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I sip the wine he's selected for us tonight. Once again, it's an obscenely expensive Bordeaux that tastes like liquid money against my tongue.

The table between us gleams with silver and crystal, a display of wealth as deliberate as everything else in this prison.

"The Caravaggio exhibit at the National Gallery was disappointing," Dante says, his voice unexpectedly conversational. "They displayed 'Salome with the Head of John the Baptist' under insufficient lighting. The shadows are crucial to understanding the artist's intent."

I look up, surprised at the casual observation. "You appreciate Caravaggio?"

"I appreciate masterful depictions of violence," he replies, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "The contrast between beauty and brutality. The sacred and profane."

The butler appears at my elbow, silent as a ghost as he refills my wine glass. Three staff members hover at the room's periphery, faceless in their black uniforms, existing only to anticipate Dante's needs.

"I wrote my thesis on Baroque art," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can consider its wisdom. "I've always thought Caravaggio understood something essential about human nature. The way darkness and light coexist. The thin line between ecstasy and agony."

Dante's eyes sharpen with interest. "I'm surprised your father permitted studies like that. I would have expected something more... practical."

"Economics was my official major. Art history was my rebellion." I take another sip, the wine warming my veins. "My small defiance in a life scripted by Antonio Castellano."

"You are a princess with hidden depths," Dante murmurs, his gaze lingering on my face.

It's been like this for days.

The conversation flowing with surprising ease as we progress through each meal. Tonight it's delicate squash blossoms stuffed with herbed ricotta. Rare steak with truffle butter melting into its center.

Finally, we're served a chocolate dessert so decadent it borders on sinful.

As I savor the rich sweetness, I catch myself almost... relaxing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

This man kidnapped me. Branded me like cattle. Humiliated me before his associates and spanked me to within an inch of my life.

And yet here I sit, discussing Nietzsche and Caravaggio over fine wine as if we're on some perverse date rather than a captor indulging his prey.

My eyes drift to the heavy silver steak knife beside my plate.

I've contemplated stealing it, adding it to the one I'd taken during my first week here – the one still hidden beneath my mattress, untouched but always there. A small promise of potential freedom.

That week night, while completely terrified and furious, I'd slipped the knife from the dinner tray one night when no one was looking. I'd planned to use it immediately, to strike the moment Dante entered my room again.

But something had held me back.

Practicality, perhaps.

Or the certainty that he was too dangerous, too prepared for such an obvious attack.

So the knife has remained hidden, a silent and desperate insurance policy.

"More wine?" Dante offers, lifting the bottle.

I smile, leaving the knife untouched. "Yes. Please."

"The meal was excellent," I say, folding my napkin beside my plate. "Thank you."

Dante inclines his head, acceptance of my gratitude offered like a king receiving tribute. "Even prisoners deserve certain treats, Francesca. Especially when they're... behaving."

He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with an elegant flick of his wrists. "Let's go. I'll take you back to your room."

I rise, my heart suddenly thundering with unexpected anxiety. "Of course."