Chapter 06

I found her in a velvet salon just off the west corridor, exactly where I wasn’t supposed to be.

There hadn’t been a sign on the door. Just the low hum of jazz music, the clink of ice in a glass, and the faintest scent of perfume — sharp, expensive, deliberately predatory. The kind of fragrance that announced itself before its wearer entered a room, leaving traces like breadcrumbs for anyone foolish enough to follow.

I should have kept walking.

The marble floor beneath my bare feet had grown cold as I’d wandered deeper into this wing of the house, past oil paintings of stern-faced men in dark suits whose eyes seemed to track my movement. Past locked doors with brass nameplates I couldn’t read in the dim light. Past windows that showed nothing but manicured gardens stretching into darkness.

I’d been exploring for nearly an hour, driven by restlessness and the suffocating weight of confinement. The robe clung to my skin like silk chains, and the diamond collar caught every sliver of moonlight that managed to slip through the heavy curtains. I’d told myself I was looking for an exit — some forgotten door, some servant’s passage that might lead to freedom.

But truthfully, I think I was looking for answers.

Instead, I stepped inside.

The room was small but lush, saturated in deep color — burgundy walls that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, gold-framed mirrors positioned at angles that created an infinity of reflections, low tufted chairs positioned like a trap around a single glass coffee table. Crystal decanters lined a mahogany bar cart, their contents amber and ruby in the lamplight. The air was thick with more than just perfume — there was something else. Cigarette smoke, maybe. Or incense. Something that made my head feel slightly detached from my shoulders.

And on the far side of the room, lounging with one leg crossed over the other like she owned the floor beneath her—

Her.

She turned her head when I entered, slow and amused, like a lioness who’d smelled blood long before you arrived. The movement was liquid, practiced — the kind of grace that came from years of being watched, of being the center of attention in rooms full of dangerous men.

Rafaella Moretti.

I didn’t need an introduction. I’d seen her photo in the same file that showed Dante’s grainy silhouette, though the black-and-white surveillance shot hadn’t done her justice. She looked sharper in person — like someone who had trained her smile to cut. Her dark hair fell in waves over one bare shoulder, and her dress was the color of dried blood. A thin gold chain circled her throat, but unlike my collar, hers was a choice.

Her eyes scanned me in a single sweep.

The robe. The bare feet. The collar.

The assessment was clinical, thorough, and somehow more invasive than if she’d physically touched me.

“Sweetheart,” she said, lifting her glass with lazy delight. The liquid inside was clear, with a single olive speared on a silver pick. “I didn’t think you were real.”

I stood still, fighting the urge to pull the robe tighter around myself. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, they talked about you. Whispered, really.” She took a delicate sip, never breaking eye contact. “Dante’s little pet project. His newest acquisition. But I thought it was just another one of his business transactions — you know, the kind that gets handled in warehouses down by the docks. I never imagined he’d bring you here. To the house.”

The way she said “the house” made my skin crawl. Like it was sacred ground I was defiling with my presence.

“Come closer. I want to see you better.”

I didn’t move.

She rolled her eyes and stood, the movement fluid and predatory. Her heels should have clicked against the marble, but they didn’t make a sound — as if even her footsteps had been trained for stealth. She walked toward me slowly, circling once, letting her gaze trace every inch of me like I was livestock at auction. The robe slipped slightly as she passed behind me, exposing one bare shoulder. I tugged it back up, hating how the gesture revealed my nervousness.

“Cute,” she said, completing her circuit and stopping directly in front of me. “You actually think modesty’s still on the table.”

I held her stare, even though it made my spine feel like glass. There was something predatory in her dark eyes — not the cold calculation I’d seen in Dante’s, but something hungrier. More personal.

“You’re family?” I asked quietly.

“Cousin,” she said, settling back against the edge of the coffee table with feline grace. “Sort of. Dante and I grew up in the same house. Same blood. Different scars.”

She lifted her glass again, and I noticed the thin white line that ran from her wrist to the base of her palm — barely visible unless you knew to look for it.

I couldn’t tell if that was a warning or a dare.

“You’re his first?” she asked, tilting her head with mock curiosity. “Or just the first they dragged here wearing a collar?”

The question hit like a slap. I’d been wondering the same thing myself — how many women had worn this diamond noose before me? How many had slept in that bed, stared at that mirror, felt the weight of those invisible eyes watching from behind the glass?

I didn’t answer.

She smiled wider, showing teeth that were too white, too perfect. “Mm. Smart girl. Quiet girls survive longer. But not long enough.”

The words settled in my chest like ice water. I wanted to leave. I should have left. My feet were already half-turned toward the door, every instinct screaming at me to run.

But something in her voice made me pause.

“I didn’t choose this,” I said, hating how defensive I sounded.

“Of course you didn’t.” She leaned in, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. Her breath was warm against my ear, carrying the sharp scent of gin and something darker. “But you’ll still pay for it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not here by chance.” Her eyes glittered with something that might have been sympathy — or cruelty. “You were picked. Chosen. Selected from however many candidates they considered. You just don’t know why yet.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. “Candidates?”

But she was already moving away, gliding back to her chair with that unnatural silence. She sat down and picked up a small silver remote from the coffee table, pressing a button without looking at it.

The music changed — shifting from smooth jazz to something slower, more ominous. Strings that sounded like whispered threats.

And I realized that was the conversation ending.

I walked out without looking back, but I could feel her eyes following me like a physical weight between my shoulder blades. Her words echoed in my head as I made my way back through the corridor, past those stern-faced portraits that now seemed to leer rather than simply observe.

Picked. Chosen. Selected.

The words chased me like footsteps I couldn’t shake.

By the time I returned to the suite, my pulse had leveled, but something else was wrong. The familiar space felt different somehow — charged with tension I couldn’t name. The air seemed thicker, harder to breathe.

I felt… itchy inside my skin.

Not fear. Not quite.

Something quieter. Deeper.

Like my body knew something I hadn’t admitted yet.

The room looked the same as when I’d left it — curtains drawn against the night, bed untouched except for the slight depression where I’d been lying earlier, tray of untouched breakfast now removed by some invisible servant. The robe slid over my hips as I moved to the vanity and sat down, mostly out of habit. The chair was cold against my bare legs, and I found myself staring at my reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall.

My fingers ran over the tabletop, searching for something to anchor myself to reality. There were no brushes, no perfume, no cosmetics. No personal items at all, really. Nothing that would help me feel human.

Because I wasn’t expected to get ready.

Just be ready.

The thought sent a chill down my spine. Ready for what? And when?

I glanced at the mirror across the room — the long one directly facing the bed. Framed in ornate silver that caught and reflected the lamplight in strange ways. Tall enough to show my whole body, wide enough that there was no hiding from it. The collar gleamed faintly against my neck, the diamonds catching light like tiny stars.

Something about it had been bothering me since the first night, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness like a half-remembered nightmare. But I couldn’t name it. Not until now.