Chapter 3

I stared at the closet door for a full minute before I gathered the courage to touch the handle. My hand hovered, trembling, the brass knob cool against my clammy skin.

Don’t make me come get you.

I recalled.

I pulled the door open.

I expected it to be empty, or perhaps filled with my own pathetic, thrift-store wardrobe that the movers had packed. But my boxes were still taped shut on the floor behind me.

The closet was full.

Rows of hangers stretched across the cedar-lined space. Coats, blouses, skirts. All of them high-end. All of them in a palette of blacks, grays, and deep blood reds.

And hanging in the center, displayed like a museum piece, was a dress.

It was black silk, suspended on straps no thicker than fishing line. It was the kind of dress that looked like it would pool on the floor like ink if you dropped it. No zippers, no buttons. Just a slip of fabric designed to cling to every insecurity I had.

I reached out and touched the hem. It was soft, and looks obscenely expensive.

I felt a wave of nausea roll through me. This wasn't a gift. It was a costume. He was dressing me up like a doll in his playhouse. If I put it on, I was agreeing to the role. If I didn't...

The sniper in Nice.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. I grabbed the hanger, ripping it off the rack with enough force to snap the plastic hook, though the wood held firm.

I needed a shower.

The bathroom was a marvel of white marble, but I didn’t care. I turned the shower on as hot as it would go, until steam billowed up and fogged the mirrors. I stripped out of my wet jeans and the oversized sweater that smelled like damp wool. I kicked them into the corner.

Under the water, I didn't cry. I think I was too dehydrated to cry. I just stood there, letting the scalding spray hit my face, hoping it would melt the numbness that had settled in my chest. I scrubbed my skin with the bar of soap sitting in the dish, sandalwood.

His soap.

Of course. Even in here, naked and vulnerable, I had to smell like him. I threw the soap against the tiled wall. It landed with a dull thud, chipping the corner.

I stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel that was fluffier than my pillow back in Ohio. I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at myself.

My eyes were red-rimmed. My skin was pale. I looked like a victim.

"No," I whispered to the reflection. The word sounded foreign.

I wouldn't go down there looking like a kicked puppy. If he wanted a show, I’d give him a performance. But I wouldn’t give him my fear. Not if I could help it.

I dried my hair roughly, letting the dark waves fall around my shoulders. I didn’t have my makeup bag it was buried in one of the boxes, but I found a tube of lipstick in my coat pocket. A dark berry shade I used to wear when I wanted to feel brave. I applied it like war paint, tracing the curve of my lips with a steady hand.

Then, I put on the dress.

It fit. It fit perfectly.

That was the worst part. It skimmed my hips, dipped low in the back to expose my spine, and fell to mid-thigh. It was elegant and beautiful but it made me look like I belonged in this castle of monsters.

I didn't have shoes. My boots were soaked and caked in mud.

So, I went barefoot.

I checked the phone one last time. 6:58 PM.

I opened the bedroom door.

The hallway was empty. I could hear the faint clink of silverware coming from downstairs.

I walked to the staircase. The marble was cold under my bare feet. Every step I took felt heavy, like I was wading through deep water.

Left foot. Right foot. Breathe.

At the bottom of the stairs, the foyer opened up into a sunken living area and a formal dining room. The lights were dimmed, casting long, sharp shadows against the walls. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, throwing orange light across the room.

They were there.

The Blackwood Heirs.

It wasn't just Nico.

Matteo was draped over a leather armchair near the fire, nursing a tumbler of amber liquid. He looked up as I descended, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face.

And there was the third one. Dante.

I hadn’t seen him in the lecture hall. Dante Moretti was the quiet one, the one people said was worse than Nico because you never saw him coming. He was sitting at the long mahogany dining table, sharpening a steak knife on a whetstone.

And then, there was Nico.

He stood at the head of the table, his back to the fire. He had changed out of his suit into a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked casual, domestic even, if you ignored the lethal energy radiating off him.

He was pouring red wine into a crystal glass.

I stopped at the bottom step, my hand gripping the banister so hard my knuckles turned white.

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic scrape of Dante’s knife.

Nico set the wine bottle down. He didn't look up immediately. He took a sip from his own glass, savoring it, before slowly lifting his gaze to meet mine.

His eyes swept over me, starting at my bare feet, traveling up the silk clinging to my legs, lingering on the exposed skin of my chest, and finally landing on my face.

The air in the room grew heavy. I felt like I was standing naked in front of a firing squad.

