliance of his depravity was staggering. It wasn't just a twisted psychological obsession; it was a cold, pragmatic power move. He needed me to become her to reclaim a fortune. My identity, my very existence, was the key. And he was holding the door.
He pushed the pen closer to my hand. It gleamed under the office lights.
"Sign," he commanded again, his voice leaving no doubt as to the consequences of refusal. "Or I will find a way to take it anyway. And I promise you, that will be far less pleasant."