Chapter 8: The Golden Cage

I woke up at 6:00 AM.

The sun streamed through the curtains. The ghosts were gone. The headache remained.

I showered. I turned the water to freezing. The cold shock woke my nerves. It washed away the smell of whiskey and stale fear.

I dressed. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. I strapped the holster to my chest. The weight was familiar. It was comforting.

I left the study. I walked down the main staircase.

The house was awake. Maids polished the banisters. Guards stood by the front entrance. They straightened when they saw me. They feared me.

Good.

I walked into the dining room.

Giovanni waited. He held a tablet. He looked tired.

"Report," I said.

"The shipment arrived in Palermo," Giovanni said. "Marco's men tried to intercept. We stopped them. Three casualties on their side. None on ours."

"Good." I sat at the head of the table.

"Send a message to Marco. Tell him the next time he touches my trucks I will burn his port to the ground."

Giovanni typed the note. He hesitated.

"And the girl?" he asked.

I looked at the empty table. Usually, a chef served breakfast. Eggs. Toast.

Coffee.

Today the table was bare.

"Is it done?" I asked.

"Yes Boss. We moved her to the Blue Room. The staff is... confused."

"I do not pay the staff to understand. I pay them to obey."

"Of course. But the Chef is angry. He says she is an amateur. He says she disrupts his kitchen."

"Fire the Chef."

Giovanni blinked. He lowered the tablet.

"Sir? He has been with the family for ten years."

"He is loud," I said. "He is arrogant. And his risotto tastes like paste. Pay him a severance. Get him out."

"Understood."

I stood up. I did not want breakfast from the main kitchen. I wanted the food that made the pain stop.

"Where is she?"

"In her new room. She refuses to come out."

I walked out of the dining room. I climbed the stairs again. I turned left toward the East Wing.

The air changed here. It was quieter. The carpets were thicker. The paintings on the walls were originals. This was the sanctuary of the Moretti bloodline.

I stopped at the second door on the right. The Blue Room.

Two guards stood outside. They nodded. One opened the door for me.

I stepped inside.

The room was large. It had silk wallpaper. It had a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets. It had a balcony overlooking the gardens.

Chloe stood in the center of the room.

She still wore her uniform from yesterday. The cheap fabric looked grey against the blue silk of the room. She hugged herself. She looked terrified.

She saw me. She took a step back.

"Mr. Moretti."

"Lorenzo," I corrected. "If you live in this wing, you use my name."

She swallowed. "Lorenzo."

"Do you like the room?"

She looked around. Her eyes widened. "It is... it is too much. I think there is a mistake. This is a guest room. I am the cook."

"You are not a guest," I said. I walked closer. "Guests can leave. Guests can walk out the front gate."

I stopped in front of her. I towered over her.

"You are an asset. You are a resource."

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"Why am I here?"

"Because of the risotto," I said.

She frowned. She looked confused. " The rice? You moved me because of rice?"

"I moved you because you are the only person in this house who does not poison me."

I reached out. I touched a lock of her hair. It was frizzy. It was soft.

"You have a new job description," I said.

"You do not clean. You do not scrub floors. You do not cook for the guards. You do not cook for the maids."

I let the hair slide through my fingers.

"You cook for me. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. If I want a snack at midnight you cook it. If I want coffee you brew it. No one else touches my food. No one else enters your kitchen."

"My kitchen?"

"The small kitchen in the guest house. It is yours now. Giovanni will give you the key."

She stared at me. She processed the information. She was not stupid. She realized the truth.

"I am a prisoner," she said.

"Yes."

I did not lie to her. Lies are for people you respect. Or people you fear. She was neither.

"You have a debt," I reminded her. "Your mother has medical bills. I bought that debt. You belong to me until it is paid."

I checked my watch. I had a meeting in twenty minutes. I had a war to plan.

"The shower is through that door," I pointed. "There are clothes in the closet. Burn that uniform. It offends me."

I turned to leave.

"Lorenzo?"

I stopped at the door. I looked back.

She stood straight. Her chin went up. She looked small but she looked defiant.

"If I cook for you," she said. "If I do everything you say. Will you promise me something?"

"I make no promises."

"Promise me you won't hurt my mother."

I looked at her. I saw the desperation. I saw the love. It was a weakness. I could use it.

"Feed me," I said. "Keep me healthy. Keep me sane. And your mother lives like a queen."

I opened the door.

"Fail me," I added, "and you both starve."

I walked out. I signaled the guards.

"Lock it."

The lock clicked.

I walked down the hall. My stomach growled. I anticipated lunch. I felt in control. I had the girl. I had the leverage.

I reached the top of the stairs. Giovanni ran up to meet me. He looked pale. He held a phone in his hand.

"Boss," he said. "We have a problem."

"What problem?" I adjusted my cuffs.

"Did Marco attack?"

"No, Sir. It is about the girl. Chloe Rossi."

I stopped. "I just spoke to her. She accepts the terms."

"The terms are void, Sir."

"Explain."

Giovanni swallowed hard. He handed me the phone. "We called the hospital to confirm the payment for her mother's insulin. We wanted to set up the transfer."

"And?"

"The hospital refused the payment, Sir."

"Why?"

"Because the patient is not there." Giovanni looked at the closed door of the Blue Room, then back at me. "Her mother died three days ago, Lorenzo."

The world tilted.

I looked at the phone. I looked at the door.

If her mother was dead, she had no debt.

If she had no debt, she had no reason to be here.

If she had no reason to be here, her fear was a lie.

She was not a desperate daughter. She was a plant. A spy who used a dead woman’s story to get into my house.

I felt the familiar cold rage wash over me.

I reached for my gun.

"Open the door," I commanded.

"Sir?"

"Open the door!" I roared. "She played me."

I turned back toward the Blue Room.

I did not want lunch anymore.

I wanted blood.