Page 11

The room is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners and casting eerie shapes on the walls. The chill in the air bites at my skin as I push the heavy door open, stepping inside. Chiara sits in the far corner, her posture tense, every line of her body screaming defiance. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, a stark contrast to the pale bandage wrapped around her arm—a memento of her failed escape.

I close the door behind me, the click of the latch reverberating in the silence. Her eyes snap up to meet mine, burning with a fire that refuses to be extinguished. Even here, in the depths of my territory, she holds herself like a queen. The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk as I take a step closer.

“Comfortable?” I ask, my tone laced with sarcasm. “I hope the accommodations meet your standards.”

Her jaw tightens, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “A little drafty, but I’ll manage.”

I chuckle, dragging a chair across the floor and positioning it directly in front of her. I lower myself into it, leaning back with an air of casual dominance. “Always so witty, even now. You don’t seem to grasp the reality of your situation.”

Her lips curve into a bitter smile. “Oh, I grasp it just fine, Serge. I’m at your mercy. Isn’t that how you like it?”

Her words are a challenge, daring me to rise to her bait. Instead, I study her, letting the silence stretch between us until she shifts uncomfortably.

“You tried to kill me,” I say finally, my voice low but sharp. “You poisoned me and left me to die.”

She sits up straighter, meeting my gaze head-on. “You’ve done worse. Don’t act like you’re innocent in this. We both know what you are.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “What I am doesn’t excuse what you did.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, the sound grating against my nerves. “I did what I had to do. What would you have done in my place? Oh wait—don’t answer that. You don’t need hypotheticals. You used me, Serge. From the very beginning, I was just a pawn in your game. A means to an end.”

The accusation stings, not because it’s untrue, but because of how plainly she states it. I don’t bother denying it. “You’re right,” I say, my voice steady. “I did intend to use you. You were leverage, Chiara. A tool to gain power, influence, everything I’ve worked for.”

She flinches, her mask slipping for the briefest moment. “So, how does that make you any better than me? At least I admit what I’ve done.”

Her words cut deeper than I want to admit. I straighten in my chair, dragging a hand through my hair as I gather my thoughts. “I wouldn’t have killed you,” I say eventually, the words almost a growl. “I grew fond of you, Chiara. Against my better judgment, I cared for you.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she quickly masks her surprise. “Fond of me?” she scoffs. “Is that what you call it? Playing games, lying, manipulating—none of that feels like fondness to me.”

My jaw clenches, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you don’t know what you want,” she shoots back, her voice rising. “You can’t decide if you want to use me or destroy me.”

I rise from the chair abruptly, towering over her as I close the distance between us. She doesn’t flinch, her chin tilting upward in defiance as I stare her down. “You made that decision for me when you poisoned me,” I say coldly. “You chose war, Chiara.”

Her expression falters, and for a moment, something like regret flickers in her eyes. “What about you, Serge? What did you choose when you decided I was just another piece on your chessboard?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I want to shout, to argue, to deny it all. Instead, I step back, turning away from her and running a hand over my face. She’s right. I did choose to use her, but it’s more complicated than that. She’s more complicated than that.

I glance over my shoulder, meeting her gaze once more. “I don’t hate you, Chiara,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I should, but I don’t. I hate what you did, but not you.”

Her lips part, but she says nothing, the fire in her eyes dimming slightly. For the first time since stepping into this room, I see something other than anger in her expression. She looks tired, conflicted, as if she’s fighting a war within herself.

“You don’t know me,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

I take a step closer, my gaze unwavering. “I know enough.”

The tension between us is a living, breathing thing, crackling in the dimly lit room like a storm waiting to break. I can feel Chiara’s eyes on me, defiant as ever, even as she sits perched on the edge of the chair, her shoulders taut with barely concealed anger. It’s maddening how she still refuses to bow, even after everything.

“Say it,” I demand, my voice sharp as a blade. “Admit that you lost.”

She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest with a smirk that both infuriates and intrigues me. “You think this is over, Serge? You think dragging me back to Chicago in chains makes you victorious?”

I take a step closer, my gaze narrowing. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“Why should I?” she snaps, her chin lifting in defiance. “What more can you do to me, Serge, kill me? Go ahead. At least I’d be free of you.”

