Chapter 6: Rules of the Game

I couldn’t sleep.

How could I? Every creak of the house sounds like footsteps. Every shadow on the wall could be him, coming back through that connecting door to finish whatever game he started.

But he doesn’t come back.

By the time weak sunlight filters through the curtains, I’ve memorized every inch of this room. The cameras I can see and the ones I suspect are hidden. The weight of the furniture, calculating what I could use as a weapon if needed. The distance from the bed to the connecting door.

Planning. Always planning.

Even when there’s nowhere to run.

At seven thirty, there’s a knock. Not Luca. A woman’s voice, quiet and uncertain.

“Mrs. Valenti? Breakfast is ready.”

Mrs. Valenti. The name sits wrong in my mouth, like something borrowed that doesn’t fit.

“I’ll be down shortly,” I called back, surprised that my voice works at all.

I shower quickly, scrubbing off yesterday’s makeup and the ghost of Luca’s touch. The water runs hot enough to burn, but I don’t adjust it. Pain is clarity. Pain means I’m still here, still fighting.

The closet is full of clothes that aren’t mine but are exactly my size. Dresses, mostly. Expensive, conservative, the kind of thing a proper mafia wife would wear. I choose black slacks and a cream silk blouse, something that feels more like armor than the soft dresses.

Small rebellion. But rebellion nonetheless.

The villa is different in daylight. Less imposing, more like an actual home. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on crystal and polished wood. I can hear the ocean from somewhere, waves against rocks. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t a prison.

A guard I don’t recognize nods as I pass. Another one at the bottom of the stairs. They don’t speak, don’t smile. Just watch.

Making sure I know I’m being watched.

I follow the sound of voices and the smell of coffee to a dining room that’s bigger than my entire childhood bedroom. The table could seat twenty, but only two places are set. At the head and to the right.

Luca sits at the head, reading a newspaper, coffee cup in hand. He’s wearing a dark suit, hair still damp from his own shower. He doesn’t look up when I enter.

“Sit,” he says, turning a page.

I consider standing just to see what he’ll do. But Dominic’s words from last night echo in my head. For every act of defiance, someone you love pays the price.

I sit.

A woman appears, older, wearing a simple black dress. She sets a plate in front of me without meeting my eyes. Eggs, toast, fruit arranged with more care than necessary. Prison food on fine china.

“Coffee or tea, signora?” Her accent is thick, local.

“Coffee. Black.”

She nods and disappears.

Luca still hasn’t looked at me. Just keeps reading his paper like I’m not here. Like this is any other morning.

I pick up my fork. Put it down. The silence is deliberate, I know. Another test. Another game.

Fine. Two can play.

I cut into the eggs, take a bite. They’re perfectly cooked, seasoned just right. I eat slowly, methodically, letting the quiet stretch between us.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably five minutes, Luca folds his paper and looks at me.

“You didn’t sleep.”

It’s not a question.

“How would you know?”

“The staff monitors the lights in your room. Yours stayed on until dawn.” He sips his coffee, studying me over the rim. “Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He sets down his cup. “The house, the routine. Give it a week and you’ll sleep fine.”

“I doubt that.”

“Suit yourself.” He pulls a folder from beside his plate, slides it across the table to me. “Your schedule.”

I opened it. Pages of times and activities, mapped out like a military operation. I woke up at seven AM. Seven thirty breakfast. Eight to ten, language lessons with a tutor. Ten to noon, free time in designated areas. Noon, lunch. Afternoon, more lessons or meetings with household staff. Dinner at seven. Bed by ten.

Every hour accounted for. Every moment was controlled.

“Language lessons?” I look up.

“Your Italian is adequate but not fluent. You’ll need it for social events.” He leans back in his chair, watching me. “There are also lessons in Valenti family history, etiquette, proper behavior for public appearances. Consider it your education in being my wife.”

“I know how to behave in public.”

“Do you?” His smile is sharp. “Because from what I’ve seen, you know how to behave like a Romano. That won’t work here. You represent the Valenti name now. My name. And I won’t have you embarrassing me because your father didn’t teach you properly.”

My father. Always back to him. Always the sins laid at my feet like I pulled the trigger myself.

“What else?” I flip through the pages. “It says here I have supervised visits to my mother twice a month.”

“Correct.”

“Supervised by who?”

“Me or Dominic. Your choice.”

“That’s generous.”

“I thought so.” He stands, buttons his jacket. “Oh, and your brother. He’s not on the approved visitor list.”

My fork clatters against the plate. “What?”

“Alessandro is too much of a risk. Too emotional, too likely to do something stupid. Until I’m confident he won’t try to take you away or cause problems, all contact is forbidden.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can do whatever I want. You’re my wife, Elena. That means you live by my rules, in my house, under my supervision. If I say you don’t see your brother, you don’t see your brother.”

I’m on my feet before I think about it, hands flat on the table. “He’s my family.”

“I’m your family now.” Luca’s voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t change. That’s almost worse than if he yelled. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

“I’ll never accept that.”

“Then you’ll suffer. Your choice.”