(Isabella POV)
Rico handed me off at the top of the stairs like I was a package being delivered. The woman waiting there looked maybe forty, with dark hair pinned in a low knot and a dress that cost more than my father made in a month. Her heels clicked sharp against marble.
"Elena." She offered her name like a fact, not an introduction. "You'll follow me."
Her tone was brisk. Not cruel. Just efficient. The voice of someone who knew her place and had survived by staying in it.
I followed her through a hallway lined with oil paintings. Heavy gold frames, wide-eyed saints, battlefields frozen mid-slaughter. No family photos. Nothing that suggested anyone actually lived here.
"Your quarters." She pushed open a door at the far end.
The room was larger than our entire apartment. A bed draped in cream silk. A vanity with a mirror that probably cost what my mother's treatments did. Closets already filled with dresses I hadn't chosen, in sizes that would fit me perfectly.
Everything gleamed. Polished. Prepared.
And when I stepped inside, the door clicked behind me.
I tested the handle. Locked from the outside.
A laugh escaped me, dry and sharp. "A gilded cage."
Elena's expression didn't change. "You'll find everything you need. Clothes, toiletries, books. If you require something else, you ask. It will be delivered."
"Delivered. Like I'm a prisoner."
"Collateral." She corrected me like she was teaching a child the difference between similar words.
I sank onto the bed. The sheets were soft, smooth, cool against my palms. The kind of fabric I'd only seen in store windows downtown. It felt obscene under my fingertips, all this luxury wrapped around captivity.
Through a gap in the curtains, I caught movement below. Two men in the courtyard, guns resting casual at their sides. One muttered something in Italian. The other answered with what sounded like a code word.
Luxury above, weapons below. The message was clear.
I looked back at Elena. "And how long am I expected to play bird in a cage?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Until Don Torrino decides otherwise."
The name landed heavy between us. I kept my face blank, but something in my chest tightened at the sound of it. Don Torrino. Already he was becoming something larger than the man I'd met, something that existed in the space between fear and fascination.
Elena moved toward the door, keys jingling at her hip. She paused with her hand on the handle.
"There is one other thing. You will dine with him each evening."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"With Leonardo?"
"With the Don." Elena's correction was automatic. "Seven o'clock. Sharp. He doesn't tolerate lateness."
"And what if I refuse?"
Elena's gaze met mine. For the first time, something almost like sympathy flickered in her eyes. "Then you'll learn why no one refuses Don Torrino twice."
She left before I could respond, the lock clicking into place with finality.
I sat alone in my beautiful prison, surrounded by silk and luxury I'd never asked for. The room smelled faintly of roses and something else underneath. Gun oil, maybe. Or just the lingering scent of violence that seemed to cling to everything Leonardo touched.
I stood and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to get a better view. The grounds stretched out below, meticulously maintained. Gardens that probably required a full-time staff. A fountain in the courtyard that looked like it belonged in a museum. And everywhere, men in dark suits, watching, waiting.
One of them glanced up. Our eyes met for a second before he looked away, scanning for threats that wouldn't come from inside the house.
I was the threat inside the house. Or I could be, if I chose.
The closet called to me. I opened it, running my hands over dresses in silk and wool, designer labels I recognized from magazines. Everything in my size. Everything in colors that would look good on me. Dark jewel tones, blacks, deep reds.
He'd had these prepared. Before I even agreed. Before I even knew I'd be here.
Leonardo Torrino had been planning this.
The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it sent something electric down my spine. He'd wanted me here badly enough to prepare for it. To stock a cage with luxury and wait to see if I'd step inside.
And I had.
I moved to the vanity, examining the items laid out there. Expensive perfumes. Makeup in shades that would complement my skin tone. A hairbrush with a silver handle that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home.
Everything chosen. Everything controlled.
I picked up one of the perfume bottles, uncapping it to smell the contents. Rich, dark, sensual. The kind of scent a man like Leonardo would choose for a woman. The kind that would cling to skin and linger in rooms long after she left.
The kind that would mark me as his.
I set it down without using it.
In the vanity drawer, I found more. Jewelry. Gold chains, delicate earrings, a bracelet that looked antique. Nothing flashy. Everything tasteful, expensive, chosen by someone who understood the difference between wealth and ostentation.
At the bottom of the drawer, my fingers brushed paper. I pulled it out. A handwritten note on heavy cardstock.
Dinner is at seven. Dress accordingly. - L
His handwriting was sharp, precise. The kind of penmanship they didn't teach anymore. Old world. Elegant. Controlled.
I looked at the clock on the wall. Five-thirty.
An hour and a half to prepare for dinner with a man who'd bought me with a blood contract. A man who'd locked me in a gilded cage and expected me to emerge grateful for the luxury of my captivity.
A man who'd prepared this room like he was preparing for a bride, not a prisoner.
I stood in front of the mirror, studying my reflection. The girl who'd left her mother's bedside looked back at me. Dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Hair damp from rain. Clothes rumpled from travel.
But underneath the exhaustion, something else looked back. Something that had signed her name in blood and walked into a predator's den with her chin up.
Something that wasn't afraid.
I had an hour and a half to decide who I wanted to be when I sat across from Leonardo Torrino at his table. The frightened collateral he expected, or something else entirely.
The thought made me smile.
Seven o'clock. Sharp.
He didn't tolerate lateness.
We'd see about that.