Her words ignite something primal in me, a fire I can’t contain. In two strides, I’m towering over her, my hand shooting out to grab her throat. Her eyes widen, but not in fear. There’s something else there—something darker, more challenging. It only fuels my rage.

“You want me to kill you?” I hiss, tightening my grip just enough to make her gasp. “Don’t tempt me, Chiara. You won’t die that easily. Not until I’m done with you.”

Her hands fly up to claw at my wrist, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Even as her breaths grow shallow, she glares at me like she’s daring me to go further. My grip slackens slightly, and I lean in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You don’t get to decide when this ends. I do.”

I release her suddenly, and she slumps forward, coughing as she drags air into her lungs. She looks up at me through tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, I think I’ve broken her. But then she speaks, her voice hoarse but steady.

“You’re just like the rest of them,” she says. “Cruel. Power-hungry. Pathetic.”

My jaw clenches, and I grab the back of the chair, forcing myself to rein in my temper. “Cruel? Maybe, but pathetic? That would be your brother, snitching on his own blood just to save his position. Did you know he practically begged me to take you off his hands?”

Her face pales, the impact of my words hitting her like a physical blow. “You’re lying.”

I let out a humorless laugh, leaning closer. “Am I? He came to me, Chiara. Offered you up on a silver platter because he’s afraid of you. Afraid that you’ll outshine him. It isn’t often a man like him feels threatened.”

The pain in her eyes is unmistakable, but she quickly masks it with anger. “That’s not true. Lorenzo wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t he?” I cut her off, my tone laced with mockery. “Face it, Chiara. The only person you’ve ever been able to trust is Dante. And where is he now?”

She flinches, her fists clenching in her lap. “You’re a monster,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion.

I step back, my smirk fading as her words sink in. “Maybe I am,” I admit, my voice cold. “I’m the monster who holds your life in his hands. Remember that.”

The room falls silent, the weight of our words hanging heavily in the air. I glance out the window at the dense forest surrounding the rented house bathed in moonlight. It’s the perfect place to keep her hidden until I can get her back to Chicago.

She shifts in her chair, her gaze dropping to her lap, as if she’s finally run out of things to say. For a brief moment, I almost feel a twinge of guilt. Almost.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks softly, breaking the silence. “You already have everything. What could you possibly gain by keeping me here?”

I take a deep breath, my fingers drumming against the back of the chair. “Revenge,” I say simply. “You tried to kill me, Chiara. You betrayed me. You don’t get to walk away from that.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes blazing once more. “Do you think dragging me back to Chicago will fix everything; you think it’ll make you feel whole again?”

“It’s not about feeling whole,” I reply, my voice hard. “It’s about making sure you never forget who holds the power.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Power. That’s all you care about, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I turn and walk toward the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. “Get some rest,” I say without looking back. “Tomorrow, we’re leaving for Chicago.”

Her sharp intake of breath tells me she wasn’t expecting that, but she doesn’t protest. As I step out into the hallway, I can’t shake the feeling that this is far from over. Chiara Vinci may be under my control for now, but I know better than to underestimate her.

The war between us has only just begun.

The door closes behind me with a heavy click, cutting off the tension of the room and Chiara’s searing gaze. The house is silent apart from the faint hum of the central heating, but I know Roman is waiting for me down the hall. His shadow stretches across the wall as I approach, his expression carefully blank.

“You look like hell,” Roman says, pushing off the wall to stand straighter. “Didn’t expect her to put up that much of a fight.”

I shoot him a glare, the memory of her defiance still fresh in my mind. “She’s lucky she’s still breathing.”

Roman grunts, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve got to get her leg checked, Serge.”

“Not here. Not until we’re back in Chicago.”

Roman frowns, his concern obvious. “You can’t wait that long. That cut could get infected. We’ve got a guy in town—”

“I said no.” My voice cuts through the hallway like a whip, and Roman snaps his mouth shut, though the tension in his shoulders remains. “I don’t trust anyone here. Not with this.”

Roman parts his lips to answer, and I snap, “Shut up. Chiara could overhear this, and I don’t need her knowing more than she has to.”

Roman stares at me for a long moment, his jaw tightening. “You’re playing with fire, Serge. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I step closer, lowering my voice to a dangerous whisper. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Now drop it.”

He exhales sharply but nods, the argument dying on his lips. “Fine, but at least let me take another look at her before we go.”

