Chapter 7 : A Taste of Domesticity

When Olivia opened her eyes, the room was bathed in a soft, low amber glow emitted from subtle baseboard lights. The heavy, dark canopy bed felt warm, cocooned in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, but the reality of her situation hit her before her eyes could fully focus.

She turned her head slightly. Salvatore was gone, though the indentation of his head remained on the pillow beside her, along with the faint, lingering scent of his woodsmoke cologne.

Olivia tried to shift her legs, but the soft cream-colored leather cuffs were still anchored around her ankles, the short six-inch strap linking them together with a muted, metallic clink. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, wincing as her shoulders protested the strain of yesterday’s captivity. Her wrists, though freed, were still faintly tinted pink, though the balm Salvatore had applied overnight had taken away the worst of the sting.

A sharp chime sounded at the door.

Olivia pulled the duvet up to her collarbone instinctively, her heart picking up its usual terrified rhythm.

The heavy oak door swung open, but it wasn’t Salvatore who stepped through. Instead, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman in a crisp charcoal wool skirt and white blouse entered the room. She carried a large folded stack of fresh clothes across one arm, with a small silver key ring resting in her hand. Her face was stoic, her eyes disciplined and polite, carrying the unmistakable posture of someone accustomed to absolute discretion.

“Good morning, Miss James,” the woman said, her voice calm and even. “I am Elena. I handle the household details for Don Salvatore.”

Olivia stared at her, her voice catching in her throat. “Elena... please. Please help me. He kidnapped me. You have to call the police, or—”

“Miss James,” Elena interrupted gently, setting the neatly folded clothes down on the foot of the bed without a flicker of panic or emotion. “The Don does not permit telephone calls from the lower wing. I am here to assist you with your morning routine.”

The clinical efficiency in the woman’s tone crushed the fragile ember of hope in Olivia’s chest. This wasn’t a maid who was oblivious; this was someone fully integrated into Salvatore Capone’s absolute authority.

Elena knelt at the edge of the mattress, taking the small brass key from her ring. Without a word, she unlocked the leather cuffs from Olivia’s ankles.

“You may step down,” Elena said, standing up and gesturing toward the open archway of the en-suite bathroom. “Don Salvatore has instructed that you take a warm shower and dress before he joins you for breakfast.”

Olivia swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the plush, dark carpet. Her legs felt weak, like lead, but she stood up anyway, taking a slow, cautious step. Her ankle cuffs were gone, but the ghost of their weight remained stamped into her mind.

She walked past Elena into the bathroom. It was as lavish as the bedroom—a sprawling space of dark Italian marble, double vanities with gold fixtures, a massive soaking tub, and a glass-enclosed rainfall shower. Sitting on the marble counter was a row of high-end toiletries: vanilla and sandalwood body wash, expensive shampoo, and a plush white bathrobe.

Olivia turned the shower handle, letting the water run until steam filled the glass enclosure. Stepping under the spray, she closed her eyes as the hot water cascaded over her skin, washing away the sweat, tears, and exhaustion of the past thirty-six hours. She scrubbed her skin until it turned red, desperately trying to erase the ghost of Salvatore’s touch, the feel of his broad hands on her waist, the shadow of his body pressing against hers in the dark.

When she finally stepped out, wrapping herself tightly in the heavy terrycloth robe, she caught sight of her reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. Her dark curls were damp and wild, her hazel eyes rimmed with red, her pale face looking smaller than ever. But beneath the fear, the stubborn set of her jaw remained.

I am still in here, she told herself firmly, wiping a hand across the glass. He can lock the doors, but he hasn’t destroyed me.

She walked back into the bedroom. Elena was gone, but the stack of clothes lay waiting on the edge of the mattress. Olivia picked them up—a cream silk blouse, a soft charcoal cashmere cardigan, and dark, perfectly tailored trousers. There was no underwire bra; instead, a soft silk bralette and matching lace underwear lay on top.

She dressed quickly, the expensive fabrics feeling unnaturally smooth against her skin. It felt surreal—a captive wearing clothes that likely cost more than two months of her old apartment’s rent.

Just as she fastened the top button of her cardigan, the double doors clicked open again.

Salvatore stepped inside.

He was dressed impeccably in a dark three-piece suit, his dark tie fastened with a gold bar, his dark hair combed back neatly. The three faint claw marks she had left on his cheekbone were visible, a pale pink reminder of her defiance that looked stark against his tanned skin.

His hazel eyes swept over her, taking in her wet curls, the fitted clothes, and the guarded, defensive stance she immediately assumed. A slow, dark satisfaction warmed his gaze.

“You look beautiful, dolcezza,” Salvatore murmured, walking toward her with effortless, dangerous grace.

Olivia stood her ground, though her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Is this how it works now? You dress me up like a doll and pretend this is normal?”

Salvatore stopped a foot away from her, leaning down slightly so his dark eyes were level with hers. “This is normal now. Your old life was a struggle for survival. Your new life is dedicated to me. The sooner you stop resisting the shift, the less painful it will be for you.”

He reached out, his long fingers lightly cupping her chin. Olivia flinched, but she forced herself not to pull away, knowing by now that retreat only prompted him to close the distance. Salvatore’s thumb traced her jawline, his expression softening just a fraction.

“Come,” he said softly, letting his hand drop to wrap around her wrist—not aggressively, but with an iron grip that left no room for debate. “Breakfast is waiting.”

He led her out of the subterranean master suite, through the heavy reinforced door, and up the grand winding staircase into the main body of the estate.

Olivia looked around with sharp, observant eyes. The mansion was vast, grand, and silent. Soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking dense, private woodlands, and polished marble floors that echoed under their footsteps. Modern security cameras hung discreetly in every corner, their small red lenses tracking their movement.

He brought her into a sunlit conservatory at the back of the house. A glass table was set for two, laden with silver domed platters, fresh berries, hot pastries, porcelain cups, and a carafe of steaming black coffee.

Salvatore pulled out a chair for her. “Sit.”

Olivia sat down slowly, her eyes fixing on the spread of food. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that despite her anger, her body needed fuel.

Salvatore sat across from her, unfolding a linen napkin into his lap. He poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the table toward her, along with a small pitcher of cream.

“Drink,” he instructed gently, picking up his own cup. “I know how you take it.”

Olivia looked at the porcelain cup. It smelled rich, dark, and fresh—exactly like the blend she used to pull at The Daily Grind. She picked up the cream, pouring a splash into the dark liquid, watching it swirl into a soft tan shade.

She took a sip. It was perfect. A bitter, ironic reminder of the night he had stood on the other side of her counter, watching her with those dark, terrifying eyes while her life was still her own.

“What happens now, Salvatore?” she asked quietly, setting the cup back on its saucer with a delicate click. “You brought me here. You stripped me of my life. Am I just going to be locked in that room forever?”

Salvatore set his cup down, resting his elbows on the table, folding his hands together as he stared at her across the spread of breakfast.

“No,” Salvatore said smoothly, his baritone calm and absolute. “You will have the run of the main house once you have proven your obedience. You will have tutors, books, clothes, whatever you desire within these walls. But you will not leave this property. You will not contact anyone from your past. And every evening, you will return to my bed.”

He leaned forward, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with a dark, uncompromising weight.

“You are my wife in every way that matters to me, Olivia. The world outside no longer exists for you. Only this house. Only this room. And only me.”