Chapter 9~ No Clothes

Chapter 9

Stacy

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Vincenzo left the room minutes ago, the door clicking shut behind him with that deliberate, measured calm he always seemed to carry. I stayed put, not bothering to track his exit or try the door handle, just listening to the sound of his footsteps fading away.

It wasn’t like I had anywhere to go—not that I would, even if I did. The smile tugging at the corner of my lips felt almost out of place in this situation, but I couldn’t help it.

The room he left me in was a study in luxury, but it was luxury devoid of any personality. Sleek, polished walls, expensive furnitures, all in muted tones that could have been plucked from the pages of some high-end magazine

But there was nothing here to suggest that anyone actually lived in this space. No personal belongings, no stray items left out of place—just an empty, pristine shell.

It was like a beautifully wrapped gift box with nothing inside.

Well, except that wooden toy with my captor’s name carved in the most careful, female handwriting. It was a gift, as flippant and worthless as it seemed, no doubt from someone dear and certainly a piece of his childhood.

His stepmother?

Even though Don Cosimo had taken him in and brought him back to Sicily after the fourth and last DNA test confirmed he was his, Vincenzo never really warmed up to his new lifestyle among his siblings.

His stepmother’s hatred and hostility was no news, so it didn’t take him up to two years to run back to Chicago, more to stop himself from murdering the woman than anything else.

That was no news. But his real mother? That was news.

No one actually knew the woman or what history actually transpired between her and Don Cosimo, when and how it resulted in a bastard.

Did he have a real relationship with her?

Vincenzo was known for keeping his cards close to his chest, for preferring the shadows over the spotlight.

Russel, everyone knows and fears. The rest of the Mancini brothers too—each one with a reputation that speaks for itself.

But this one? This one is different.

I peeled off my clothes, the fabrics feeling like a second skin after weeks of wearing. There was this gut feeling that he might be watching, maybe from a hidden camera somewhere.

The idea of him just bringing me here and leaving, even though I was sure there might be a dozen men outside that door, still.

The bitch in me shrugged, If he was watching, so what? Let him. I had nothing to hide, except this very beautiful body, and I’ll die before I hide it from those sexy blue eyes.

If he got an eyeful in the process of invading my privacy, well, that was his problem, not mine. He should be more worried about keeping his dick from bursting through those fine linens of his pants.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and paused, turning slightly to get a better look. Even after weeks of hell, the curves were still there, enough to make a man stop and stare even if he didn’t want to.

Maybe even a man like him.

I knew he’d looked at me like that earlier, even if he’d tried to hide it. He might hate me, might keep me here as a trapped little mouse as he put it, but he was still a man.

And men, even the coldest, most controlled of them, had needs

I’ld worked my way from just being a trapped, dirty little mouse with a virus being held in a dungeon and watched by tons of heavy muscled men, to becoming this beautiful, white pet mouse, still in a cage, but a beautiful one befitting a cute precious pet.

That is progress.

Gathering my discarded clothes with a smile, I made my way into the bathroom. It was as grand as the rest of the room, all marble and glass, with a tub that looked more like a small swimming pool.

I eyed the tub hungrily before turning on the water, I let it fill as steam began to rise, curling around the edges of the room like a soft, warm blanket.

I stepped into the tub and sank down into the water until it covered me completely. The heat seeped into my muscles, loosening the tension that had settled there, and I let out a long, slow moan as I gently scrubbed myself with a soft sponge.

This is heaven.

The first real comfort I’d felt in who knows how long, and I wasn’t about to rush it.

As I soaked, my thoughts drifted back to Vincenzo.

The way his eyes had flicked over me, the brief hesitation before he left the room. He might want to keep me at a distance, might want to pretend that I was just another piece on his chessboard, but I wasn’t fooled.

He was fighting it, but I was already under his skin.

I closed my eyes to let the warmth of the bath pull me deeper into relaxation.

By sending me to this mysterious, cold, brother of his, Russel thought I was toast, maybe I was. But I had been going through all this the wrong way all along.

Men like Vincenzo always underestimated women like me.

And that would be his first mistake.

If there was anything that Dakota taught me, it was how to wield the power I had as a woman in a world dominated by strong, ruthless men. It wasn’t about brute force or cunning strategies—no, it was much simpler than that.

Men were weak creatures, even the most powerful of them, and the quickest way to their downfall was through the very thing they craved the most.

I remembered the time in Paris when I needed to get past a security checkpoint in some high-end hotel. The guard had been a burly, no-nonsense type, the kind who’d probably broken more bones than I’d ever count.

But the moment I leaned in close, letting my lips brush against his just enough to make him forget who he was, I was through the door without so much as a second glance.

Then there was that night in Berlin.

The club was packed, loud, and sweaty, and I needed to slip upstairs to meet a contact without drawing attention. Dad always had me do those things because he understood that women, even the smallest, were the sleekest.

The bouncer was towering, all muscle and stern eyes. But one kiss later, with his fingers tangled in my hair and my hand on his chest, he was too distracted to notice me slipping away.

It had always been easy, almost too easy.

A kiss here, a touch there, and suddenly the world opened up like it was mine for the taking. They never saw it coming, these men. So strong, so sure of themselves—until they weren’t.

The warm water lapped gently against my skin, the scent of the bath oil filling the room with a delicate, floral fragrance. I tilted my head back, closing my eyes and letting the water wash away the grime of the past few days.

For a moment, I could almost forget where I was and who I was.

But not him.

Vincenzo was different. He was colder, more calculating than the others.

