The black sedan rolled to a stop in front of the mansion gates, tall iron bars stretching high as though even the sky was forbidden entry. They groaned open slowly, the sound like chains being dragged across stone.
My hands tightened around the leather seat. Freedom had ended the moment Vince DeLuca's voice claimed me. Now the gates closed behind me like a coffin lid.
The mansion appeared out of the night, all gray stone and sharp edges, its windows glowing faintly with golden light. Roses climbed the garden walls, but their sweetness felt wrong—too carefully cultivated, like perfume covering rot.
A fountain sparkled under the moon, and for a fleeting second, I thought of the well in my village, the one where I used to lower buckets with my mother. Her laughter would echo off the stone.
I swallowed hard. That sound didn't belong here. Nothing good belonged here.
The driver opened Vince's door first, of course. Vince stepped out, immaculate in his tailored suit, the streetlight tracing over his profile like an artist's hand. He didn't look back at me, didn't offer a hand, didn't even acknowledge I was there. That dismissal stung more than if he had leered.
When it was my turn to step onto the cobblestones, my heels clicked against them, sharp and defiant. I lifted my chin. I wouldn't shuffle into this place like a lamb.
"Avanti," Vince said without turning. Forward. As though I were nothing more than luggage.
Inside, the mansion gleamed with wealth—marble floors so polished I could see myself reflected in them, chandeliers dripping crystal like frozen rain, Renaissance portraits watching from the walls. It was beautiful in a way that was almost violent, every detail designed to intimidate.
A woman appeared in the foyer, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to tug her skin, but her eyes—her eyes carried softness. "Mr. DeLuca, her room is ready," she said in Italian-accented English.
She glanced at me quickly, then away, like she had learned not to linger on the faces of women brought here.
"Grazie, Maria." Vince's tone was polite but devoid of warmth. He turned those black eyes to me, cutting straight through my posture of defiance. "You'll stay here until I say otherwise. Maria will show you your quarters. Don't wander."
I held his gaze, refusing to let him think his warning had sunk into me. "Understood," I said flatly. My voice didn't tremble, though inside I felt the walls closing in.
Maria led me upstairs. The hallways stretched long and silent, with too many doors, most of them shut tight. When I passed one, I thought I heard something faint—a scrape, like a chair dragging—or maybe it was just the house breathing. My imagination, I told myself. And yet the hair on my arms lifted.
My room was more than I expected: silk sheets, cream walls, a massive bed, and a vase of lilies on the table. Their sweet, cloying scent filled the air. Lilies. For one sharp moment, I wasn't here. I was standing in a dim church, clutching my mother's cold hand as mourners placed lilies on her coffin. My father's voice had whispered harshly in my ear, Be strong, Isabella. Show no tears.
The past tightened its fist around my throat. I blinked, forcing the memory back into the shadows.
Maria's voice cut through. "Signorina, listen to me." She shut the door softly behind us and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Do as he says. Vince DeLuca is not a man to cross." She hesitated, then added, "None of us are free here. Not really."
I crossed my arms. "I'm not one of his servants. And I won't stay longer than I have to."
Maria's expression softened with pity that stung worse than her warning. "We all think that, at first. Stay out of trouble, cara. Survival is the only luxury in this house."
She left me in the room, and for a moment, I pressed my palm against the closed door. Survival. That was never going to be enough for me.
***
Downstairs, the house had come alive with a low hum of voices. I crept down the marble steps later that evening, refusing to rot away in silk sheets while the world moved on around me.
A fire burned in the parlor, casting flickering light against shelves of books and deep burgundy furniture. Jazz whispered from a gramophone, its notes curling around the smoke of a cigarette.
That's when I saw him. A Strange face I didn't meet during my arrival.
He leaned against a bookcase like he owned the place, his shirt open at the collar, a smile tugging his mouth as though my arrival was the punchline to a joke he'd already heard.
"Buona sera, bella," he said, his voice smooth velvet, his eyes sharp. "Exploring already? You're braver than most."
"I don't scare easily." The words came out faster than I intended, but I held my ground.
His chuckle was low, amused. "Good. But bravery in this house? It's like blood in the water. The sharks come faster."
I narrowed my eyes. "I don't need your advice."
"No?" He took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Then let me give you a truth instead: Vince doesn't buy things he can't use. And he doesn't keep things that don't obey. You? You look like neither."
My pulse thudded, but I forced my voice steady. "Then maybe I won't be here long."
His smile widened, but it didn't touch his eyes. "That's what makes you interesting."
The sound of footsteps froze the air. Vince entered, his presence like a stormfront swallowing the room. His gaze flicked between me and the stranger I haven't asked his name, narrowing just slightly, enough to spark a current of tension.
"Rafael." His tone was sharp, a command without needing to finish the sentence.
Rafael Torres. How could I have not thought about that. Vince's second in command. He was known to be cunning and brutal as Vince.
Rafael exhaled smoke lazily, bowed mockingly, and moved aside. "As you wish, capo." But his eyes lingered on me before he disappeared into the hall.
Now it was only Vince and me, the fire cracking between us.
"You're testing boundaries," he said, voice quiet but edged with steel.
I met his stare. My voice came out before I could stop it. "Are you going to lock me up if I don't behave? Keep me like a prisoner in your gilded cage?"
His lips twitched, almost a smile, though his eyes stayed cold. "Prisoners don't get silk sheets."
"You think money makes it less of a cage?"
"It makes it a cage you can survive in," he replied, taking a slow sip of whiskey. "But survival is your choice."
Something burned inside me, anger, fear, and something I hated to admit: curiosity.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Vince's expression shifted briefly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes as he listened to the voice on the other end.
"Yes," he said into the phone. His tone was lethal and calm. "I know. She won't leave. She'll be watched."
My stomach dropped. He wasn't just caging me; he was putting eyes on me. Spies. Traps. Every step I took here would echo back to him.
When he hung up, his gaze locked on mine again. "Maria will bring you to dinner. Don't wander again."
I didn't answer. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
He left, the scent of his cologne lingering in the room like smoke after a fire.
But I stayed, rooted to the spot, Rafael's warning replaying in my head: Sharks come faster.
For the first time, I realized this wasn't only Vince's cage. There were other predators circling. And I didn't yet know which one would sink their teeth first.