Chapter 95: police

Chapter 96:
Weeks bled into months. The calendar on the new, secure laptop advanced with terrifying speed, yet my life remained suspended in the amber of Lorenzo’s control. The days blurred into the rigid structure of his schedule: early morning language lessons, afternoon briefings on the estate’s history and art collection, and evenings spent in the vast, silent living room, always under the distant, watchful gaze of Lorenzo or his hidden staff.

I wore the new clothes—the cashmere sweaters, the wool trousers—a perfect uniform of compliance. But beneath the thick fabric and the expensive fragrance of the mansion, I was a constant, raw knot of simmering rebellion.

The diamonds on my neck became the physical barometer of my desperation. I had tried to remove the necklace countless times: in the solitude of the bath, under the guise of sleeping, and once, in a moment of frantic madness, with a butter knife stolen from the breakfast table. It was useless. The clasp was impossible, the metal too strong, and the mere attempt sent a silent, immediate alert. Lorenzo would appear within minutes, his face a mask of cold disappointment, his presence a chilling reminder of the rules.

The Futility of Escape

My attempts to flee were numerous, frantic, and uniformly failures. The mansion was a fortress designed by a mind that anticipated every flaw. I learned the staff rotations, the service entrances, the length of the perimeter fences. But every time I made it past the initial mahogany doors, the effect of the tracker was immediate.

One cold afternoon, I managed to slip out through a rarely used laundry chute, landing amidst a pile of soft linens in the basement. I ran through the dimly lit service tunnels, finding a maintenance exit that led to the snowy woods surrounding the estate. I ran for ten minutes, lungs burning, the cold biting my face.

And then, just as the fear gave way to a sliver of hope, a heavy, black SUV materialized silently from the trees. Lorenzo stepped out, dressed in a sleek black coat, looking utterly unhurried. He didn't shout. He simply held out his hand.

"Isla," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the crisp air. "The tracker confirms your location. Please, do not force me to demonstrate the retrieval protocols again. That will be far less pleasant for everyone involved."

He always found me. He didn't even need to move his staff; the necklace was a silent, perfect, technological barrier.

The Desperate Call

My failures only fueled a deeper, more desperate urge for help. I had exhausted every internal avenue. I needed an external force, something powerful enough to challenge the reach of Lorenzo's empire.

One afternoon, during my designated "Correspondence" hour on the monitored laptop, I devised a plan. I typed a message detailing my captivity and desperate plea for help, saving it only as a draft. I then used the keyboard’s shortcut for print—a feature Lorenzo, in his arrogance, had left enabled for printing "duties." This action, I hoped, might trigger an external connection before the filtering process could stop it.

I waited for hours. Nothing happened.

Finally, in a fit of despair, I tried the old-fashioned way. I found an untraceable, cheap burner phone tucked into a drawer in the new dressing table—a clear misstep by an overconfident staff member. Lorenzo had provided everything, and in doing so, had provided a tiny weakness.

I walked to the furthest corner of the estate's sprawling upper library, huddled behind a massive stack of books, and dialed a number I found online—the non-emergency line for the local police precinct.

Police Contact: The Irony of Authority

The line clicked, and a bored, weary voice answered.

"Police services, how can I help you?"

I pressed the phone against my ear, my voice trembling but urgent. "My name is Isla. I need help. I have been kidnapped. I am being held against my will in a large house outside the city—it’s heavily guarded."

The officer sighed heavily. "Ma'am, where exactly are you calling from right now?"

"I don't know the address! It's secluded. The man holding me is named Lorenzo—he's a very powerful man."

"A powerful man, you say?" The officer’s tone shifted, becoming immediately cynical and cold. "And he's holding you against your will. Are you injured? Are you starving?"

"No, I'm not hurt, but I'm not allowed to leave! He has a tracker on me—a necklace!" I lifted the diamonds and pressed the phone against them, hoping the clicking sound would prove the device was real. "I'm telling you, I'm a prisoner to Lorenzo De Luca!"

The line went silent for a beat. When the officer returned, his voice was chillingly dismissive.

"Ma'am, we have received several such calls from that number in the past few weeks. We've done our due diligence. If you are reporting the same complaint, you are residing at the private estate of Mr. Lorenzo De Luca. We have confirmed with Mr. Lorenzo's security firm that you are an international guest with a temporary security detail, and your safety is ensured. We cannot intervene in private domestic situations or security agreements."

"But I called before! You know I'm telling the truth!"

"Listen carefully," the officer said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Mr. Lorenzo De Luca is the largest benefactor for this entire city. We do not question his security arrangements. If you call again with this complaint, we will consider it misuse of emergency services. Have a nice day, ma'am."

The line went dead.

I stood there, the cheap phone slipping from my numb fingers. They hadn't just dismissed me; they had informed Lorenzo. The police were merely an extension of his power, a bureaucratic buffer protecting his authority.