There was something in his eyes, a sharpness, a hunger that made him harder to read. And that intrigued me more than I wanted to admit. He was a puzzle, one that I was determined to solve, piece by piece.

I ran my hands over my arms, feeling the smoothness of my skin under the water. He’d watched me, earlier, tried to hide the way his gaze lingered a little too long.

A small smile played on my lips as I imagined him, watching me now, maybe from some hidden camera in the bathroom too.

I smiled, I’d learned long ago how to turn the tables, how to make them lose control. And when the time was right, I would do the same to him.

The bathwater was starting to cool, so I reluctantly pulled myself out. Reaching for a towel, I wrapped it around myself, feeling the softness against my skin, I stood there for a moment, just enjoying the sensation.

I wasn’t worried about what came next, not really.

I’m going to treat this captor-captive situation as a little vacation. Who knows? Maybe even make a small minion out of his handsome men.

The bath had been heavenly, but it was time to get serious.

I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over my skin, soothing the aches and pains that still lingered from the rough treatment I’d received the night before.

The stream was strong, the pressure perfect—no expense spared, of course.

Nothing but the best for a Mancini.

I reached for one of the bottles lined up neatly on the marble shelf, the kind of products you’d expect to find in a luxury spa. The shampoo smelled like a mix of cedarwood and something faintly citrusy, masculine and expensive.

I worked it into my hair, feeling the rich lather build up, then I scrubbed away the dirt and grime that had accumulated over the past weeks.

“It feels so fucking good to wash away the remnants of captivity.”

Grinning, I grabbed a bottle of body oil and massaged it into my skin, then I let the warm water carry the silky sensation over every inch of me.

The scent was intoxicating—subtle, woodsy, with a hint of something floral I couldn’t quite place. Vincenzo’s choice, no doubt. The man had taste; I’d give him that.

When I finally stepped out of the shower, the steam clung to my skin like a thin veil, keeping me warm against the cool air of the bathroom. I wrapped my hair in a towel, squeezing out the excess water, before patting my body dry with another.

The soreness in my lip reminded me of Aurelio’s fists from the night before, a reminder I didn’t need right now.

With a sigh, I applied a balm I found on the counter, its cooling touch soothing the sting.

As I worked it in, I made a mental note: The first chance I got, Aurelio would pay. I’d carve out his balls and serve them on a silver platter.

The thought made me smirk, then I started gathering my clothes. They were a mess—stiff with sweat and dirt, but I wasn’t about to let them stay that way.

I dumped them all into the washing machine, added a generous dose of detergent, then I set the cycle.

My underwear, too, went in—no point in half measures. When the machine finished its work, I took the time to dry everything and still hung them out on the glass to dry completely.

That left me with a problem. No clothes.

While the idea of strolling around in just a towel had a certain appeal—I could already picture the look on Vincenzo’s face—I wasn’t quite ready to give him that satisfaction. Not yet, at least.

So I did the next best thing— I raided his closet.

Rows of three-piece suits in dark, muted colors—navy, charcoal, black. Each one tailored to perfection, the kind of suits that spoke power and the faintest hint of danger.

On another rack, there were leather boots, polished and gleaming, lined up with military precision. Then, a whole section dedicated to leather jackets, each one as intimidating as the last.

Everything in this closet screamed “serial killer chic,” the kind of wardrobe you’d expect from a man who could snap your neck as easily as he could pour a glass of scotch.

But then I found what I was looking for— the rack for his underwear.

Calvin Klein, of course.

Almost all of them were white, crisp, and nearly all brand new. There was something amusing about the idea of wearing his underwear, of slipping into something so intimate of his.

I picked out a pair and slid them on.

They fit surprisingly well, hugging my hips just right.

Next, I grabbed a shirt—Chicago’s own Richard Bennett—and buttoned it up, the fabric soft and cool against my freshly cleaned skin. The shirt hung loosely on me, the sleeves far too long, but it was comfortable and oddly satisfying to wear.

With another towel, I dried my hair again, then took a moment to style it, using a comb and some of his products that I found on the counter.

When I was satisfied, I surveyed the colognes on his dresser.

There were four different brands, each one undoubtedly expensive. I wasn’t about to choose just one, so I sprayed all four, layering the scents until they mingled together into something both intoxicating and overwhelming.

Satisfied with my work, I sauntered back into the room, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction.

The scene that greeted me was almost comical.

A man in a smart suit was setting up a large tray laden with a variety of American meals. The moment he saw me, he froze, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that bordered on indecent.

I couldn’t help but enjoy the attention.

I flashed him a smile and his cheeks instantly flushed red. Right, making a man flush should be added to my CV.

“Are all those for me?” I asked in the softest voice.

“Ye—yes.” He stuttered, “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I made all these.” his eyes darted around nervously like he was avoiding looking at me.

I walked over to the tray with my eyes scanning the assortment. I picked up a shrimp cocktail and savored the taste as I licked my lips.

“This is so fucking good,” I moaned, making sure to let him see just how much I was enjoying it.

He swallowed hard. “You like it?”

I reached out and touched his cheek, he trembled under my touch. “I fucking love it.”

But then, as I looked at the tray, I noticed something, all the meals were served in small rubber foil plates and— “I don’t see any cutlery?” I pointed out, my voice laced with irritation.

His head fell immediately like he was scared he had just disappointed me. “Mr. Mancini specifically ordered me not to give you any.” His explanation came in a very apologetic voice.

“That fucking bastard!” I snapped.