جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 20

The new law of Luna’s captivity began immediately. Following Volkov’s cold, mandatory instruction, she was forced to prepare herself for the imminent arrival of the Don’s guests, a group of powerful associates who required the display of Vitiello’s stability. Luna’s chambers now felt not like a place of temporary safety, but a waiting room where she simply endured the silence until the next command forced her into motion.She dressed slowly, meticulously selecting a dress that was high-necked and sleeved, a subconscious defense against the world, and now, perhaps, against the man waiting outside her door. The faint bruise on her wrist, a dull purple testament to Volkov’s punishing grip in the hallway, throbbed with a residual ache. It was a private mark of his dominion, a constant reminder that her body was no longer her own, not even in its stillness.When the time came, she did not wait for Volkov to enter her room. She walked to the closed mahogany door and stood there, perfectly s

The morning did not break; it shattered. The sun that streamed through the heavy velvet drapes of Luna’s bedroom was not warm. It was a harsh, exposing white light that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, each one ticking down the seconds of her remaining freedom.Fourteen days.The number sat in the center of Luna’s chest like a lead weight, pressing against her lungs, making every breath a shallow, calculated effort. She had not slept. Every time her eyes had closed, the darkness behind her lids had morphed into the wrinkled, cruel face of Vincenzo Moretti, his hands reaching for her in the dark. And then, the image would shift, and the hands would become larger, colder, and familiar, the heavy, unyielding grip of Damon Volkov.She sat at the small antique vanity in her room, her reflection staring back at her. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, a stark contrast to her pale complexion. She looked like a ghost haunting her own life.She picked up a silver foun

The storm arrived three hours after dinner, a violent, thrashing thing that battered the Vitiello mansion with sheets of rain and wind that screamed against the stone. It was the kind of weather that made the massive house feel like a ship lost at sea, groaning under the pressure of the elements.Luna sat on the edge of her bed, her hands gripping the silk duvet. The room was illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning that tore through the gaps in the heavy curtains, illuminating the room in harsh, strobe-light bursts of white.Damon Volkov was there.He was always there now.He had resumed his position in the armchair by the door, a sentinel of darkness. He hadn't spoken since the training session in the ballroom. He sat in absolute silence, cleaning a black semi-automatic pistol.The sound of the metal slide clicking back, the soft scrape of the cleaning cloth, and the metallic snap of the magazine being reinserted were the only sounds in the room besides the thunder.Cl

The basement gym of the Vitiello estate was not designed for wellness; it was designed for punishment.It was a vast, windowless chamber of grey concrete and exposed steel pipes, smelling of cold iron, rubber, and the sterile sting of antiseptic.The air here was recycled, pumped in through humming vents that sounded like a mechanical lung breathing for the room.The lighting was harsh fluorescent strips that buzzed overhead, casting zero shadows and offering zero comfort.Luna stood by the row of heavy black machines, her arms wrapped around herself.She was wearing leggings and a loose t-shirt that Volkov had procured from somewhere—likely stolen from a male staff member’s locker, given how it swallowed her frame.It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and impersonal neglect.Damon Volkov stood across the room by the weight rack.He had shed his suit jacket.It was the first time she had seen him wit

Luna: POVThe bruise on my stomach was a living thing.It pulsed with a hot, sick rhythm against the silk of my dress, a secret reminder of the promise my father had made at midnight. Smile, he had said. Or the cellar.I stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing the cream fabric over my hips. The dress was beautiful—expensive, soft, and terrifying. It was the costume of the girl I had to become.I took a breath. It hurt. My ribs ached from the kick, but the pain was useful. It kept me sharp. It kept the tears locked behind my eyes.Statues don’t bleed, Volkov had told me in the gym.Princesses don’t cry, my father had threatened in the dark.I looked at my reflection. I forced the corners of my mouth up. It felt unnatural, like stretching rubber, but I held it. I widened my eyes, trying to banish the hollow, haunted look that Volkov had been studying for weeks. I had to look bright. Vapid. Greedy.A knock at the door.My heart stuttered. I grabbed my clutch, gripping it hard