Page 7

Chapter Seven

Viviana

The morning light filters through the barred windows of the penthouse, casting long shadows across the room.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, trying to steady the swirling nausea in my stomach. It started yesterday—waves of queasiness that wouldn’t relent, leaving me lightheaded and exhausted.

“It’s just the stress,” I mutter to myself, running a hand over my face. “Lack of sleep. That’s all it is.”

How could it not be? My life has been turned upside down for the past few weeks.

I’ve been dragged into a dangerous game that isn’t mine. Stress would be a generous explanation for the way my body feels. It’s like it’s rebelling against me.

I take a deep breath and push myself up, determined not to let this weakness win. But as I walk toward the bathroom, my knees buckle slightly, forcing me to grab the dresser for balance.

Damn it.

A sharp vibration from my phone startles me. I glance at the screen and see an unfamiliar number, but something about it makes my stomach churn even more. Against my better judgment, I answer.

“Viviana.”

My father’s voice cuts through the line, low and frantic.

“What the hell are you doing calling me?” I snap, my grip tightening on the phone. “How do you even have this number? It’s only for Romeo—”

“Listen to me,” he interrupts, his words rushing out. “I didn’t have a choice, Viviana. Romeo—he’s ruthless. He won’t stop until I’m dead. You have to talk to him. Convince him to let me go, to let me leave Milan. I won’t bother him ever again. He has you now, as we agreed. I don’t need any of the other things that he was supposed to give me in exchange for you.”

His desperation bleeds through the line, but it doesn’t spark the sympathy it once might have. My stomach twists for an entirely different reason now—with a mix of anger and betrayal.

“You’re unbelievable,” I hiss, pacing the room despite the dizziness threatening to pull me down. “You dragged me into this mess, handed me over to him like some bargaining chip, and now you want me to save you?”

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he pleads, his voice trembling. “You’re my daughter, Viviana. I care about you—”

“Don’t you dare,” I snap, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare act like you did this for me. You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.”

His silence on the other end of the line is deafening, but I can hear his shallow breathing, the fear that still somehow fuels his manipulation.

“I can’t help you,” I say finally, my voice cold and unyielding. “You made your choices. Now you get to live with them.”

“Viviana, please—”

I end the call, my hand trembling as I lower the phone.

The nausea rises again, but this time, it’s not just my body reacting. It’s the weight of everything pressing down on me—my father’s betrayal, Romeo’s hold on me, the walls of this gilded cage closing in.

I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady myself. Whatever’s coming, I’ll face it. Alone.

The weight of my father’s call lingers as I pace the penthouse, the nausea swirling in my stomach matching the storm inside my head.

His voice, frantic and manipulative, plays in my mind over and over again. His pleas, his excuses—it’s the same pattern I’ve been caught in for years, and I can’t take it anymore.

Romeo.

He’s the center of all this, the one pulling the strings now. If my father is such a liability, why hasn’t Romeo dealt with him yet? Why am I still here, stuck in this gilded cage weeks later, while the man responsible for ruining both our lives is allowed to breathe freely?

I don’t hesitate. The anger bubbling inside me propels me down the hall toward Romeo’s study. The door is slightly ajar, and I push it open without knocking, startling him from whatever business he’s engrossed in.

“Why haven’t you killed him yet?” I demand, my voice sharp and cutting.

Romeo looks up from his desk, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, though his expression remains calm. “Good morning to you too, Viviana,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “What a pleasant start to the day.”

“Don’t deflect,” I snap, stepping further into the room. “My dad. Why is he still alive?”

He regards me for a moment, his gaze calculating. “Killing him outright doesn’t serve my purposes.”

“Your purposes?” I echo, incredulous. “You mean your sadistic need to drag this out, to make everyone around you suffer?”

His calm falters for a split second, a flicker of something darker flashing in his eyes. “Do you want me to kill him, Viviana? Would that satisfy you?”

I falter, my throat tightening. “No. I want answers. You claim to be this powerful man who can get anything he wants with a snap of his fingers, yet you’re playing games with him. Why?”

Romeo stands slowly, his presence filling the room as he approaches me. “Your father is bait,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Every move he makes draws Salvatore closer. Killing him now would only scatter the rats before I can crush them all.”

I shake my head, disgusted. “So, you’re using him, just like you’re using me.”

He smirks faintly, his expression maddeningly calm. “I use the tools at my disposal, Viviana. It’s called strategy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“You’re cruel,” I spit, the words laced with venom. “You think you’re some grand mastermind, but all you’re doing is playing God with people’s lives. Do you even see how much damage you’ve caused?”

His smirk vanishes, replaced by a hardness that makes my stomach twist. “You want to talk about cruelty?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft. “If Salvatore had you, you wouldn’t last a day. You’d see what true monsters look like. Your father offered you to him as well, you know. Either of us could have had you…for the right price.”

I glare at him, refusing to let his words scare me. Some small part of me, however, the girl who once believed in her father, is crushed to hear this. Having just spoken with my father, having heard him say himself that he sold me to Romeo, makes me believe what he is saying now.

“You think you’re any better than him?” I say with enough anger in my voice to hide my pain.

“I’m the only thing standing between you and them,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly.

