CHAPTER 6

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ELYSIA 

The second the door slammed behind Adrian, the spell shattered. I was alone. Naked. Wearing nothing but a black-diamond ring that felt like a shackle. My pulse roared in my ears, louder than the ocean outside.

I scrambled off the bed, legs still trembling from the weight of him, from the almost of what he’d been about to do again. The sheets were warm where he’d been, and I hated how my body wanted to crawl back into that warmth.

No.

I snatched the discarded clothes from the floor. Lisa’s hoodie, the tank top, the sweatpants. My hands shook so badly I nearly tore the zipper. The ring caught on the fabric every time I moved, flashing like it was laughing at me.

Why should I pay for my father’s sins? He stole. He ran. He left us to the wolves.

He was gone, probably sipping cocktails on some island that didn’t extradite, and I was the one about to be caged and bred like a prize mare.

I didn’t owe anyone. Not my mother. Not Valentina. Not the ghost of Marco Moretti. Only myself. I yanked the door open and ran.

The hallway was a blur of marble and gold and oil paintings with eyes that followed me. My bare feet slapped the cold floor. I had no plan, only the animal need to get out, get away, disappear.

Voices drifted up the grand staircase, soft, rapid Italian. “…the ex-boyfriend is at the gate. Matteo Ricci. He’s screaming that the girl is his fiancée, that she’s been kidnapped. He brought reporters. Cameras. He’s making a scene—”

My blood turned to ice. Matteo. Here. I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering so hard I could barely breathe. If Adrian saw him, if they spoke- Matteo would be dead in seconds. And Adrian would drag me back upstairs and finish what he started, only this time he’d make sure I never tried to run again.

I couldn’t go down the main stairs. I turned left, sprinting blindly, praying for a service corridor, a back exit, anything. Gunshots cracked outside—sharp, violent, three in rapid succession.

I stumbled, nearly fell down the stairs.

Screams echoed from the staff. A maid rounded the corner, eyes wide, and tried to grab my arm. “Signorina, no! It’s not safe—”

“Don’t touch me!” I snarled, voice cracking. I shoved past her, past two more maids who reached for me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. I hit the ground floor at a dead run. The front doors were open. For one heartbeat, hope flared.

Then I saw them, six armed guards forming a wall across the threshold, rifles raised toward the gates. Beyond them, red-and-blue police lights strobed against the iron bars. Shouts. The camera flashes. Matteo’s voice, raw and desperate, rising above the chaos.

I skidded to a halt. Trapped. Another burst of gunfire. A man screamed.

I backed away, chest heaving. There was no way out. Not the front. Not the sides. The cliffs behind the house dropped straight into the sea.

I was on an island disguised as a mansion. I turned and ran again, back up the stairs, ignoring the maids calling after me, ignoring the tears burning my eyes. Back to the bedroom that wasn’t mine.I slammed the doors shut and twisted the lock with shaking fingers. It wouldn’t hold against him, but it was something.

I dragged the heavy armchair across the floor and wedged it under the handles for good measure.

Then I sank into the corner furthest from the bed, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around them. The ring glinted mockingly.

Outside the window, the Mediterranean stretched endless and cruelly. White waves smashed against rocks far below. No boats. No roads. Just water and sky and prison. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and let the tears come.

Silent. Furious. Helpless.

How had my life become like this in twenty-four hours? From heartbroken college girl to the forced fiancée of the most dangerous man in Italy. I don’t know how long I sat there—minutes, maybe an hour—watching gulls wheel over the water, listening to the distant shouts die down. 

Eventually, boots on marble. Heavy. Measured. Coming closer. The doorknob rattled once.

Then Adrian’s voice, low and terrifyingly calm. “Elysia.” I hugged my knees tighter, biting my lip until it bled. “I know you’re in there, amore.” Silence.

Then the softest sound, like a key sliding into the lock I’d thought was mine. The armchair scraped as something immensely strong pushed from the other side. I scrambled to my feet, backing toward the window, heart in my throat.

The door opened slowly. Adrian stood in the frame, silhouetted by the hallway light.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves still rolled, but now there were crimson streaks across the fabric. Blood. Not his.

In his right hand dangled a small, familiar phone, my shattered phone from the car. In his left, something worse. A Polaroid photograph. He stepped inside, closed the door with a soft click, and held the photo up between two fingers.

It was Matteo. On his knees in the gravel outside the gates. Mouth gagged. Eyes wide with terror.

A gun pressed to his temple. And scrawled across the bottom in red marker: Your move, Mrs. Valente.

Adrian’s smile was slow, savage, and utterly unhinged.

“Time to choose, babygirl,” he whispered. “Who bleeds tonight, him or you?”