The mansion loomed in the darkness like a sleeping beast. From the outside, it was a cathedral of wealth—marble pillars glowing under the golden light of wrought-iron lanterns, windows tall and guarded by ornate balconies, every line of its architecture whispering of power. But as the heavy gates clanged shut behind me, that wealth felt less like a home and more like the gleam of a gilded cage.
Two of the Don's men escorted me up the grand steps, their suits so perfectly pressed they looked as though they had stepped out of a magazine spread—except for the bulges under their jackets, where the outlines of weapons pressed against fabric. I told myself not to glance back, not to give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. But my heart was doing a drum solo inside my chest.
The Don was already waiting in the entrance hall. He wore a black suit with a subtle sheen, the kind you only notice if you've seen the cheap ones before. No tie, shirt open at the collar. His dark hair was slicked back, and in the low light his eyes were unreadable pools of brown—not warm, not cold, just deep enough to make you wonder what was at the bottom. He didn't speak at first, just studied me like I was a puzzle he hadn't yet decided whether to solve or smash to pieces.
"You'll stay in the east wing," he finally said, his voice low and deliberate, every syllable like a weight placed on the air. "Maria will show you to your rooms."
Rooms. Plural. The word landed strangely, but I didn't ask. Not yet.
Maria turned out to be a tall, elegant woman in her fifties, with hair pulled into a severe bun and a face carved from composure. If she had opinions about me, she didn't let them show. She simply gestured for me to follow, her heels clicking against marble floors that reflected chandeliers overhead. My footsteps felt too loud, like I was an intruder—which, in truth, I was.
We passed room after room, each one decorated like it belonged in a palace—oil paintings in gilded frames, heavy velvet drapes, antique vases. The air smelled faintly of expensive polish and something floral, though I couldn't tell if it was real flowers or just the ghost of perfume.
"Your quarters," Maria said, opening a set of double doors.
I stepped inside and froze. The bedroom was enormous, with ceilings so high they seemed to vanish into shadows. A four-poster bed draped in silk sheets dominated the space, its canopy the color of champagne. A fireplace crackled at the far end, its mantle crowded with crystal ornaments. Beyond that, double glass doors opened to a private balcony overlooking gardens lit faintly by ground lamps.
It was beautiful. It was also wrong.
It felt too prepared, too deliberate, as if someone had imagined what a woman like me would want and arranged it all in advance. I suspected the Don had given the order before I even said "I do."
"You'll find everything you need in the wardrobe and vanity," Maria said. "Dinner is served at eight. The Don does not like to be kept waiting."
And then she left, the door clicking softly shut, but the sound might as well have been a bolt sliding into place.
I stood there for what felt like forever, staring at the room. It was everything my father's debts had denied me—silk, gold, and comfort without compromise. But the longer I looked, the heavier it felt, as though the air itself was infused with invisible chains.
I walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the carved wooden doors. Inside was a collection of dresses, shoes, and jewelry that could have filled an entire boutique. Most were in deep jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, and ruby—the kind of colors that announced wealth without needing to shout. And then I noticed something else: there wasn't a single pair of jeans, no simple sneakers, and no casual clothes at all. This was a wardrobe designed to keep someone looking beautiful, delicate, and perhaps a little bit powerless.
Dinner was a performance. The dining hall was absurdly long, with a polished mahogany table that could seat twenty. But tonight, there were only two place settings—one at the head and one to his right. I was seated at the latter, close enough to feel his presence but far enough that the space between us seemed intentional.
He ate with the slow precision of someone who had never been rushed in his life. I could barely taste my food, too aware of his gaze flicking to me every so often.
"You'll have everything you need here," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "No debts, no worries. You'll be protected."
"Protected from what?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His fork paused midair. "From the people who might want to hurt you. And from yourself, if necessary."
It was both a promise and a warning. My skin prickled.
When dinner ended, I retreated to my room, only to find Maria waiting. "The Don has arranged for you to have a personal phone," she said, handing me a sleek black device. "It's restricted to certain numbers. You can call the kitchen, the Don's office, and me. That's all."
A prison in silk. That's what this was. The bed was soft enough to swallow me whole, the sheets cool against my skin, but sleep refused to come. Every creak of the old house and every whisper of wind against the windows kept me awake. I wasn't afraid of ghosts—I was afraid of the living.
Over the next few days, the rhythm of life in the mansion unfolded in patterns I couldn't ignore. Breakfasts were always taken in a sunlit room with windows that faced the gardens, but the Don rarely joined me. When he did, conversation was minimal—a question about whether I slept well, a comment about the weather. He never asked about my father or about my life before. It was as if the wedding had erased everything that came before it.
The staff were polite but guarded, their smiles fleeting and never quite reaching their eyes. I learned quickly that the mansion had two kinds of silence: the comfortable, natural kind that filled the library and the garden paths, and the sharp, tense kind that swept through the halls when the Don's temper was near.
One night, unable to sleep, I wandered down to the kitchen for water. The hallways were dim, lit only by wall sconces. I heard voices from behind a closed door—low, urgent voices. One of them was his.
"…keep her here until it's settled," he was saying. "No mistakes."
"Boss, she's stubborn," another voice replied. "What if she—"
"She won't," the Don cut in. "She'll learn."
The conversation stopped when footsteps approached the door. I ran back to my room, heart pounding, and dove into bed, pulling the covers over me just as the handle of my door rattled softly. Then silence.
In that moment, I knew for certain: I wasn't just living in luxury. I was being kept. And the question that kept me awake until dawn wasn't why—it was for how long.