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Bringing it closer, I inhale its sweet fragrance, and suddenly I'm twelve years old again, standing in the gardens of our family villa in Tuscany.

Antonio Jr. and I had snuck away from another of father's business gatherings, hiding among the flowers while the adults discussed territory and money.

We'd made a game of identifying the different blooms, competing to see who remembered more of our mother's gardening lessons before she passed.

"My brother would love this," I say, picturing the look on his face as Dante shifts behind me. He doesn't say anything, but I feel his gaze locked on me. "He'd probably name all the plants wrong just to make me laugh, then sprawl on one of these benches with a book while I explored every corner."

My fingers tighten on the orchid's stem. The flower's perfume suddenly feels cloying, suffocating.

This beautiful prison is just another reminder of everything I've lost.

My freedom, my family, my choice.

"Why are you showing me this?" I ask, turning to face Dante who's just standing there looking at me with an expression I can't pick.

"So you understand completely," he says, approaching me with slow steps. "There is no escape now, Francesca. Not from the penthouse. Not from the roof. Not from me."

His proximity is suffocating, his body radiating heat and menace in equal measure.

"I have been watching you. Searching for an exit. An out. But by now, you should see that every path leads back to me. Every window, every door, every stairwell… it's all secured beyond your capability to breach."

"You've thought of everything."

"I've thought of nothing else for weeks," he admits, his voice dropping lower. "For years, I've been planning every detail of this life. Of your containment. Of my rise to power."

"All for you to be left disappointed," I promise him.

His smile is chilling. "We'll see."

As he guides me back to the elevator, his hand rests at the small of my back. It's a touch so small, but so possessive, so commanding that the touch burns through the silk of my dress.

Chapter Five

Francesca

The tour continues through spaces I hadn't yet discovered.

A private cinema with leather recliners, a state-of-the-art gym, and most surprising, an extra greenhouse area with plants I immediately understand why they're not exposed on the rooftop garden.

"You're growing cannabis," I observe, the distinctive leaves unmistakable. "And in a quite extensive operation for personal use."

Dante seems amused by my recognition. "My interests in horticulture are diversified. This particular strain is worth more than gold in certain circles across Europe. The Dutch in particular enjoy the medicinal properties beyond recreational use."

I brush my fingers across a leaf, its texture like velvet. "And still, it's entirely illegal."

"Laws are suggestions for people without power," he replies, watching me closely. "Another lesson for you to learn."

The greenhouse connects to a service corridor. As Dante discusses the specifications of his 'horticultural' hobby, my mind calculates distances, maps escape routes, formulates possibilities should I ever need them.

"Time for the next part of our tour," he says, his hand returning to the small of my back, guiding me through another doorway.

We enter a room that, again… makes my breath catch.

Unlike the bright, plant-filled greenhouse, this space is deliberately dark.

Black walls, dim lighting, and furnishings that leave no question about their purpose. A massive bed dominates one wall, its silken sheets the color of blood. Various restraints hang from tastefully concealed hooks, and directly opposite me, a cabinet stands partially open, revealing what can only be implements of pleasure and pain.

I can't look away despite my better judgment.