The air between us feels heavy, charged with unspoken emotions that neither of us is willing to name. My breathing quickens as his dark gaze pins me in place, and I hate the way my body reacts to his presence.

I know that he’s probably right, and I’m struggling not to feel defeated.

At the gallery, I had felt like my life was just starting to unfold as I had already dreamed it would. I was going to be a well-known artist, I was going to be free of my father.

Now, I’m right back where I started life, right back in the hole my father dug for us both.

The air between us feels heavy. My stomach twists, my emotions in a tangle of disgust and something far more dangerous—desire.

The heat of his presence makes my pulse race, and I’m acutely aware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between us.

I’ve given in to him so many times since he brought me here. All he has to do is provoke me, make me want to argue with him, and then suddenly, we’re falling into bed together.

Each time, I say to myself that it won’t happen again, that I won’t be so foolish the next time.

Each time, I’m wrong.

I try to focus on my anger, but my thoughts betray me, dragging me back to the memory of his hands on me, the bruises still faintly visible on my skin from the shower tiles this morning as he had his way with me in the shower.

It’s not even the amazing, shocking, visceral pleasure of sex with Romeo.

There’s something about him that calls to me, like my DNA is responding to his, like I’m meant to be with him.

I blush as I think about two days ago, when he fucked me on the balcony, my hair flying in the breeze, my stomach pressing into the metal railing as he took me from behind.

“Do you know for sure that your father is still alive?” His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, low and sharp. “What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

The question hits me like a slap, and I flounder, my mind scrambling for an answer. He’s too close, his intensity overwhelming, and I can feel the weight of his suspicion bearing down on me.

“I overheard you,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can think them through. “The other day, when you were on the phone. You mentioned using him as bait.”

His eyes narrow as he studies me. The silence stretches out, and I can’t tell if he believes me, or if he’s waiting for me to confess my lie. My palms grow clammy as I struggle to hold his gaze, willing myself not to fidget.

Finally, he tilts his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Eavesdropping, Viviana? I thought you had better manners than that.”

Relief washes over me, but I don’t let it show. I straighten my spine, crossing my arms in an attempt to look unimpressed. “It’s hard not to overhear when you don’t exactly lower your voice.”

He chuckles softly, the sound dark and unnerving. “Careful, Viviana. There are things you’re better off not hearing.”

My heart is still racing, but I force myself to maintain my defiant facade. He steps back slightly, giving me just enough space to breathe again, though his presence lingers like a shadow.

“Your father’s survival doesn’t change anything,” he says, his tone calmer now, but no less commanding. “He’s digging his own grave, and when the time comes, I’ll deal with him. Until then, I suggest you stay out of matters you don’t understand.”

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms to ground myself. “I’m not one of your pawns, Romeo.”

“No,” he says, his eyes glinting with something I can’t name. “You’re much more interesting than that.”

His words hang in the air, and I hate the way they make my skin prickle, like a warning and a promise all at once.

***

The penthouse feels colder than usual as I sit on the edge of the bed the next morning, wrapped in a thick robe to ward off the chills coursing through me. My head pounds, my stomach churns, and every movement feels like wading through water.

I’ve been brushing my illness off as stress or exhaustion, but now it’s impossible to ignore. Something is wrong.

I hear Romeo’s footsteps in the hall, steady and deliberate, before he appears in the doorway. His sharp eyes sweep over me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something almost resembling concern.

“You look like hell,” he says, his tone more observational than unkind.

“Thanks,” I mutter, clutching the robe tighter around me. “I think it’s the flu.”

He crosses the room, his presence as commanding as always, and leans against the wall near the window. “The flu?”

“Yes,” I snap, irritated by the way he always seems to pick apart everything I say. “I’m nauseous, I can’t eat, I’m lightheaded—classic flu symptoms.”

Romeo raises an eyebrow. “Are you willing to let me do something to help? Or are you just going to argue with me like you always do?”

I glare at him, though the effort makes my head throb. “You brought me here. The least you can do is make sure I don’t die under your watch.”

His lips twitch into not quite a smirk but something close enough to make me want to throw something at him. “I was actually teasing, even if it didn’t seem like it,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll have a doctor come by.”

Before I can protest, he’s already speaking into the phone, arranging the visit with his usual efficiency. It’s maddening how easily he takes control, as though my life is just another part of his empire.

When the doctor arrives, I’m ushered into a smaller sitting room for privacy. Romeo stands just outside the door, his looming presence a reminder that even this isn’t truly my space.

The doctor is professional, her demeanor calm and clinical as she takes my vitals and asks about my symptoms. When she reaches for her bag to prepare a prescription, I seize the moment.

“Can you do one more test?” I ask, lowering my voice and glancing at the door to ensure it’s still closed.

The doctor pauses, her brows knitting together in curiosity. “Of course. What kind of test?”

“A pregnancy test,” I say quickly, the words barely louder than a whisper. My heart pounds as I force myself to meet her gaze. “Please. Don’t mention it to him.”

Her expression softens slightly, and she nods, reaching into her bag. “I’ll be discreet,” she assures me, preparing to draw some blood.

As she takes it, my hands tremble. I tell myself this is just a precaution, that it’s impossible. Even so, the nagging thought won’t leave my mind.

If it’s true, everything will change. And I have no idea what it will mean.