Chapter 6: Him

VITTORIA'SS POV 

The room was silent in the way cages always were.

Not peaceful, measured. Sound absorbed by stone and steel, footsteps muted somewhere beyond the walls. I sat on the narrow bed without touching the bars, my back straight, my breathing slow. Panic burned calories. Stillness conserved them.

They would expect fear.

They would not get it.

I catalogued the room the way I always did when placed somewhere new. Dimensions first. Six steps from wall to wall. Ceiling high enough to discourage claustrophobia, low enough to remind you of limits. One door, steel, reinforced hinges on the outside. No handle on my side. Bars instead of glass on the window; thick, welded, set deep into the stone. No immediate weaknesses.

Not yet.

I lay back and closed my eyes not to rest, but to listen.

Two guards outside the door. One pacing. One stationary. Footsteps every twenty-seven seconds, give or take. The hum of electricity threaded through the walls, steady, reliable. Somewhere deeper in the estate, metal struck metal; training. Men who did this every day, not men hired for convenience.

This was not Stefano’s work alone.

This was a place built to keep people.

Good.

It meant there were patterns.

Patterns broke.

I let my thoughts drift, not to comfort, but to clarity. My father’s breath had been shallow the last time I saw him. His skin pale, eyes heavy. I had known he wouldn’t last the week. Stefano had known too.

He had moved faster than I expected.

I smiled faintly into the dark.

My brother had always misunderstood me. He thought strength announced itself loudly, that power was taken through force and cruelty. He thought winning meant standing on top of bodies.

He never understood that real power was quieter.

That it waited.

I rose and paced the room slowly, counting steps again, dragging my fingers lightly along the walls. No cameras inside. That was intentional. They wanted observation without intrusion. Control without chaos.

I respected that.

At the door, I pressed my ear against the cold metal. Voices passed briefly—Italian, accented, unfamiliar. Not Stefano’s men. Not Cosa Nostra.

So this was him.

The man I had been sold to.

I tested the bars next, careful not to rattle them. Solid. Anchored deep. Escape would not be immediate. That was fine. Impatience got people killed.

I returned to the bed and sat, folding my hands in my lap. I did not tremble. I did not fidget.

If they were watching, I wanted them to see composure.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Time lost meaning quickly in places like this.

Then the lock turned.

The door opened partway, guarded. A woman stepped in—older, posture rigid, eyes assessing. She placed a tray on the small table bolted to the floor. Water. Food. Simple.

“You should eat,” she said. Neutral. Professional.

I looked at the tray, then back at her. “Is it poisoned?”

Her mouth twitched, just slightly. “No.”

“Then I will eat later.”

She hesitated, then nodded and left without another word.

I smiled again.

They were curious already.

Night fell quietly. The light outside dimmed, shadows stretching across the stone floor. I lay down fully this time, eyes open, counting breaths. I would not sleep deeply—not yet. Sleep was vulnerability.

Footsteps approached again, slower this time. Heavier.

The guards stiffened outside the door.

The lock turned.

He entered alone.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still. The kind of man who didn’t need to fill space to dominate it. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp, assessing. I will admit, he was very Handsome. He did not look at the bars first. He looked at me.

I met his gaze without blinking.

“So,” he said calmly, “you must be Vittoria Guerra.”

The way he said my name was deliberate. Testing. Measuring.

“Yes,” I replied.

Nothing else.

He studied me for a long moment, eyes tracking every micro-movement. My breathing. My posture. My stillness. Most men mistook silence for submission.

He did not.

“They told me you would be… difficult,” he said.

“They lie often,” I answered.

A pause. Then, interest.

“You didn’t scream,” he noted. “Didn’t beg. Didn’t ask where you are.”

“I know where I am,” I said. “And screaming is inefficient.”

His lips curved faintly, not a smile, but something close. “Do you know who I am?”

“I know what you are,” I replied. “Your name is secondary.”

That earned me his full attention.

He stepped closer, stopping just short of the invisible line most men crossed without thinking. He respected space. That, too, I noted.

“Nikolai De Luca,” he said. “Don of the ’Ndrangheta.”

I inclined my head slightly. Acknowledgment, not deference.

“I didn’t agree to be here,” I said calmly.

“No,” he replied. “You didn’t.”

“And I will not marry you.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“Your brother disagrees,” he said.

“My brother is a dead man,” I answered. “He simply doesn’t know it yet.”

Something shifted then. Not anger. Amusement.

“You speak as if you have options,” he said.

“I always do.”

He studied me again, slower this time. Not just my face, my hands, my stance, the way I occupied the room. As if reassessing a piece on a board he thought he understood.

“You don’t ask for mercy,” he said quietly.

“Because I don’t need it.”

He straightened. “You will remain here for now.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Rules will be explained to you,” he continued. “Structure is important.”

“Control is important,” I corrected. “Structure is a method.”

His eyes narrowed; approval, perhaps.

“You will eat,” he said. “You will rest. You will not attempt escape.”

I smiled, slow and sharp. “I will do exactly what benefits me.”

For a moment, the air between us was taut, stretched thin.

Then he turned toward the door.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Vittoria Guerra.”

He left without another word, the steel door closing behind him.

I remained where I was, listening to the lock slide back into place.

Sold.

Caged.

Unbroken.

They thought they had taken a woman.

What they had taken was a weapon.

And weapons, when handled carelessly, always turned on the hand that claimed to own them.