Chapter 13 13
Bridget
Today, I am learning how to make Adriano’s signature Italian pasta with his private chef. The kitchen smells of cheese, pepper, and hot oil. The chef moves calmly, confidently, like this is sacred work. I watch every step closely, forcing myself to remember everything in case Adriano decides to test me.
The chef teaches me cacio e pepe, then alla gricia, carbonara, and amatriciana. Simple ingredients, strict timing, no mistakes allowed. It is easier than I expected, but the pressure makes my shoulders tight. In this house, even cooking feels like a test.
I keep a small diary hidden in my apron pocket. I write down every recipe, every ingredient, every step. I tell myself it’s just for cooking, but deep down I know it’s about survival. Knowing things here means power. Not knowing them means punishment.
My phone suddenly vibrates in my pocket.
The sound makes my heart jump.
I excuse myself from the kitchen and walk into the quiet corridor before answering. The marble floor feels cold beneath my feet.
“Hello?” I say.
“Bridget Rossi.”
The voice is deep, male, and unfamiliar.
“Yes… I’m speaking.”
He clears his throat slowly, like he has all the time in the world. “I can get you out of Adriano’s world. You just have to do one job for me.”
My stomach tightens. My brows draw together.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask.
“I know how your father died,” he says calmly. “And I can get you a new passport. A clean one. You can disappear and start over.”
My father’s death.
The words hit me like a knife. I have lived with questions since the day he died. Questions no one ever answered. Questions Adriano never let me ask.
I say nothing.
“I’m sending you a location,” the man continues. “I expect to see you today.”
The line goes dead.
A message appears on my screen.
1:00 PM.
Algio Restaurant.
I check the time.
11:15 AM.
My pulse races. I want answers. I want the truth about my father. And if I’m honest with myself, I also want the passport. I want a way out. A way to escape Adriano before he tightens his grip even more.
I bite my lip and pace the corridor, back and forth, back and forth. I can’t leave the mansion without permission. I’m on duty. Cameras are everywhere. Adriano always knows.
So who can help me?
I unlock my phone and dial Rafaelle.
“Hello, sweetie,” he answers casually.
I hesitate. “Hi, Rafaelle… can you do me a favor?”
His tone changes instantly. “What is it?”
I sigh. “I really need to step out to do something important. Can you cover for me? Just tell Adriano you needed me.”
Silence.
Then, “Fine,” he says slowly. “But where are you going?”
“I swear I’ll tell you later,” I say.
Another pause. “Okay,” he finally replies. “But don’t be late.”
Relief floods my chest. “Thank you. Really.”
I hang up and rush to my bedroom. My hands shake as I change out of my black uniform. I pull on jeans and a simple shirt, keep my white sneakers on, grab my handbag. I slide on sunglasses, hiding my face, hiding my fear.
I take one last breath.
Then I walk out of the mansion, stepping into something I know might change everything.
The bodyguard stops me at the gate. His presence alone is enough to make my stomach tighten. He is tall, broad, and expressionless, like a wall made of flesh and authority.
“Where are you going, miss?” he asks.
My heart pounds, but I force confidence into my voice. “I’m going to meet Mr. Rafaelle De Costa. You can call him if you want.”
For a moment, I think he will let me pass. Instead, he slowly raises his walkie-talkie.
“Ms. Rossi is heading out,” he says in a thick Italian accent. “Have you granted her permission?”
My breath catches. I stare at the ground, counting the seconds.
“Si,” a voice answers.
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost feel weak. Thank God.
The bodyguard nods and steps aside, pointing toward the gate. “You’re free to go.”
I don’t waste time. I rush outside and call an Uber, my fingers shaking as I type the address. When the car arrives, I slide inside and give the location. The drive feels endless. My thoughts race the entire forty-five minutes.
When we finally stop, I look up at the restaurant. It looks expensive, quiet, and wrong. My phone buzzes as I dial the unknown number again.
“I’m here,” I say.
“Come inside,” the voice orders.
I push the door open. The restaurant is elegant but almost empty. Soft music plays, and the air smells like wine and smoke. A man in a black suit waits near the entrance.
“This way,” he says.
