جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 30

My lips were burning.I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gripping the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white.The washcloth in my hand was stained with pink, a mix of my lipstick and the blood I had scrubbed from my own skin.I scrubbed for ten minutes. Scalding hot water. Soap that smelled of lavender and chemicals.But I could still taste him.Vincenzo Moretti. The taste of stale wine, dead cigars, and rotting ambition.“I expect better technique on our wedding night.”The memory of his rasping whisper made my stomach heave.I leaned over the toilet, retching nothing but bile.I hadn’t eaten in two days. The steak at lunch had been a performance, chewed and swallowed only to be purged the second I got home.I sat back on the cold tile floor, trembling.Be the marble, Volkov had said.Be the spoiled princess, my father had threatened.I was neither.I was just a girl dissolving in a puddle of expensive silk and terror.The lock on my bedroom door clicked.I froze.I didn

The silence in the armored SUV was suffocating.I sat pressed against the cold leather of the back seat, my arms wrapped around my stomach.The makeup on my back cheap, greasy concealer Dante had given me, felt sticky against the silk of my red dress.I was shivering, but not from the cold. I was shivering from the memory of Moretti’s hand on my bare skin, rubbing the paint, threatening to expose the bruise underneath.Volkov sat in the front seat, a dark silhouette against the passing streetlights. He drove with one hand on the wheel, his other hand resting on his thigh, dangerously close to the gun holstered beneath his jacket.He hadn't spoken since he dragged me off the dance floor. He hadn't asked what I was hiding.To him, I was just a vain girl who had almost ruined the night because I was obsessed with my appearance.I stared out the window at the dark stretch of highway that led back to the estate. The trees were a black blur. I just wanted to be home. I just wanted to lock m

Time didn't pass in the Vitiello mansion; it rotted.Three days.It had been three days since the ambush on the highway. Three days since the explosion of glass and the screech of tires. Three days since Damon Volkov had carried me through the blood-red emergency lights of the courtyard and locked me in this room.I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands folded in my lap, staring at the dust motes dancing in the sliver of light that escaped the heavy velvet drapes.My world had shrunk to four walls, a ceiling with intricate plaster roses, and the man sitting in the armchair by the door.Damon Volkov.He hadn't left.Not for meals. Not for shifts. Not to sleep.He was a permanent fixture of the room, darker and heavier than the antique mahogany wardrobe. He sat in the high-backed chair, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, his black suit jacket discarded on the floor, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the hollow of his throat.He was cleaning his gun again.The sound

The lockdown ended not with a bang, but with a text message.It was Day Five.I was sitting on the floor by the window, tracing the pattern of the rug with my finger. Loop. Twist. Knot.The routine Volkov had built… the feeding, the silence, the rhythm had become a strange, suffocating blanket. I was trapped, yes, but I was hidden.Volkov sat in his chair. He hadn't moved in two hours.A single, short vibration on the wooden table.He picked up his phone. His eyes scanned the screen. His jaw tightened a subtle flexing of muscle that I had learned meant trouble.He stood up.“Get dressed,” he said.I looked up, my hand freezing on the rug. I stared at him, then pointed to the door and shook my head frantically. No.We had three weeks. He promised three weeks.“The lockdown is suspended for four hours,”Volkov stated, his voice flat. “Moretti demands a final fitting. He has sent the car.”Moretti.The name hit me like a physical blow. My stomach cramped.I scrambled to my feet. I ran to

The morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes, casting long, gray shadows across the room.The silence in the room was absolute. Volkov sat in his chair, his presence a heavy, dark gravity that pulled at the edges of my consciousness. He wasn't cleaning his gun today.He was reading a file probably security protocols for the wedding.I sat on the floor by the window, my knees pulled to my chest. I was tracing the pattern of the rug, trying to keep my mind from spiraling.Eighteen days.The countdown was a physical weight pressing against my chest.A knock at the door.It wasn't the rhythmic rap of a guard. It was soft. Hesitant.Volkov looked up. He set the file down. He stood and walked to the door, his hand hovering near his waist.He unlocked it. Click.He opened it a crack."Don Vitiello," Volkov said. His voice was respectful, lowered.My stomach dropped. I scrambled to my feet, backing away until my legs hit the vanity.My father walked in.He wasn't wearing his usual sharp