What Number am I?

What Number am I?
Alice’s Point of View

Dusk had fallen like a heavy curtain, casting the sky in bruised shades of purple and gray. I was locked away in my room again—like some twisted version of Rapunzel, only there’d be no charming thief climbing the walls to rescue me.

I couldn’t understand why Tiberio bothered locking me up. Escape wasn’t just unlikely—it was impossible. 

He owned Milan. Every shadow, every alley, every whisper in this damn city answered to him. I didn’t have the kind of money, power, or connections that could save me. Not even close.

With a heavy sigh, I sank onto the cushioned bench by the window, the cool glass soothing against my skin. 

The view beyond was a fleeting balm—rolling hills dotted with vineyards, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze, and a distant horizon that promised a world I couldn’t reach. 

For a moment, nature’s beauty dulled the ache in my chest, granting me a fragile peace before Tiberio stormed in to crush it.

The air conditioner was off, the window cracked open just enough to let the summer breeze slip through, carrying the rich scent of pine and coconut from the gardens below. I closed my eyes, and rested my cheek against the wooden frame of the window, trying to drown out the relentless noise inside my head.

Humming softly, I synced my voice with the chirping birds outside, their melody a lullaby that almost pulled me into a nap.

The jingle of keys snapped me back, and I groaned, rolling my eyes as irritation flared. The door creaked open, and soft footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. 

“Good evening, ma’am,” came Calla’s chirpy voice.

“I brought you an appetizer,” she added brightly, as if she hadn’t just walked into a hostage situation.

I didn’t turn, my eyes still fixed on the fading sky, its colors bleeding into night. 

I wanted to snap, to tell her to leave, but Calla didn’t deserve my anger. She was just another pawn in Tiberio’s game, her kindness a small light in this prison.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she continued. “Don Tiberio has requested your presence in the dining room. Also, your stylist dropped off a collection of outfits curated by the Don himself. You don’t need to worry—his taste is exquisite.”

Her tone was light, professional even, but I could hear the nervous flutter beneath it.

The mention of Tiberio’s name, his control over every detail of my existence, made my jaw clench. I stayed silent, biting back the venom I wanted to spit. Calla didn’t need to bear the brunt of my rage—she was just doing her job.

“Calla,” I called, my voice low, barely above a whisper. I still didn’t look at her, the stars now faint pinpricks in the sky.

“Yes, ma’am?” She hummed, a note of curiosity in her tone.

“Call me Alice,” I murmured, the word heavy with a plea for something human, something real in this nightmare.

“How long have you worked here?”

There was a pause. I could feel her hesitation, as if she were trying to figure out why I’d asked.

“Six years,” she responded carefully.

I nodded, my throat tightening.

“How long does this luxurious treatment last before he kills me off? And what number will I be on his list?”

I finally turned to look at her. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. 

Calla’s eyes widened—caught off guard, unsure how to respond.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Ma… I mean, Alice,” she said, fidgeting with the tray in her hands. 

“You’re the first woman the Don’s kept longer than a night. Usually, they’re dead before morning. Sometimes…” She trailed off, making a vague gesture with her fingers that made my brow furrow. 

Her face turned pink, and she bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable.

“After he… uh… uses them for the night, they don’t stay longer than the early hours of dawn.”

My throat tightened. I swallowed hard and locked eyes with her.

“Are you lying to me, Calla?” I asked, my voice steady despite the tears, searching her face for any hint of deceit.

She took a step forward and shook her head, her voice firm this time.

“No, Alice, I swear it. In all my years here, you’ve lasted the longest. Don Tiberio’s mind is… twisted, mysterious. It’s impossible to know why he’s kept you this long.”

The relief that he hadn’t killed me—or worse, used me like his other women—was fleeting, overshadowed by dread. If he wasn’t following his usual pattern, what did he want? What sick game was he playing? My mind spun with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

She looked at the floor, then straightened.

“I’ll leave you now. Dinner’s at seven.” She gave me a gentle smile and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I was alone again. 

I sat there, numb, tears rolling down my cheeks, each one a testament to the pain I’d carried since landing in Milan. In two days, I’d cried enough to fill a barrel, my heart a raw, bleeding wound. 

I glanced at the coffee table, where Calla had left the appetizer—a delicate plate of bruschetta, the toasted bread topped with vibrant diced tomatoes, fresh basil, and a drizzle of balsamic glaze.

It was elegant, perfectly curated, like everything in Tiberio’s world, but it did nothing to stir my appetite. 

My stomach was too knotted with fear and anger to care about food.

I turned back to the window, the night sky now a velvet expanse studded with stars, and let my tears fall unchecked. Tiberio’s face—those brown-blue eyes, that cruel scar—haunted me.