Page 11

Walking back to her room, I roll my shoulders to release some tension. I unlock her door and step inside.
Melania sits cross-legged on the bed, her posture rigid and alert. The moment I enter her eyes lock onto mine with pure venom. Her fingers curl into the bedspread like she's physically restraining herself from attacking me. The sight is oddly entertaining—this tiny, elegant woman looking ready to go for my jugular.
"Dinner," I say flatly, placing the sandwich and water on the small table near the bed.
She doesn't move, doesn't even glance at the food. Just keeps her eyes burning into me with silent malevolence.
"You should eat," I add, crossing my arms. "Hunger strikes won't work here."
"How thoughtful," she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you always treat your kidnap victims to such fine meals?"
I feel my lips twitch with something dangerously close to amusement. "Only the special ones."
Her eyes roll and I can practically see her counting to ten in her head.
"The bathroom has everything you need," I say, nodding toward the adjoining door. "Towels. Soap. Even a toothbrush."
"How civilized of you," she spits.
I leave the room without another word, letting her barbed comment hang in the air. Her anger doesn't bother me. I've dealt with far worse than a spoiled princess throwing a tantrum.
The security room is down the hall—a converted storage space with steel-reinforced walls. I punch in the code and stepinside, locking the door behind me. The soft blue glow from six monitors illuminates the otherwise dark space.
I drop into the chair, eyes scanning each screen methodically. The setup is simple but effective—high-definition cameras covering every angle of the property. One shows Melania's room, where she's now pacing like a caged animal, ignoring the sandwich I left. Another displays the empty hallway outside her door. The remaining screens show the front entrance, back door, perimeter fence, and the small yard.
This place is a ghost property that doesn't exist on paper. Damiano made sure of that when we acquired it through seven different shell companies. No connection to the Feretti name anywhere. Even if Raymond and Antonio tear apart every Feretti holding in the city, they'll never find this place.
On the monitor, Melania finally approaches the food. She examines the sealed packaging carefully before reluctantly opening it. She takes a small bite, then another, hunger apparently winning over suspicion.
I lean back in the chair, watching her. Something doesn't add up. Antonio's precious daughter was already running when I intercepted her. Running from what? From who? The arranged marriage, obviously, but there's more to it. The way she demands that bag and USB—she's hiding something significant.
My phone vibrates with a text from Enzo:Lombardi offering reward for information. Five million.
I snort. Pocket change. If Antonio thinks that's enough to buy betrayal he's more desperate than I thought.
CHAPTER 4
Ipick at the last crust of the sandwich, my stomach satisfied despite my determination to reject anything he offers. My mind drifts back to when this nightmare truly began. Three months ago, when I returned from London with my cybersecurity degree, Father suddenly wanted me at his side for every social function. At first I thought he was finally taking an interest in my accomplishments, finally seeing me as more than just his pretty, marriageable daughter.
How naive I was.
It was all about Raymond Stone. The first time I met him was at a charity gala. I remember the moment perfectly—Father's hand at my back, guiding me across the ballroom toward a circle of powerful men.
"Melania, this is Raymond Stone," Father had said, his voice carrying that rare note of deference I'd seldom heard.
Raymond turned and something in his eyes made my skin crawl instantly. Tall, impeccably dressed in a custom suit. Silver-streaked dark hair styled to project distinguished authority. His smile never reached his eyes—cold, assessing, like I was a new toy he was considering purchasing.
"Antonio, you've been hiding this treasure," Raymond said, taking my hand and pressing his lips to it a moment too long.
His fingers were soft—the hands of someone who ordered violence rather than committed it himself. Everything about him was carefully crafted: the political pin on his lapel, the charitable foundation logo on his cufflinks, the wedding band he still wore despite being widowed for years.
To the world, Raymond Stone was the pinnacle of respectability—a widower devoted to public service, championing laws to protect families and children. The irony made me sick when I later discovered what those "family values" concealed.
That night, I caught him watching me from across the room multiple times. Not with the typical male appreciation I was used to deflecting, but with something colder, more artful. As though I was an asset being appraised.
I remember how Father paraded me at event after event, always making sure Raymond had access to me.
The first time Raymond asked me out was at another charity gala, this one for children's education—the hypocrisy of which makes my stomach turn now.