Chapter 32 Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Nina’s POV
I stepped out of the mansion behind Isabela, my bare feet silent against the cool stone path leading to the helipad. The black chopper waited ahead like a sleek, predatory bird, its rotors still and blades gleaming under the morning sun.
Two heavily armed bodyguards followed close behind us, tall and silent, their faces carved from stone, rifles slung across their chests.
Their eyes constantly scanned every shadow and tree line. I kept my own gaze forward, but my senses stretched wide, absorbing every detail I had never been permitted to see before.
The island unfolded beneath the rising light in breathtaking splendor: endless emerald hills rolling gently down to turquoise water, private docks lined with yachts worth more than entire countries, a fleet of matte-black SUVs arranged in perfect formation beside the estate’s towering white walls.
The mansion itself rose like an impregnable fortress of marble and glass, complete with turrets, infinity pools that cascaded over cliffs, and gardens sculpted into flawless geometric patterns. From this vantage point, it appeared utterly invincible. Completely untouchable.
I found myself wondering who could possibly dare to attack them. What kind of enemy would even dream of challenging such overwhelming power?
The thought sent a quiet shiver through me that had nothing to do with the breeze.
“Stop drooling and get down, village girl,” Isabela snapped without turning her head. Her voice sliced sharply over the rising whine of the rotors.
I clenched my jaw and climbed the short steps into the chopper. The interior smelled of rich leather and quiet wealth—cream-colored seats, polished wood accents, and a small bar stocked with crystal decanters. Isabela settled into her seat as though she owned the sky itself.
I took the seat opposite her and buckled in while the bodyguards boarded and positioned themselves near the doors.
The chopper lifted smoothly, tilting as it banked over the island.
My stomach lurched, not from the altitude but from the sheer scale of the view below. The estate shrank rapidly, revealing hidden coves, underground garages that spilled luxury cars into the sunlight, and helipads I had never even known existed. Power radiated from every inch of that place. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
We flew for what felt like hours but was likely less than one. The sea glittered far beneath us until land appeared—rugged coastline, ancient stone villages clinging to cliffs, and then the sprawling outline of a city that could only be in Italy.
The chopper descended onto a private rooftop helipad in the heart of what felt like Milan or Florence—rooftop gardens, glass railings, and the distant dome of a cathedral catching golden sunlight.
We touched down with a gentle thud.
“Where are we?” I asked quietly.
“Italy,” Isabela replied, already unbuckling her belt. “To get our dresses couture. Move.”
I followed her down a discreet glass elevator that opened into another world entirely. The space was enormous—vaulted ceilings reminiscent of a vintage castle, marble floors veined with gold, and dripping chandeliers that resembled frozen waterfalls of crystal.
Mannequins stood in dramatic poses along the walkways, draped in silk and tulle. Staff members in crisp black uniforms moved like silent ghosts—measuring, pinning, carrying bolts of shimmering fabric. The central runway stretched long and glossy, flanked by private alcoves curtained in deep velvet.
A young man waited at the far end of the runway. Tall and lean, with silver-grey hair swept back from a sharp, elegant face, he wore a tailored charcoal suit that spoke of understated wealth. He smiled warmly when he saw us, bowing slightly.
“Guest of Dante,” he said in a thick Italian accent.
“Yes,” Isabela answered before I could open my mouth. “Alongside my maid.”
I started to correct her, but she shot me a look cold enough to freeze blood in my veins. I closed my mouth.
“Please make me a masterpiece,” she instructed him. “White. No body should outshine me. And put some diamonds somewhere in there.”
He raised one perfect eyebrow. She pulled the black card from her clutch and slid it across the marble counter. His smile widened instantly.
“And for you, my darling?” His eyes settled on me—kind, curious, and far too perceptive. “You look like a haunted angel.”
I shrugged. “Anything will be fine.”
“Bravo.” He clapped once, the sound sharp and theatrical.
In an instant the room burst into motion. Staff members swarmed around us. Tape measures appeared from nowhere.