I follow him to a table in the far corner, hidden from view. I sit down, clutching my bag on my lap like a shield. My chest feels tight.
The man sits across from me and removes his black hat. He smells strongly of cigarettes. He looks to be in his late forties, with a beard, tired eyes, and deep lines near his face. His hair is long, streaked with grey. Silver rings and bracelets catch the dim light.
“Vito Cascio,” he says calmly.
I don’t waste time. “What do you know about my father, and why should I believe you?”
He chuckles, low and cold. “Your name is Bridget Rossi. You were a university student, art department. You lived a simple life until your father died suddenly. After that, you were forced to come to Las Vegas, where Adriano De Costa keeps you as his maid. You belong to him now. A puppet.”
My throat tightens.
“I used to work for De Costa,” he continues. “I made one mistake, and he threw me out. He is the don of this city. Everyone fears him. One wrong move tomorrow, and he could kill you without blinking.”
Fear crawls up my spine.
“I will give you a passport,” he says quietly. “And proof of how your father really died. You can give it to the police or disappear forever. Your choice.”
“How do I know you even have proof?” I ask.
He takes out his phone and shows me a photo. My breath leaves my body. It’s him and my father, standing together, smiling.
“We were friends,” he says. “I have the evidence. I just can’t show it to you yet.”
“And what do you want in return?” I ask.
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “There is a diamond necklace worth one hundred million dollars. You will steal it.”
My heart almost stops. “From where?”
“From Adriano De Costa’s bedroom,” he says calmly. “It’s locked in a vault. Only he knows the password. You will get it from him.”
I shake my head. “That’s impossible. He is Adriano De Costa. Stealing from him is suicide.”
He smirks. “Do you want your freedom?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then get the password and rob him.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“Good,” he replies with a dark smile. “I’m just a call away.”
I leave the restaurant shaking. My thoughts are loud and cruel. How am I supposed to steal from him? But I’m his maid. I have access. I clean his room. I touch his things.
Trying won’t hurt, I tell myself.
I return to the mansion and change quickly into my uniform. A bodyguard drives me to the Bellagio. My mind keeps repeating the same words.
Freedom. Passport. Escape. Adriano De Costa.
Steal a necklace worth a hundred million dollars.
My heart races. I’m not a thief. I came here to repay a debt, not to destroy my life. But Adriano already owns me. My body. My time. My choices.
God, please save me.
I arrive at the Bellagio, late. I rush to D19 and step into the elevator. When the doors open, my heart nearly stops.
Adriano is inside his suite, sitting at his desk.
Shit. He’s here.
“Hello, sir,” I say, forcing a smile.
He stands slowly, dropping his pen. He rolls up his sleeves. He’s wearing only a black shirt and pants. No suit. Tattoos line his arms. He walks toward me and looks straight into my eyes.
I clutch my handbag tighter. My hands are sweating.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“Rafaelle needed me for some work,” I say quietly.
“You’re my maid, not Rafaelle’s,” he snaps. His eyes narrow. “And why do I feel like my brother lied to me today? What job did he give you?”
“To organize his clothes,” I answer quickly. “He even paid me.”
“I was with him in D12,” he says coldly. “No one was there except us.”
My lips press together.
I sigh. “Fine. I went to buy some girls’ things. I was scared to tell you, so I called Rafaelle.”
His eyes don’t soften. “What girls’ things?”
“Tampons,” I say.
“Are you on your period?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie.
He reaches forward, his hand slipping inside my dress to my panties. He inserts a finger inside.
“No tampons, just wetness, sugarplums,” he says, and I gasp.
Fuck.
“I’m about to get my period,” I say.
“Do you count your days?” he asks while stroking his finger inside me.
“Yes…” I whisper.
“How?” He removes his finger.
“I have a period tracker app,” I say.
“Give me your phone,” he grits, and I freeze.
“Can I have a little privacy, please?”
He smirks and shakes his head. “There’s no privacy.”
I take out my phone, unlock it, and open the period tracker app. He looks at it.
“Sixteen days left.” He shakes his head.
He pushes me, and I fall onto the couch.
“You’re going to tell me where the fuck you were, Bridget.”
I am doomed…