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"She's not exactly trusting me at the moment," I point out, watching her on the monitor as she paces the room like a caged animal. "She thinks I might kill her."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Damiano's voice rises. "This isn't about trust. She needs to learn her fucking place." I pull the phone away from my ear. "She wanted to escape her marriage and destroy her family. That's what the fuck we want too. So use it and make it happen." There's a pause and when he speaks again, it’s with that dangerous edge I know well. "Unless you can't handle a twenty-one-year-old woman?"
My jaw clenches. "I can handle her."
"Then do it. Get that evidence and confirm what she's claiming. If Antonio and Raymond are really harvesting organs we can use that to destroy them both."
I end the call without another word, my eyes still fixed on the security feed. Melania has stopped pacing and now sits on the bed, twisting a ring around her finger.
Damiano's right. This isn't about developing trust bonds. It's about survival and opportunity. If she has the evidence she claims she has, that could bring down Antonio Lombardi and Raymond Stone, we need to see it. Now.
I move through the kitchen, staring at the stainless steel appliances like they're foreign objects. Cooking isn't exactly inmy skill set. Growing up, Mamma said a young man needed proper nutrition, not whatever bachelor meals I might have attempted. Then when I joined the Ferettis, there was Ettore, treating the kitchen like his personal kingdom where others were barely tolerated.
I open the refrigerator, scanning its contents. There's enough food to survive I guess. The problem isn't supplies. It's knowing what the fuck to do with them.
Breakfast. How hard can it be?
I grab eggs, thinking scrambled is probably the safest option. There's bread for toast, some fruit. Coffee I can manage—that's one thing I've mastered out of necessity and I think she liked the one I made for her.
Ten minutes later I'm staring at slightly burnt toast, eggs that are somehow both undercooked and overcooked in different spots, and coffee that's probably the only edible thing on the tray. Fuck.
I could call Ettore but the old man would never let me hear the end of it. I can dismantle and reassemble a Beretta blindfolded, but apparently scrambling eggs is beyond my capabilities.
I try the eggs. Well, you can swallow it so let's go with that. Besides, we're not at a fucking hotel.
CHAPTER 7
Ithink through my options. The walls of this prison close in with each passing hour. I can't just sit here and wait for whatever fate Alessio and the Ferettis decide for me.
What would Mom have done? She'd tell me to be smart, to use what I have.
And what I have is information. Knowledge. The one thing I've always been good at.
I pace the room, formulating my argument. The Ferettis clearly want something from me—otherwise I'd already be dead. Since they're against Raymond and my father, our interests align more than they differ.
I hear footsteps approaching in the hallway. My pulse quickens as I smooth down my dress and take a steadying breath. The lock clicks and Alessio appears in the doorway, balancing a tray of food in one hand.
The smell of coffee reaches me first—at least that will be good, if it’s like the one he brought me earlier. The rest of the food however is... questionable. The eggs appear simultaneously raw and dried up, and the toast is charred around the edges.
I repress a smile. "I want to work with you," I say before he can speak, my voice calm despite the nerves shimmering in my stomach.
His eyebrows lift as he sets the tray down on a table by the window.
"Against my father and Raymond," I continue, watching his face for any reaction. "I have no illusions about my situation. I'm your prisoner. But I'd rather be useful than just sit here waiting for whatever you decide to do with me."
I hold my breath, waiting for Alessio's response. His dark eyes study me with that unnerving intensity that makes me feel completely exposed.
"Is that so?" he asks, a graveled tone that seems to vibrate the air between us.
A shiver runs up my spine although I’m not aware of feeling afraid. I try to focus on the conversation but my mind keeps snagging on irrelevant details—the way his broad shoulders fill out the black T-shirt, how his stubbled jaw flexes when he's thinking, the controlled power in his movements as he sets down the tray.
"Yes," I manage, but much breathier than I intended. "The evidence I have... is comprehensive."
He takes a step closer and I fight the urge to step back. He smells of expensive cologne and something darker, something uniquely him.
"And why would you betray your family?" His voice drops even lower, almost a husk.
That voice. It does something to me I can't explain—like fingers trailing down my spine, raising goosebumps along my arms. I've never reacted this way to anyone before. It's unsettling how my body responds to him without my permission.