Chapter 5 Mistaking curiosity for freedom
Lina’s POV
What was he talking about?
I bent down until I was at his eye level.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said carefully. “What do you mean? Who is Dwan? Is it a person… or a pet?” My eyes searched his tired, lined face for answers.
He didn’t respond.
He only stared at me, confusion clouding his gaze, as though he were trying to place me somewhere in his memory and failing.
Slowly, he lifted his right hand.
Reached for my face.
His fingers brushed my cheek with a familiarity that made my breath hitch—like he knew this face. Like he had touched it before.
“I—” he started.
“Father, what are you doing outside?” The voice came from behind me. I didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.
Carlino.
His presence closed in on the space instantly, heavy and suffocating.
“Get your hands off him,” he ordered. Controlled. But the warning threaded through it was sharp enough to cut skin. I pulled my hand away at once, stepping back a little.
“Carlino,” the old man said, turning toward him. “Who is she?” His voice didn’t match his body. It wasn’t frail. It was steady. Clear. Strong.
“Just a property, Father,” Carlino replied coolly, without pause. “Let’s go to your chambers. We’ll speak there.”
Property. The word landed harder than a slap.
I shifted aside immediately as they moved past me. The wheels of the chair whispered against the floor as they disappeared down the corridor.
He didn’t have to tell me to return to my room.
Back inside, I sat on the bed, sinking into the mattress like my body had suddenly doubled in weight. The moment I did, my thoughts rushed in.
Were Mom and Dad looking for me?
Had they gone to the police?
Did they even know where to start?
It had been a day. Maybe two.
I clenched my fists.
I need a plan. A real one. I need to leave—soon. Take my family and disappear. Leave Italy. Leave everything. I won’t let this nightmare become my life.
I lay back for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
That old man was his father?
The ex—
The blaring horns of multiple cars shattered the thought.
I bolted upright and rushed to the nearest window.
Below, a convoy of black vehicles rolled through the gates of the mansion—sleek, uniform, menacing.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Who were these people?
He told me not to leave the room.
I didn’t care.
Standing still felt worse.
I slipped out into the hallway. It was quieter now. The men who’d been stationed there earlier were gone.
Good.
I kept walking.
The kitchen. That was where the answers would be. Maids talked. They always did. And if there was anywhere I could gather something—anything—it would be there. I just had to find it.
“You.”
The word stopped me cold.
“I told you not to wander, didn’t I?” His voice cut through the corridor before I even saw him—low, measured, carrying authority that didn’t need volume to wound. I turned slowly.
He stood at the far end of the hall, dressed in black like the house itself had carved him out of shadow. Two men flanked him, silent and broad, eyes sharp enough to peel skin.
Behind them, through the tall windows, the courtyard crawled with movement. The black cars. Too many of them. Men stepping out in tailored suits, disciplined, purposeful.
My mouth opened. Closed.
I hadn’t planned an excuse. I’d only planned my escape.
“I—” My voice failed. I swallowed. “I was just—”
He raised a hand.
Just like that, the conversation ended. “Just,” he repeated quietly, as if tasting the word. His gaze slid over me—not hurried, not curious. Assessing. Measuring.
“You were instructed to stay in your room.”
“Yes,” I said, barely audible.
I lifted my chin anyway. “I didn’t know your instructions came with handcuffs.”
Silence snapped tight between us.
One of the men shifted.
Carlino’s eyes darkened.
And then he smiled.
“Careful,” he said softly. “Defiance has a cost here.”
He took a step closer.
“And you’re about to find out how expensive it is.” He stopped in front of me.
Too close.
His cologne hit me then—dark, expensive, layered with smoke. His gaze dropped to my bare feet before lifting back to my face, slow and deliberate.
“You think rules don’t apply to you?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered. “I just thought—”
“Thinking,” he cut in calmly, “is what gets people killed in houses like this.” The words settled heavy between us.
Then he turned his head slightly. “They’re waiting.”
One of the men beside him nodded once.
I frowned. “Waiting for…?”
“For me,” he said. “And now—for you.”
My heart stuttered. “Me?”
“You’ve inconvenienced me,” he replied evenly. “Which means you’re going to be useful. So you don’t get punished.”
Useful.
He stepped past me, already moving, already certain.
“Kitchen,” he said over his shoulder. “Now.”
I hesitated—just a second. Then I followed. Hesitation felt like a gamble, and I didn’t have the luxury of losing.
The kitchen was vast. Steel. Stone. Spotless. No maids. No voices. Just silence and the steady hum of refrigeration.
He entered behind me, shrugging off his coat and handing it to one of the guards. “You’ll prepare something light,” he said. “Fast.”
I stared at him. “I—I don’t know what—”
His eyes snapped to mine. “You know how to cook,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He leaned against the counter, arms folding. “Enough for my guests. Nothing elaborate. They’re here to talk, not dine.”
My hands trembled as I moved toward the counter. I opened drawers at random, forcing myself to slow down.
Breathe.
Bread. Tomatoes. Olive oil. Cheese.
I could do this.
Behind me, I could feel his gaze—steady, unblinking. Not impatient. Not distracted. As if this moment mattered.
“Do you know who they are?” he asked.
I stiffened. “No.”
“That’s good,” he said. “It’ll keep you alive.”
I sliced the tomatoes too thin at first. Corrected myself. My fingers slipped—the knife nicked skin.
I sucked in a breath.
“Careful,” he said mildly. “Blood doesn’t belong in food.”
I pressed my finger to my lips. Iron bloomed on my tongue. The embarrassment burned worse than the cut.
Voices drifted in from the adjoining room—deep, accented, confident. Laughter without warmth. Chair scraping. Power settling into place.
I arranged the bread, drizzled oil, laid out cheese and cured meat the way my mother had taught me. Simple. Respectful. Italian without trying too hard.
When I finished, I stepped back. He approached the counter, inspected the spread.
For a moment, I braced myself.
Then he nodded once.
“You learn quickly,” he said. After a beat, quieter, “Disobedience aside.”
Our eyes met. Something unreadable passed between us.
“You will serve,” he added. “You’ll speak only if spoken to. You’ll keep your eyes down.”
“Yes.”
“And Lina.”
I froze with the tray half-lifted. I looked at him.
“Let this be the last time you mistake curiosity for freedom.”
His voice wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
I lifted the tray with both hands and followed him into the room full of men who could decide my fate without ever learning my name.
As the doors closed behind me, something settled into place with terrifying clarity.
In this house, even punishment was precise.
And survival would demand more than obedience.