Chapter 2

The Devil’s Penthouse

She woke with a start, her heart hammering. She was on a bed—too soft, too big. Silk sheets clung to her skin. She sat up, her dress from last night wrinkled, her heels gone. A faint city glow slipped through floor-to-ceiling windows. She swung her legs off the bed, bare feet hitting cold marble, and bolted for the door. Locked.

She pounded it. “Hey! Let me out!”

No answer. She slammed her fist again, harder. Nothing. Her pulse spiked, and she spun around, scanning the room. Sleek furniture, a chandelier glinting faintly, no personal touches. A prison, no matter how fancy.

Her clutch sat on a glass table. She grabbed it, fishing out her phone. No signal. “Great,” she muttered, tossing it down. She tried the windows—sealed tight. A keypad by the door blinked red. High-tech cage for a high-stakes prize.

Footsteps approached. She froze, backing against the wall as the door clicked open. Alessandro Moretti stepped in, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, coffee mug in hand. His eyes locked on hers, calm but piercing.

“Morning,” he said, like they were old friends.

“This isn’t a game,” Livia snapped, arms crossed. “Unlock the door.”

He sipped his coffee, unfazed. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then why’s the door locked?”

“Safety.” He set the mug down, leaning against the table. “Yours and mine.”

“Safety?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You bought me. I’m not safe.”

“Signed away,” he corrected, voice low. “Dante put your name on a contract. Legally, you’re mine.”

Her stomach twisted. She stepped forward, fists clenched. “I’m not property.”

Alessandro’s eyes flicked over her, not leering, just… assessing. “You were to him. A bottle of cheap wine, he said.”

Livia flinched, Dante’s words from last night stinging fresh. “So what? You’re better? Snatching me up like some prize?”

“I don’t return what I win,” he said, stepping closer. She didn’t back up, though her pulse raced. “But I don’t break my trophies either.”

She glared. “What do you want? A wife? A toy?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “A woman who knows her worth.”

Livia snorted, turning away. “Spare me the poetry. Just let me go.”

“Door’s open when you beat me at my game,” he said, voice steady. “Escape. Outsmart me.”

She spun back, eyes blazing. “You think I won’t?”

“I’m counting on it.” He nodded to a tray by the bed—coffee, pastries, fruit. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied, her stomach growling.

“Suit yourself.” He headed for the door, pausing. “Your things are being moved in. Clothes, books, whatever you had. Your maiden name’s back on your accounts. Bank card’s on the table.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Because you’re not Dante’s anymore.”

The door clicked shut behind him. She rushed to it, yanking the handle. Still locked. “Bastard,” she muttered, sliding down the wall, her head in her hands. Her phone buzzed on the table. She scrambled for it, hoping for a signal. A text, same unknown number as last night.

Check the drawer. – A.M.

She frowned, crossing to the nightstand. Inside the drawer was a black card—her name, Livia Rossi, embossed in silver. Her maiden name. A bank card, just like he’d said. She flipped it over, her fingers trembling. Why give her this? Control? A taunt?

She tossed it back, pacing to the window. Milan’s skyline glittered below, mocking her. Freedom was out there, but she was stuck in here, with a man who called her his but didn’t touch her. Not yet.

A knock. A woman entered, young, sharp-eyed, carrying a stack of clothes. “Mr. Moretti sent these,” she said, setting them on the bed. Dresses, jeans, sweaters—all her size, all new.

Livia stared. “I’m not wearing his clothes.”

The woman shrugged. “He said you’d say that. Wear what you want. Or don’t.” She left without another word.

Livia picked up a dress—black, simple, expensive. She dropped it like it burned. “Not your doll,” she muttered, kicking off her wrinkled heels. She grabbed her phone again, typing a text to Dante.

Get me out of here. Now.

No signal. It wouldn’t send. She threw the phone onto the bed, her breath hitching. Last night’s poker table flashed in her mind—Dante’s laugh, his careless “Take the wife.” He hadn’t fought for her then. Why would he now?

Another buzz. She snatched the phone. Another text from Alessandro.

Dinner at eight. We’ll talk. – A.M.

She deleted it, her jaw tight. Talk? About what? His rules? His plans? She wasn’t some obedient pet waiting for his orders. She crossed to the keypad, studying it. Numbers, no clues. She tried 0000. Red light. 1234. Red again. She cursed, slamming her palm against it.

The door opened. Alessandro stood there, eyebrow raised. “Trying to crack the code already?”

She straightened, refusing to look rattled. “You said beat you. I’m starting.”

He stepped inside, closing the distance. “Good. But you’ll need more than guesses.”

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, voice low. “Really.”

He tilted his head, eyes searching hers. “I told you. A woman who fights.”

“Why lock me in, then?”

“Because,” he said, voice dropping, “the world out there isn’t ready for you yet.”

She laughed, disbelieving. “And you are?”

He didn’t answer, just held her gaze until her skin prickled. Then he turned, leaving the door open this time. “Dinner’s at eight,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t be late.”

Livia stood frozen, her heart pounding. The open door taunted her, but she didn’t move. Not yet. She wasn’t running blind into his world. She’d play his game, alright, but on her terms.

She grabbed the bank card again, turning it over in her hand. Livia Rossi. Not Livia Vitale, Dante’s wife. Her old name felt strange, like a half-forgotten song. She slipped it into her pocket, her resolve hardening.

Alessandro Moretti thought he’d won her. He was about to learn she wasn’t a prize to be kept. She’d outsmart him, escape him, and burn his world down if she had to. But first, she’d eat his damn pastries. She wasn’t starving for him or anyone else.