I nod curtly, leaning against the wall as Roman disappears into another room.

My thoughts drift to Chiara as I wait. Her defiance, her fire—even when she’s backed into a corner, she refuses to break. It’s infuriating and captivating all at once.

Roman returns with a small first aid kit in hand, his steps deliberate. “She’s lucky she didn’t shatter her leg entirely,” he mutters, shaking his head as he sets the kit down on a side table. “It’s not broken, but I should make sure she’s fit for travel.”

“Fine,” I snap, “so long as she can walk on it, she’s good.”

Roman’s eyes narrow slightly, his frustration evident. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Serge. She needs proper treatment. What happens if it gets worse?”

I push off the wall, stepping closer to him. “She’s not leaving my sight, Roman. Not for any reason. The second we’re back, we’ll handle it. Until then, we keep her here. No outside interference.”

Roman exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath as he opens the kit. “Fine. Don’t blame me if her condition worsens.”

I let his comment slide, focusing instead on the faint sounds coming from her room. She’s awake, likely stewing in her own thoughts. Maybe in pain. I push down the flicker of concern that tries to surface. This isn’t about compassion. It’s about control.

“She’ll keep,” I say, mostly to myself. Roman glances at me, his expression unreadable.

“You should at least check on her,” he says finally, his voice low but pointed. “She’s not going anywhere on that leg, but if you’re serious about dragging her back to Chicago in one piece, you’ll need to keep her alive.”

I smirk, the coldness in my expression intentional. “Let me take a look at her.”

***

I push open the door to her room without knocking, the heavy creak cutting through the silence. Chiara is propped up on the bed, her leg stretched out in front of her. Her eyes snap to mine, wary and sharp, but she doesn’t say anything.

“How’s the leg?” I ask, my tone bordering on mocking.

She tilts her chin up, defiance etched into every line of her face. “Hurts like hell. Thanks for asking.”

I step closer, my gaze dropping to the poorly wrapped bandage around her thigh. The improvised job Roman had done in the car earlier is holding, but it’s far from sufficient. “You should be grateful it’s still attached.”

Her lips curve into a cold smile. “Grateful… should I also thank you for running me off the road?”

I crouch beside the bed, my eyes locking on to hers. “You can thank me by staying alive long enough to regret your choices.”

She glares at me, her defiance unshaken even in her vulnerable state. “You don’t scare me, Serge.”

“Liar.” My voice is soft but cutting. “I can see it in your eyes, Chiara. You know exactly what I’m capable of.”

She doesn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she looks away. I reach for the first aid kit I brought with me, pulling out fresh bandages and antiseptic. “Hold still,” I command, my voice leaving no room for argument.

To my surprise, she complies, though her body is tense as I remove the old bandage. The wound beneath is swollen and angry, the deep gash a stark reminder of how close she came to losing more than her pride.

“Doesn’t look good,” I mutter, dabbing antiseptic onto a cotton swab. She hisses as it makes contact, her fists clenching against the sheets. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Lucky,” she echoes bitterly. “That’s one word for it.”

I glance up at her, my hand stilling for a moment. “Why, Chiara?” The question slips out before I can stop it, the edge of curiosity laced with something darker. “Why go through all this… was it worth it?”

Her gaze meets mine, unflinching. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I lean closer, the proximity intentional. “Try me.”

For a moment, I think she might answer, but she stays silent, her lips pressing into a thin line. I finish wrapping her leg, tightening the bandage just enough to draw a sharp intake of breath from her.

“Rest,” I say, standing and towering over her. “You’ll need it for the trip tomorrow.”

Her eyes widen slightly, panic flashing across her face. “Right. Chicago.” She shakes her head, trying to sit up straighter despite the pain. “You can’t do this—”

“I can and I will,” I interrupt, my tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re done running, Chiara.”

Her expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes—fear, maybe, or resignation. I turn on my heel, heading for the door. Roman is waiting for me in the hallway, his arms crossed and his expression grim.

“She doesn’t look good,” he says, nodding toward the room. “You sure about this?”

“She’ll live,” I reply coldly. “That’s all that matters.”

Roman exhales sharply, his disapproval clear, but he doesn’t push the issue. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Serge.”

“So do I,” I mutter under my breath, the weight of the situation settling over me as I walk away.