Chapter 6

The morning after the dinner incident arrived, heavy with the oppressive reality of Luna’s new protection. The entire atmosphere of the Vitiello mansion had changed. It no longer felt merely guarded; it felt contained, locked down by a foreign, clinical force. The subtle shift in the house staff, their eyes darting, their steps quieter, their movements tentative, confirmed that Damon Volkov’s silent authority was already absolute.

He didn't have to speak; his sheer, unmoving presence was a threat far greater than any verbal command.

Luna sat in her private sitting room, a space she had always considered a sanctuary. Now, the room felt smaller, the expensive velvet furnishings a heavy reminder of the cage. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, watching the light pool on the polished wooden floor. Her mind was a continuous, anxious loop, replaying the fraction of a second when Dante's hand had been checked by Volkov's gaze. It was an anomaly in her predictable, terror-filled life, an act of intervention that her mind, starved for safety, desperately wanted to interpret as protection. The fear remained absolute, but it now had a singular, terrifying focus.

She had spent the morning preparing her mind, rehearsing the submission that Volkov expected. The trauma that stole her voice also demanded stillness, but now that stillness was a performance for the unreadable man guarding her. Any deviation, she knew, would be perceived as a threat to his protocol.

The door opened without a knock, though not by Volkov. It was Rocco Santini, her disgraced former bodyguard, now relegated to Volkov’s peripheral errand runner. His loyalty to the Don was absolute, but his face was etched with humiliation and palpable resentment directed entirely at the man who had replaced him. He entered with a small, folded note in his hand, his eyes avoiding Luna's as if she were a source of contagion.

"The schedule is changed," Rocco muttered, his voice rough and low, thick with barely concealed anger.

"Volkov has initiated a new protocol. From now until further notice, you are confined to the East Wing and the library, only with his direct authorization." He extended the note, not a polite notification, but a terse, final decree. "You will be in the study with the Don in thirty minutes. You will not leave this room without his instruction."

Luna took the note, her fingers brushing Rocco’s. His skin felt clammy and cold. She unfolded the paper. It was not signed, but printed in thick, severe typeface: PROTOCOL 1.02. The language was military-precise, detailing her limited zones of movement, her restricted interaction with household staff, and a mandated one-foot distance from all personnel, including her father, while in transit. The note ended with a single, blunt sentence that sent a violent chill through her body: Deviation will result in immediate, full-force correction.

The word correction was not a gentle term. It was a terrifying ultimatum cloaked in procedure, a promise that he would dominate her physically and immediately to enforce his command, if necessary. The silent, dominant shadow was now writing the rules of her breathing and movement.

Thirty minutes later, Volkov arrived to escort her. He filled the doorway, his immense frame a black wall against the sunlit corridor. He did not speak. He simply stood, waiting, the silence a powerful, unyielding demand. Luna rose immediately, her movement stiff, compliant, her internal panic screaming against the iron demand for stillness.

As they walked down the main corridor toward the Don's study, the difference between Volkov and her previous protectors was stark. Rocco had walked respectfully beside her, occasionally making polite inquiries. Volkov walked slightly behind her and to her left, a position that gave him total control over her peripheral view and immediate access to her back. He was not a companion; he was a silent, terrifying instrument of containment, controlling the very air around her.

The distance he kept, exactly one foot, as prescribed, was suffocating. She could feel the subtle shift of the expensive fabric of his suit, the low hum of his immense presence, yet his silence was absolute. The lack of sound was far more menacing than any spoken threat; it was the chilling sound of a trap snapping shut.

The corridor was long, lined with ancient portraits of past Vitiello patriarchs. As they passed one heavy, velvet-draped alcove, a member of the house staff, a young woman who had worked in the kitchen for years, emerged unexpectedly, carrying a tray of porcelain cups. She saw Luna and froze, her eyes widening in surprise and immediate terror at the sight of the giant man behind her.

She managed a frightened, apologetic whisper: "Signora, forgive me, I, "

Before the young woman could complete the sentence, Volkov moved. It wasn't a sudden lunge, but a single, terrifying shift of momentum. He didn't touch the staff member. He didn't speak. He simply executed a precise positional block, moving his massive body laterally to intercept the woman's path and momentarily shielding Luna completely from her view. The entire action was less than a second long, but the impact was absolute. The house rule had been broken, and the correction was swift.

The woman stumbled backward, dropping the tray. The porcelain shattered on the marble floor with a sharp, sickening crash, the sound splitting the heavy silence like a gunshot.

Volkov turned his head and finally, he spoke.

His voice was a deep, low resonance that did not rise above a controlled murmur, yet it filled the corridor, sending a bone-deep tremor through the air. It was a sound that commanded complete, involuntary obedience, a cold, dominant rumble that held the promise of irreversible consequences.

"Protocol 1.02, Section B. Maintain distance. Failure to comply is grounds for termination."

The threat was glacial, delivered with the utter detachment of reading a manual. He did not look at the broken cups or the frightened woman, who was now weeping silent, terrified tears. He spoke to the air, to the rulebook, and the consequence was clear: his protocol was not negotiable, and human error would be dealt with permanently. His cold, demanding tone was worse than any shout, more brutal than any fit of anger.

He returned his attention to the corridor. The small, violent display was over. Luna had witnessed the ruthless efficiency firsthand. The paralyzing fear that gripped the young staff member was now the terror that gripped Luna. The Correction he had promised in the note was not limited to her, but to anyone who dared to cross his invisible, controlled lines.

They continued their walk to the study, the shards of porcelain and the young woman’s broken sobs echoing behind them. Luna’s head felt heavy, her chest tight with unspent air. The tiny sliver of hope that had bloomed the night before was now poisoned by the fear of his total control. She was safe from the outside, perhaps, but she was never safe from him.

He keeps me safe, she thought, her internal voice desperate and frail. He keeps me safe from them, but who keeps me safe from him?

The truth of her situation was sinking in: the predator was now guarding the cage. And he expected a perfect, soundless compliance that matched his own ruthless protocol. Her silence, always a shield, now felt like a perfect, convenient tool for the cold man at her back.

Volkov stopped outside the Don’s massive oak doors. He stood motionless, his shadow falling over her small form. The silent scrutiny was now amplified by the knowledge of his brutal capability. He was not merely a bodyguard; he was an executioner of protocol. She waited, locked in submission, until he gave the next, unspoken command.