Page 15 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

I decided to become the worst captive in history.

If Rafe Conti thought I'd be some docile, grateful prisoner, he was about to get a rude awakening. I might be trapped, but I wasn't broken. Not even close.

The drug had finally worn off, leaving me clear-headed and furious.

I'd spent the first few hours exploring my prison—a luxurious bedroom suite with an attached bathroom that would have been impressive if it weren't, you know, a cell.

The windows were sealed shut, the door locked from the outside, and there wasn't so much as a butter knife I could use as a weapon.

But I didn't need weapons. I had something better: pure, unadulterated rage.

When the door finally opened again, I was ready. I stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, chin lifted, every inch the O'Sullivan my father had raised me to be. Defiant. Unbroken. Dangerous.

Rafe entered carrying a tray, his expression neutral as he surveyed the room. He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He looked like he was dropping by for a casual visit, not checking on his kidnapping victim.

"I brought you dinner," he said, setting the tray on a small table near the window. "You must be hungry."

I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at him with all the hatred I could muster.

He seemed unfazed, arranging the silverware beside the plate with meticulous precision. "It's salmon. I remember you ordered it at Marcello's last month. You seemed to enjoy it."

A chill ran through me. He'd been watching me for that long? Had known my habits, my preferences, my routines for weeks?

"I'm not hungry," I said, my voice flat.

"You should eat anyway." He gestured to the chair. "The sedative can deplete your system. You need to replenish."

"What I need is to go home."

He sighed, as if I were being unreasonable. As if I were the problem in this scenario. "This is your home now, Grace. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."

Something snapped inside me. In three quick strides, I crossed to the table and swept the tray to the floor. The plate shattered, sending salmon and vegetables scattering across the hardwood. The water glass followed, exploding in a spray of liquid and glass.

"Fuck you," I spat. "And fuck your dinner."

Rafe didn't flinch. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't move a muscle except to lift his gaze from the mess on the floor to my face.

"Feel better?" he asked mildly.

"I'll feel better when I'm out of here and you're in prison."

His lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's not going to happen, Grace. But if destroying things makes you feel more in control, by all means." He gestured to the room. "Break whatever you like. I'll replace it."

His calm was infuriating. I wanted him to yell, to show anger, to reveal the monster I knew lurked beneath that controlled exterior. Instead, he watched me with the patient indulgence of someone dealing with a child's tantrum.

"I'll clean this up," he said, turning toward the door. "When I come back, we can try again."

"Don't bother," I called after him. "I'm not eating anything you bring me. I'd rather starve."

He paused at the doorway, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "That would be a shame. But it's your choice."

The door closed behind him, the locks engaging with a finality that made my stomach clench. I stood amid the wreckage of the meal, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

Round one to Conti.

But the war was just beginning.

Over the next three days, I turned resistance into an art form.

When he brought clean clothes, I refused to change out of my increasingly grimy leggings and sweatshirt. When he brought books, I left them untouched on the nightstand. When he tried to engage me in conversation, I responded with either silence or insults, depending on my mood.

I didn't eat. Didn't sleep more than an hour or two at a time. Didn't give him a single inch of cooperation.

By the fourth day, hunger was making me light-headed, and exhaustion had left dark circles under my eyes. But I was still standing. Still fighting.

Rafe entered that morning carrying his usual tray—this time with toast, fruit, and coffee. He looked as immaculate as ever, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his clothes. It made me hate him even more.

"Good morning, Grace," he said, setting the tray on the table. "I thought we'd try something lighter today."

I remained silent, watching him from my position by the window. I'd taken to standing there for hours, staring out at the manicured grounds of what appeared to be a large estate. Planning. Observing. Looking for weaknesses.

"You need to eat," he said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "This hunger strike isn't accomplishing anything except making yourself weak."

"Concerned about my health?" I asked, my voice raspy from disuse. "That's rich, coming from my kidnapper."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—the first sign of frustration I'd seen from him. "This isn't a conventional kidnapping, and you know it. I haven't harmed you. Haven't threatened you. Haven't denied you anything except the ability to leave."

"Which is the only thing that matters."

"Is it?" He moved closer, his dark eyes intent on mine. "Is freedom really the only thing that matters, Grace? Or is it safety? Security? Belonging?"

I laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "And you think you're offering me those things? By locking me up? By taking away my choices?"

"I'm offering you protection from a world that would use you, hurt you, discard you." His voice was low, intense. "Your father would trade you like a commodity. The Giordanos would use you as a pawn. At least with me, you have value beyond your name."

The mention of the Giordanos sent a chill through me. The dinner. The alliance my father had been planning. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

"What value is that?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself. "What exactly am I to you, Rafe?"

Something flickered in his eyes—hunger, possession, something darker I couldn't name. "Everything," he said simply, echoing his words from our first confrontation. "You're everything."

The intensity in his voice made me step back, my shoulders hitting the window behind me. There was something terrifying in his certainty, in the absolute conviction with which he spoke.

"You don't even know me," I said, hating the tremor in my voice.

"I know you better than you think." He took another step closer, close enough now that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, with notes of sandalwood and amber.

"I know you play piano when you can't sleep.

I know you bite your lip when you're concentrating.

I know you run the same route every morning because routine makes you feel safe in a world that's always been unpredictable. "

Each detail hit like a physical blow. How long had he been watching me? How deeply had he invaded my life before he'd taken me?

"That's not knowing me," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "That's stalking me. That's obsession, not understanding."

"Perhaps." He shrugged, untroubled by the accusation.

"But it's more attention than anyone has ever paid you, isn't it?

More than your father, who sees you as a bargaining chip.

More than your brothers, who see you as a responsibility.

More than your professors, who see you as just another ambitious student. "

His words cut deeper than they should have, finding insecurities I thought I'd buried. I hated that he could see them, could use them against me.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I said, but the conviction had drained from my voice.

He smiled, seeing the crack in my armor. "Eat something, Grace. Starving yourself won't change anything except make you weaker. And you'll need your strength."

With that cryptic statement, he turned and left, the locks engaging behind him with their now-familiar sound.

I stared at the tray he'd left, my stomach cramping with hunger. The coffee smelled incredible, the toast looked perfectly done, the fruit fresh and appealing.

After a moment's hesitation, I crossed to the table and picked up a piece of toast. One bite wouldn't be surrender. It would be strategy. I needed to keep my strength up if I was going to escape.

And I was going to escape. I just needed the right opportunity.

It came two days later.

Rafe had fallen into a routine—bringing meals three times a day, staying to talk whether I responded or not, leaving after exactly thirty minutes. He was punctual to a fault, arriving at the same times each day: 8:00 AM, 1:00 PM, and 7:00 PM.

I'd started eating small amounts, enough to keep my strength up but not enough to suggest compliance. I'd also started responding to his attempts at conversation, giving him just enough to think he was making progress.

Let him believe he was wearing me down. Let him get comfortable. Let him make a mistake.

On the sixth day of my captivity, he arrived for lunch carrying the usual tray. I was sitting on the bed, leafing through one of the books he'd brought—a collection of poetry I'd pretended to ignore but had actually been reading when he wasn't around.

"Tennyson," he noted, nodding at the book. "Good choice."

I shrugged, setting it aside. "It was this or stare at the wall."

He smiled slightly, placing the tray on the table. "An improvement over throwing it at my head, which I half expected the first time I brought books."

"Don't tempt me," I said, but there was less venom in my voice than before. A calculated softening, designed to lull him into a false sense of security.

He gestured to the table. "Lunch is getting cold."