"Punctual," Nico said. His voice was low, a rumble that I felt in the soles of my feet. "I appreciate that."

"I didn't have much of a choice," I said. My voice was steady. Good.

"There is always a choice, Elena," he countered. "You chose to protect your father. A noble, if foolish, decision.

Matteo whistled low. "Damn, Nico. You were right about the dress. Fits like a glove."

I stiffened, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from their eyes. "Is this necessary? The dress? The audience?"

"We eat dinner together every night," Nico said, gesturing to the empty chair to his right.

"We are a family. And since you are our guest, you will join us."

"I'm not your guest," I snapped. "I'm your hostage."

Dante stopped sharpening the knife. He looked up, his dark eyes bored and unimpressed. "Sit down, Rossi. The food is getting cold."

Nico pulled out the chair to his right. It was a gentlemanly gesture that felt like a trap.

I walked across the Persian rug, conscious of every eye on me. The silk of the dress rustled softly. I stood by the chair.

"Sit," Nico commanded softly.

I sat.

He pushed the chair in, his body brushing against the back of mine. He didn't move away immediately. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above my ear.

"You look breathtaking, Topolino," he whispered. "But you forgot something."

My heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"You're not wearing the necklace I left on the dresser."

I frowned. "There was no necklace."

"Check again next time," he murmured, straightening up. "Because I don't like my gifts being ignored."

He walked to the head of the table and sat down.

The table was set with fine china and silver. In the center was a platter of roasted meat that smelled delicious, but my stomach remained in a tight, nauseous knot.

Nico picked up the bottle of wine and poured a generous amount into my glass. The red liquid swirled, looking too much like blood in the firelight.

"Drink," he said.

"I'm not thirsty."

"I didn't ask if you were thirsty." His eyes locked onto mine, hard and unyielding. "I told you to drink. It will help with the nerves."

I looked at the glass. I looked at the three men surrounding me.

I reached for the glass. My hand shook, the wine rippling against the crystal. I brought it to my lips and took a large swallow. It was dry, oaky, and delicious. It burned on the way down.

"Good girl," Nico said, picking up his fork.

He sliced into his steak, the metal scraping against the china.

"So," he said, casually, as if we were discussing the weather and not my imprisonment. "Tell us, Elena. Did your father ever mention us? Or did he spend all his time counting the money he stole?"

I gripped the stem of the wine glass, the glass biting into my palm. This wasn't just dinner. This was an interrogation. And I was the main course.

The steak on my plate was rare. Red juice pooled around the meat. I stared at it. I felt sick.

"You are not eating," Nico said.

He didn't look at me. He was cutting his own meat. His knife moved in smooth, easy strokes.

"I told you," I said, my voice quiet. "I am not hungry."

"And I told you that I don't care." Nico put a piece of steak in his mouth. He chewed slowly. He swallowed. Then he turned his gray eyes to me. " wasting food is a sin, Elena. Just like stealing."

Across the table, Matteo laughed. He took a sip of his drink. "Her dad knows all about sins, doesn't he?"

I looked at Matteo. "My father is a good man."

The room went quiet. Dante stopped moving. Matteo put his glass down. Nico just stared at me. A small smile touched his lips. It was not a nice smile.

"A good man," Nico repeated. "Is that what he told you?"

"He made a mistake," I said. My hands were shaking in my lap. I squeezed them together to stop it. "He was in debt. He was scared. He didn't want to hurt anyone."

Nico laughed. It was a dark, dry sound.

"He didn't want to hurt anyone?" Nico asked. "Elena, he stole five million dollars from my family. Because of him, people died. Because of him, my father had to make... difficult choices."

Nico leaned forward. The firelight danced in his eyes.

"Your father didn't steal to pay a debt," Nico said. "He stole because he is greedy. He bought a villa in France. He bought sports cars. He bought a life of luxury while you were working double shifts at a diner in Ohio."

I froze. "How do you know about the diner?"

"I know everything," Nico said. "I know you hate eggs. I know you sleep with a light on. And I know your father hasn't called you in three weeks."

It hurt. The truth hit me like a slap. My dad hadn't called. I told myself it was for safety. But maybe Nico was right. Maybe he was just enjoying the money.

"Eat," Nico commanded again.

I picked up my fork. My hand felt heavy. I took a small bite of the potatoes. They tasted like dust in my dry mouth.

"See?" Matteo said. "She can follow orders."

