Chapter Twenty-One - Photos, Food, and Assets

“Can I see the photos?”

The question was casual. Too casual.

Like she already knew the answer.

I didn’t respond right away. I watched her instead—how she held the fork carefully, how she tried to chew slowly, politely, like she wasn’t starving. Her posture was controlled, but her eyes betrayed her. They flicked to the stack of photos again and again, hunger of a different kind sharpening her focus.

Information hunger.

That was more dangerous than the other kind.

I grabbed three photos off the island and slid them across the counter, setting them just beyond the edge of her plate.

“Don’t touch anything else,” I said.

She nodded once, already leaning forward.

I caught the way her pace changed—how the food became secondary, how she ate faster now, controlled but urgent. I smirked despite myself.

Then she froze.

Fork paused halfway to her mouth.

Her eyes locked on one of the photos.

Not the twins’ faces.

The wall behind them.

“That,” she said quietly.

I stilled.

She swallowed, set the fork down carefully, and lifted her bound hands just enough to point—precise, unwavering.

“My father is backing them.”

The words landed wrong.

Too calm.

Too certain.

I didn’t move. “Explain.”

She pointed again, tapping the photo lightly with her fingertip.

“The graffiti behind them,” she said. “That tag.”

I leaned closer despite myself.

A symbol. Sharp lines. Interlocking angles. Stylized crown hidden in the negative space.

I’d seen it before.

Assumed it was street noise.

“I designed that,” she continued, voice flat. “High school. Art class. I used it everywhere—binders, sketchbooks, abandoned buildings.”

My jaw tightened.

“My father liked it,” she said. “Said it was memorable. Said symbols mattered. He asked if he could… adapt it.”

The kitchen felt colder.

“You’re telling me,” I said carefully, “that Vincenzo Moretti is branding the Sage twins’ territory with your work.”

“Yes.”

I straightened slowly.

“That means he’s not just backing them,” I said. “He’s claiming them.”

She nodded once. No dramatics. No satisfaction.

“He wouldn’t do that unless he wanted you distracted,” she added. “Or bleeding.”

I stared at the photos again, seeing them differently now.

The twins weren’t the threat.

They were the delivery system.

I exhaled through my nose. “Your father’s using my streets to start a war.”

“And leaving me here,” she said quietly. “As leverage. Or bait.”

That hit harder than it should have.

I looked at her—really looked. Chained, eating at my counter, unraveling a conspiracy while trying not to show how badly she needed food.

“You didn’t hesitate,” I said. “You didn’t try to bargain with that information.”

She met my eyes. “Because it’s not a weapon against you. It’s a warning.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then I nodded once.

“Finish eating,” I said. “We’re going to talk strategy.”

Her brow furrowed. “We?”

I smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Your father just put his signature on my territory,” I said. “That makes this personal.”

I tapped the photo with my finger.

“And since you’re the only person in this room who recognized it…”

I met her gaze.

“…you’re not just my captive anymore.”

Her eyes sharpened.

Not fear.

Interest.

“And what am I?” she asked.

I leaned back against the counter.

“An asset,” I said. “Whether you like it or not.”

She picked up her fork again, this time without pretending to eat slowly.

I watched her finish the plate.

Not because I didn’t trust her.

Because I wanted to see what she did when no one was ordering her to hurry, hide, or perform.

She ate steadily now. No pretenses. No hesitation. The last bite disappeared, and she set the fork down carefully, like she didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’d cleaned the plate.

Then she surprised me.

“I’ve never had breakfast like this before.”

I stilled.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the countertop. “I was raised on bread. Grits. Oats. Cheap things that filled you up.”

That didn’t match anything I knew about the Moretti family.

“They had money,” I said. “Plenty of it.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Just not for me.”

I leaned back against the island, arms folding loosely. “Why?”

She hesitated, then spoke anyway.

“My brothers ate like this,” she said. “Eggs. Meat. Whatever they wanted. But they always told me it would make me sick.”

“Sick,” I repeated.

She nodded. “That rich food would upset my stomach. That I was better off with simple things. That it was safer.”

Safer.

I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.

“And you believed them,” I said.

“I was a kid,” she replied quietly. “And they were all I had.”

I didn’t respond right away.

The picture sharpened: a girl trained to be invisible, useful, obedient. Fed just enough. Protected just enough. Never indulged. Never allowed softness.

Even now, she looked vaguely uncomfortable admitting it.

I pushed the empty plate aside. “Did it make you sick?”

She shook her head once. “No.”

“Good.”

She glanced up at me then, eyes searching. “You’re not going to—”

“Use it against you?” I finished.

Her mouth pressed thin. “Yes.”

I shook my head. “Hunger makes people sloppy. I prefer my assets clear-headed.”

She snorted softly. “You really can’t stop calling me that.”

“I call things what they are.”

She studied me for a long moment. “Then what are you?”

The question caught me off guard.

I answered anyway. “Someone who doesn’t lie about food.”

Her gaze softened—not much, but enough that I noticed.

She looked down at her cuffed wrists, then back at the plate. “Thank you,”