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Paola shrugs innocently. “Maybe. But I know he won’t mind.” She taps again, adding an absurdly expensive ball gown to the cart.

Ball gown? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Stroll around this mansion, looking like Cinderella waiting for an Uber?

I hesitate, ready to flip back to the page of oversized sweatshirts. I’m used to chain stores, clearance racks, and price tags that don’t make me want to break into a cold sweat. But if my Warden wants me to spend his money…

“Fine,” I mutter, adding leggings and practical clothes. But Paola keeps going, throwing in silk dresses and shiny heels like we’re shopping for the damn Met Gala.

“You’re really having fun with this, huh?”

Her grin is downright wicked. “You have no idea.”

I glance at the screen again, she’s at some bougie lingerie store, and I nearly die on the spot. Of course, she found high-end lingerie. Of course, she’s adding lace and satin bras to the cart like they’re necessities.

I cross my arms. “So, apparently, I need designer panties too?”

“Obviously,” she says, not even looking up. “You can’t just wear any old thing under the clothes I’m ordering you.”

I roll my eyes, refusing to look at whatever risqué shit she’s picking out. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.”

Paola smirks but keeps scrolling. I let her do her thing, but my mind drifts. I should be focused on escaping, but instead, I’m stuck on my stupid Warden. The way he’s controlling every part of my life now—not just where I go or what I do, but down to the clothes on my back.

Something sours in my stomach, and I hate it. I hate that he makes me feel kept, like a pet he’s dressing up. And then, a worse thought sneaks in. Does he do this for all the women he brings home? I shift in my chair, trying to ignore the thought, but it festers, and I can’t get past it. It’s irrational, and I shouldn’t care. But I do, way more than I should.

Paola glances up, catching my expression shift. “What’s wrong?”

I fake a smile. “Nothing.” She doesn’t push, just keeps tapping away, but I’m not the queen of overthinking for nothing. My mind keeps circling back, fixating on something I don’t want to admit. I exhale, forcing the words out before I can stop myself. “Does he do this for all the women he brings home?”

Paola freezes mid-swipe, her manicured finger hovering above the screen. She looks at me like I’ve justasked if the sky is purple. “Oh, no,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “There hasn’t been anyone since Bria.”

Bria. Bria. Bria. I say the name over and over in my head, like I’ll suddenly know who she is. My stomach knots and my pulse spikes the more I think of her name. “Who the hell is Bria?” Crap, I think I just said that out loud.

Paola doesn’t miss a beat, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“Mr. Gualtiero’s girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. I’m a homewrecking whore. He saw me naked. Touched me… touched me there, and he had a girlfriend? That slimy bastard.

My skin feels tight, my muscles are stiff as anger flares through me like a match to gasoline. I force my hands to stay still, refusing to let Paola see me unravel. I clamp my lips together, but inside, I am seething.

Paola must sense the shift because her expression softens. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Bria was his girlfriend, but she passed away.”

The anger falls apart, replaced with a sudden wave of confusion. Passed away? A lump lodges in my throat. I don’t understand why it hits me so hard, but it does. I swallow past the tightness in my chest. “How did she die?”

Paola clears her throat. I can tell she wants to say something, but she hesitates. “That’s something only Mr. Gualtiero can answer.”

A chill races down my spine. I know something terrible happened to her. A million awful thoughts hit me at once, each one worse than the last. He killed her. And now, he’s going to kill me, too.

I go rigid, my body paralyzed in my chair. Every nerve in me screams to move, to run, but I can’t. I’m stuck, my brain spiraling into something dark and helpless.

Paola, blissfully unaware, keeps flipping through pages on the tablet. Completely unfazed by the fact that her boss is a fucking murderer. Or maybe… she doesn’t know.

I force myself to ask again, even though every nerve in my body screams not to. My voice is barely above a whisper. “How did she die?”

Paola’s face shifts; she gets it now, finally. Something in her expression softens like she suddenly understands the mess going on inside my head. “Oh, he didn’t—” She stops herself, shifting in her seat like she just realized she said too much. “But that is for Mr. Gualtiero to tell you, not me.”

Oh, he didn’t kill her?I don’t believe you. Not for a second. I know what happened. And I don’t need Alessio or Paola to confirm it. I always knew he was dangerous. Alessio’s a killer, all mafia men are, aren’t they?

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