"She is learning," Nico said. "But she is slow."

Nico reached over. He took my plate.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"You are struggling," he said. "Let me help."

He picked up his knife and fork. He began to cut my steak for me. He cut it into small, perfect bite-sized pieces. It was something a parent does for a child. But when Nico did it, it felt dangerous. It showed total control.

He finished cutting. He pushed the plate back to me.

"Now," he said. "Finish it."

I ate. I forced myself to swallow every bite. I didn't look at him. I looked at the table. I looked at the fire. I looked anywhere but his face.

The room was quiet for a long time. Just the sound of forks on plates and the rain against the window.

Then, a sound broke the silence.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

It was a vibration. A phone buzzing against the wood of the table.

I looked around. Matteo checked his pocket. Dante ignored it.

Nico reached into his pocket. He pulled out a phone.

But it wasn't his sleek, black phone.

It was an old phone. The screen was cracked.

The case was blue plastic.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was my old phone. The one I threw in the trash can at the train station two months ago. The one I destroyed so no one could track me.

"You..." I whispered. "How do you have that?"

"I told you," Nico said calmly. "You can't hide from me."

The phone was still buzzing. The screen lit up. A name flashed on the cracked glass.

DAD

My heart stopped.

Nico looked at the screen. Then he looked at me. His eyes were cold and amused.

"Well," Nico said. "Speak of the devil."

He placed the phone in the middle of the table. He didn't answer it yet. He just let it ring.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

"He is calling to check on you," Nico said. "Or maybe he needs more money. What do you think?"

"Don't," I begged. tears pricked my eyes.

"Please don't."

"If I answer," Nico said softly, "I can trace the call. I can have his location in ten seconds. My men are already in France. They are just waiting for an address."

I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor. "Leave him alone!"

Matteo stood up too, blocking my path to the door. I was trapped.

Nico didn't stand. He just sat there, his finger hovering over the green button on the screen.

"I will give you a choice, Elena," Nico said. The room felt very small. "You can answer it. You can tell him you are fine. You can tell him you are happy at school. You can lie to him so he stays hidden."

He paused.

"Or," Nico continued, "I can answer it. And I can tell him that his daughter belongs to me now."

The phone rang again. It was going to voicemail soon.

"Choose," Nico hissed. "Now."

I looked at the phone. I looked at Nico's cruel face.

I reached out my shaking hand and grabbed the phone. I pressed the green button.

"Hello?" My voice was a whisper.

"Elena?" My father's voice came through the speaker. He sounded happy. Drunk, maybe. "El, honey! You won't believe the view from here. The water is so blue."

He was safe. He was happy. He didn't know I was in hell.

Nico watched me. He pointed a finger at his own lips.

"Dad," I choked out.

"Listen, honey," my dad said. "I need a small favor. access to the old account. Just for a few days. I met some people, and..."

He was asking for money.

Nico’s smile grew wide. He leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. He had proven his point. My father didn't care about my safety.

He cared about the cash.

"Dad, I can't," I said.

"Come on, El," my dad's voice got harder. "Don't be difficult. I did everything for you."

Nico held up his hand. He made a cutting motion across his throat. End it.

"I have to go, Dad," I said.

"Elena, wait…"

I hung up.

The silence in the room was heavy. I stared at the black screen. I felt empty.

"See?" Nico said softly. He stood up and walked over to me. He stood behind me. I could feel his heat. He moved my hair away from my neck.

"He doesn't love you, Elena," Nico whispered into my ear. "He sold you for a view of the ocean."

I closed my eyes. A tear slipped out.

"But don't worry," Nico said. His hand moved down my arm. He gripped my elbow. "You have a new family now."

He turned me around to face him. His face was hard as stone.

"And tomorrow," Nico said, "we start your payment plan."

"What payment plan?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Nico reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tucked it into the top of my dress, right against my skin. It felt like a blade.

"Read it before you sleep," he said. "If you refuse, I call your father back. And I won't be asking for money."

He turned and walked out of the room. Matteo and Dante followed him.

I was left alone in the big, cold dining room.

I reached into my dress and pulled out the paper. I unfolded it with shaking fingers.

It wasn't a list of chores. It wasn't a bill.

It was a single sentence written in black ink.

Task 1: Ruin the Professor.

I stared at the words, I didn't understand.

Then I turned the paper over, on the back, there was a name.

Professor Arthur Vance.

My uncle. The only family member who had nothing to do with the crime. The only good man I knew.