Chapter 70 Seventy
Elena's POV
The sunroom had become my place. My only place.
It was not much. Just a dusty room full of old furniture no one wanted, with windows that caught the light all day. But I had made it mine. I had begged and pushed until Franco brought me charcoal and paper. I had sketched the gardens, the guards, the way shadows fell across the stone. I had painted with charcoal and hope and a feeling that was close to breathing.
It was the only place in this fortress where I was still me.
When I walked in that morning and found it empty, I thought I was in the wrong room for a moment.
I checked the door, the room and the hallway to be sure of where I am but it was the same sunroom.
The furniture was gone. The sketches were gone. The paper, the charcoal, the little table I had worked on, all gone. Even the wall where I had started my secret mural was bare. Someone had painted over it. Fresh white paint, still smelling sharp and chemical, covered every line I had drawn.
They had erased me.
I stood there for a long time. The sun came through the windows like it always did, warm and golden, but the room felt dead now. Empty. Like a tomb.
Heat exploded in my chest.
I did think. I just moved. My feet carried me through the hallways, past guards who looked at me with surprise, up the stairs, down the long corridor to his office. I did knock. I threw the door open.
Matteo sat at his desk, pen in hand, papers spread before him. He did look up.
"I prefer them here."
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he had been expecting me.
I stopped. My eyes found the walls.
My paintings. My sketches. My work. All of it. Professionally framed, mounted on his walls like trophies in a hunt. The stormy ones, the passionate ones, the ones I had drawn when I could sleep, when my hands shook with wanting him and hating him. The ones that were supposed to be private. The ones that were just mine.
"You took my things," I said. My voice was shaking. I hated that it was shaking.
"I moved them." He still did look up. His pen scratched against paper. "Where they belong."
I walked to the closest canvas. It was the one I had painted after the night in the alcove, when his hands had undone me in the dark. It was all swirling red and black, with streaks of gold like lightning. Like fire. Like him.
My hand reached out. I would rip it down. I would tear it to pieces.
His hand shot out faster than I could see. His fingers closed around my wrist in a firm grip.
He looked up then. His eyes were dark. Calm. Deadly.
"Touch them," he said softly, "and I will have every wall in this house painted with them. You will live inside your own confession."
I stared at him. He stared at me. The air between us crackled.
"You can keep me in a cage and then steal the only thing that makes it bearable," I said.
He smiled. It was a nice smile. "Watch me."
I pulled my wrist free. He let me. I stood there, surrounded by my own work, by my own heart laid bare on his walls, and I felt a shift inside me. The hot bright thing in my chest was anger anymore. It was else. It was colder. It planned.
I left without another word. But I was done.
Two days later, I learned he was hosting a meeting. Important men from Calabria. Allies, the guards said. Critical negotiations.
I listened, watched and learned.
The east drawing room was where they would meet. It had tall windows and heavy doors and, right next to it, a small powder room for guests. I had seen it when Sophie showed me the house. I remembered the sink. The faucet. The way the water ran strong and fast.
I waited until the meeting started. I saw the men arrive, serious faces and dark suits. I saw Matteo greet them at the door, his smile smooth and empty. I saw the doors close.
Then I moved.
The powder room was empty. I locked the door behind me. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking again, but this time it was fear. It was else. It felt almost like joy.
I grabbed the thick towel from the rack. I jammed it into the sink, pushing it down as far as it would go. Then I turned the faucet on full.
Water rushed out. It hit the towel. It began to pool.
I watched for a moment, making sure it would drain. The water rose. The towel turned dark. It was working.
I slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me. No one saw. I walked to the end of the hall and leaned against the wall, waiting.
It took about twenty minutes. I counted.
Then I heard it. A shout. Footsteps. More shouting. The doors to the drawing room burst open and men spilled out, looking confused and annoyed. Water was seeping under the door, spreading across the marble floor in a slow, gleaming wave.
The dignified Calabrian men lifted their feet. They looked at the water. They looked at each other. They looked at Matteo, who had followed them out.
I watched from the hall. I did hide. I wanted him to see me.
He stood in the doorway of the drawing room, water lapping at his shoes. His men were scrambling, calling for towels, for someone to fix the sink, for answers. He did move.
His eyes found mine.
For a long moment, we just looked at each other. The chaos continued around him. Men yelled. Water spread. Someone slipped and cursed. He ignored all of it.
Then his lips curved. A slow, appreciative smile. Anger. Punishment. Else entirely.
The message in his eyes was clear. I see you. I see what you did. And I am angry.
I am impressed.
I felt my face heat. I wanted to look away, but I could. He held my gaze for one more heartbeat, then turned back to his guests, all calm authority and smooth apologies.
I slipped away before anyone noticed me.
Back in my room, I sat on the bed and tried to breathe. My heart was still racing. My hands were still shaking. But there was a smile on my face. A real one. The first in weeks.
It was small. It was petty. It would probably cost me later.
For one moment, watching his eyes find mine through the chaos, watching that smile touch his lips, I felt like myself again. The woman who walked into a club and gave herself to a stranger. The woman who fought back.
I had made him see me. As his prisoner. As his wife. As someone who could still fight.
The water would dry. The meeting would resume. He would probably find some way to punish me.
For now, I had won this round.
And somewhere deep inside, that small hard thing that had been waiting since the wedding night stretched and smiled with me.