Bolts of fabric cascaded over waiting arms. Isabela vanished into a cloud of assistants who brought shoes, bags, and jewelry for her approval.
A woman measured my bust, waist, and hips with brisk professionalism. Another held up swatches of color and texture. Isabela glanced over and pointed decisively. “Red sheer lace for her. Something sinful.”
I did not protest. I did not care. The red would be beautiful, yes, but far more important was the simple fact that I was outside the prison walls at last. The air smelled different here—perfume, fresh coffee, city dust. Freedom tasted like possibility.
The silver-haired man—everyone addressed him as Valentino X—remained close to me while the others fussed over Isabela. We drifted toward a quiet row of anatomical mannequins near the back wall, their metal skeletons partially exposed beneath sheer fabric drapes.
“These remind me of medical school,” I said softly.
He tilted his head with interest. “You were going to be a doctor?”
“I still might,” I answered.
He smiled faintly. “The human body is a perfect map of weakness. Look here—” He traced a finger along one mannequin’s throat. “The carotid artery. Two seconds of firm pressure and the lights go out. Here—” He tapped the temple gently. “The temporal artery. Fragile. And here—” His finger moved lower to the ribs. “The floating ribs. Easy to snap inward and puncture a lung.”
I stared at him. “How do you know all this?”
“The most powerful women in the country are my clients,” he replied quietly. “This is a free space. They talk. I listen. You can trust me too, little angel.”
He studied my face for a long moment. “You look like you need fresh air. Smoke?”
I shook my head.
“Then wine.” He snapped his fingers. A designer hurried over with two glasses of deep red Chianti.
I drank the first glass in two quick gulps. The second more slowly. Warmth spread through my chest and loosened the knot in my stomach.
“So,” Valentino said softly, “what do you want to tell me?”
I offered a small, careful smile. “Everything is perfect. I’m just a bit tired.”
He gave me a long, searching look—patient, knowing. “That is fine by me. But here—” He slipped a matte black card into my palm. “In case you need a friend. Do not be deceived by the grey hair. I am only 28. I know the ways of the powerful. I did not reach this place by accident.”
I turned the card over in my fingers. No name. Just a number embossed in silver.
“Then what do you want from me?” I asked directly.
He smiled wider. “I like you. You are smart.”
He never truly answered the question.
I glanced toward Isabela. She was deep in a parade of handbags and diamonds, laughing with three assistants at once.
“I would like a diamond waist chain,” I said suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Odd choice. But okay.”
He summoned trays of designs—delicate links, heavy statement pieces. I selected one: diamonds interwoven with rubies and emeralds, intricate enough to pass as jewelry, strong enough to serve as a makeshift weapon if necessary.
“I would love to go to the restroom and try this alone,” I told him.
“Of course.”
I caught his wrist before he could turn away. “I want to be alone. Without the guards who came with us.”
He raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the two stone-faced men standing near the entrance. Then he looked at me again—really looked.
“I understand perfectly,” he murmured. “I will simply keep a little Hermes bag from the card in your name.”
I nodded once understanding that he will take that as a bribe.
He raised his voice. “Keep working, everyone! Slides! I need to show this sweetheart some of our exclusives for Dante.”
The guards stepped forward instinctively. Valentino gave them a cool, dismissive side-eye. “It is just another showroom. And she will be naked. I doubt Dante wants you gentlemen to see her naked.”
They hesitated, exchanged a glance, and backed down.
Isabela remained oblivious, too absorbed in her own parade of luxury to notice my absence.
Valentino led me through a side door, down a narrow hallway lined with mirrors, and finally through an unmarked exit onto a quiet terrace overlooking the city rooftops.
Fresh air rushed over me like a cleansing wave—clean, sharp, and alive.
I gripped the diamond waist chain so tightly the stones bit into my palm.
“It is now or never,” I whispered.
The city stretched out below me—endless, glittering, full of places to vanish into forever.
I took one step forward.
Then another.
The chain dangled from my fingers like a fragile promise.