Chapter 5: Silent Shards

The room smelled faintly of wine and dust, the kind of damp heaviness that seeps into your lungs until it feels like you’ve been breathing regret itself. The shards of broken glass still lay scattered across the floor where Marcelo had cornered me hours ago, jagged little reminders of how reckless I’d been, how far I’d fallen. I stayed curled up in the far corner of the room, knees to my chest, as if shrinking small enough could make me invisible.

The bed loomed in front of me, neatly made, sheets too pristine, like some cruel joke. I refused to sit there. Beds were for guests. Beds were for people who belonged. I wasn’t here to stay. I wasn’t here to sleep. I was here because I was trapped.

I stared down at my phone, hands trembling, eyes swollen from crying. My call log was a graveyard of unanswered attempts—Elena, Elena, Elena—each one mocking me with its silence. Dozens of texts sent into the void, delivered but never replied to. My chest ached with a betrayal I still couldn’t wrap my mind around.

Elena had tricked me.

I knew it deep down, even when I told myself otherwise. Even when I plastered on fake smiles and told myself I was strong enough to play her game. But denial had been easier than this truth—easier than admitting that I’d been nothing more than a pawn in whatever dangerous scheme she’d shoved me into.

The tears came again, merciless. I pressed the heel of my palm against my eyes as if I could force them back inside. My thumb hovered over Laura’s contact. My best friend. My safe place. But what would I even say?

“Hey, Laura, guess what? I’m trapped in a mafia lord’s house like some sacrificial lamb because I was tricked and I’m pretending to be someone else”

Was it going to be as easy as that? No. The words stuck like thorns in my throat. I couldn’t explain everything to her in a space where I felt nothing but looming danger. I couldn’t drag her into this mess. I couldn’t even process it myself. Dumping it on Laura would crush us both.

So I sat there, alone, shaking, the sound of my own breathing too loud in the silence.

A creak startled me—soft footsteps in the hallway, then the faint rattle of keys in the lock. My whole body went rigid, blood draining from my face. My heart slammed so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest.

Marcelo.

The thought alone was enough to make bile rise in my throat.

The door eased open, and I scrambled up to my feet, back pressing flat against the wall, bracing myself for him. For his voice, his stare, his cruelty.

But it wasn’t him.

A girl slipped inside, head bowed, holding a broom, a mop and a dustpan. She wore a plain gray uniform, her dark hair tied tightly at the nape of her neck. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one.

A cleaner.

Relief swept over me so sharp it almost hurt. My knees wobbled, but I held myself steady, watching her as she bent to sweep up the shards of glass Marcelo had left behind. Her movements were stiff, mechanical, like every motion she made felt monitored.

I studied her carefully. She didn’t look at me. Not once. But I saw the dread etched into every twitch of her shoulders, every shallow breath she took. It radiated from her, this quiet hopelessness, and in it I saw a mirror of myself, Rae Ross —my struggles, my encasement, my current inevitable feeling of hopelessness. But right now, I was Elena Caro. And Elena wasn’t supposed to cower in the corner of a dim room like a prisoner.

Still, I couldn’t shake the unease. If Marcelo’s own staff looked this terrified, what did that say about the kind of man he really was?

The girl’s broom scraped softly against the floor. She moved with the urgency of someone desperate to be anywhere else.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to sound casual, almost teasing. “This house is like a maze, you know. Sometimes I forget where everything is.”

I said, looking around in utter curiosity.

My attempt at humor landed flat. The second I mentioned his name, her hands froze mid-motion.

Marcelo.

Her eyes flickered up for the briefest second—wide, terrified—before she lowered them again, sweeping faster, like the word itself had cursed the air. She said nothing. Not a sound.

My chest tightened. “Do you… know where he is?”

Her only answer was silence. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the broom in one hand and the mop in the other, sweeping the last of the glass with trembling urgency before dragging the mop over the dark streaks of spilled wine. Without so much as a glance, she dumped the shards into the dustpan, abandoned both broom and mop by the wall, darted for the door, and slipped out. The lock clicked sharply behind her.

Gone.

Just like that.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, the echo of her silence louder than any words. She was too afraid to even acknowledge me. Too afraid to speak Marcelo’s name.

And that told me everything.

He wasn’t just feared. He was untouchable.

I had previously glanced down at the name stitched into her uniform: Amy Martin. The letters blurred in my vision as my mind replayed her trembling hands, her eyes filled with the same quiet terror that gripped me now. She was so young—barely twenty-one, maybe younger. A girl who should’ve been living, laughing, studying, anything but working here in a house suffocating with fear.

And yet, she was trapped. Just like me.

A wave of guilt pressed heavy on my chest. In less than a month, I’d turn twenty-five. Not that birthdays had ever meant much to me. No cakes, no candles, no parties. Just another day where I’d sacrifice what little I had for my mother, Olivia, and for my sister, Fae. I’d never allowed myself to celebrate. Never allowed myself to want.

And now? I might not even live to see twenty-five. Marcelo could snuff me out before then, and I’d vanish without even a memory of a proper birthday.

A sob tore out of me, raw and bitter. I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, whispering to myself. If I survive this, if I ever get out of here, I’ll make the next one count. I’ll celebrate. I’ll enjoy it. I won’t waste yet another birthday.

The promise felt fragile, like glass, but I clung to it anyway.

I checked my phone again, praying for some miracle, some sliver of hope. The clock glowed cruelly back at me: 10:00 PM. Hours wasted in fear, in silence.

And then—

A buzz in my hand.

My screen lit up.

A message.

From Elena.

Marcelo is not who you think he is.

My blood ran cold.

Not who I think he is? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I stared at the words until they blurred. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else. Confusion and fear tangled in my chest like barbed wire.

If Marcelo wasn’t who I thought he was, then who was he? And why was Elena only telling me now, after abandoning me, after throwing me into his hands like a lamb to the slaughter?

The phone slipped slightly in my trembling grip as a thousand questions crashed over me.

And for the first time since I’d stepped into this nightmare, I realized the truth:

I had no idea what kind of danger I was really in.