Chapter 2 The Gilded Cage
The drive to the Moretti estate was heavy, the kind of quiet that presses down on your chest and makes breathing feel like a task. Only the muted hum of the SUV’s engine and the soft rhythm of tires on asphalt punctuated the silence. I sank into the corner of the leather seat, keeping as much distance as possible from Silvio, who sat rigid and silent beside me. The city lights smeared past the tinted windows, transforming into long streaks of gold and white that seemed more like memories than reality.
With every mile, my childhood home slipped further from me, dissolving into memory. It wasn’t just bricks and walls I was leaving behind; it was the last illusion of safety I had ever known. I had been sold to settle a debt I hadn’t created, a debt born of blood, betrayal, and secrets that predated me by decades. The realization twisted in my stomach, and I pressed my hands against my thighs, trying to anchor myself in the present.
Silvio was beside me, a silent storm. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance my way. His attention remained fixed on the sleek tablet in his hands, the screen’s glow casting harsh shadows across his sharply carved features. His jaw, his cheekbones they seemed to have been sculpted from stone, untouched by doubt, untouched by hesitation. He had the air of a man who had just acquired something significant; satisfied for the moment, already bored with the possession.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge.
My stomach twisted violently, a sensation I knew far too well.
Not now, I pleaded silently. Please. Not with him here.
I turned my face toward the window, pressing my temple against the cold glass as another wave of nausea rolled through me. I counted my breaths, shallow and deliberate, hoping to will the sickness away. Attention in this house, in this world, was a dangerous luxury.
The SUV slowed, and a pair of towering wrought-iron gates emerged from the darkness ahead. Their spiked tops curved inward like claws, ready to trap anyone who dared cross them. Beyond, illuminated by stark floodlights, rose the Moretti estate.
It didn’t look like a home.
It looked like a fortress.
The sprawling stone structure rose from perfectly manicured grounds, more mausoleum than mansion. Thick columns framed the entrance, and narrow, darkened windows seemed to peer down at the world like eyes that judged. Even from a distance, the estate radiated power, menace, and centuries of untouchable wealth, steeped in blood and loyalty.
"If you’re going to be a troublesome guest, Lisa, I advise you to think again."
Silvio’s voice cut through the silence like a blade calm, sharp, unyielding without him even glancing up from his tablet.
"I find defiance tiresome."
I straightened, forcing my shoulders back and my chin up. "Then you’re going to be very fatigued," I shot back, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound composed.
Silvio finally turned his gaze toward me. It wasn’t merely cold; it was predatory. His eyes measured me, assessed me, stripping away every layer of composure I thought I had.
Then his hand was at the nape of my neck. He didn’t squeeze, but the pressure alone was enough to remind me of his strength. Slowly, deliberately, he drew me closer until our faces were inches apart.
"I don’t waste time with kids," he murmured, his breath brushing my skin, carrying the scent of mint and expensive tobacco. "You’re here for one thing: to lure your father out of hiding. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re anything other than bait."
Bait.
The word landed in my chest like a stone.
The SUV stopped. Stone-faced guards opened the doors, their movements precise and rehearsed. Cold night air struck me, sharp and biting, as I stepped out, legs trembling.
The grand foyer inside stole the last of my composure.
Marble floors gleamed under towering crystal chandeliers, every surface radiating wealth and age. The air was heavy with polished stone, lilies, and something darker beneath it metallic and oppressive, as if the house itself carried the weight of countless sins.
At the top of the sweeping staircase stood a woman.
She wore a sharply tailored grey gown, austere and immaculate, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it seemed painful. Bianca Moretti.
Silvio’s mother.
The matriarch of Italy’s most feared family.
Her gaze fell on me with obvious contempt. "This is the debt?" she sneered, her voice a razor of disdain.
She descended slowly, deliberately, each step echoing across the foyer like a countdown. Her eyes roamed over me, taking in every detail, cataloguing every imperfection. When she stopped, her stare lingered on my face.
"She has her father’s eyes," Bianca said coolly. "A shame, really. They’ll be more appealing when they’re finally shut."
Nausea surged violently.
The chandeliers blurred as the overwhelming scent of lilies closed around me like a fist. My stomach knotted painfully, heat crawling up my throat.
"She’s pale," Bianca observed, stepping closer, her nails brushing my cheek. "Are you scared, little girl? Or are you keeping something from us?"
"I’m just tired," I said, forcing the words past my lips, my voice hoarse.
Silvio materialized behind me. "Go to your room," he ordered. "East wing. Don’t leave without someone with you."
I didn’t hesitate.
I followed a silent maid up the endless staircase, my legs heavy, my body moving on instinct. When the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, I barely made it to the bathroom.
The sickness hit with brutal force, my body folding over the toilet as everything inside me emptied violently. When it was over, I collapsed against the cold tile floor, shivering, gasping for air, tears blurring my vision.
I was trapped in the enemy’s lair.
Surrounded by people who despised my blood.
Carrying a child who would be seen as the ultimate betrayal.
If Bianca suspected anything, or if Silvio’s gaze lingered too long, they would uncover the truth.
And when they did, there would be no mercy.
I wiped my mouth with trembling hands, trying to stand, but my legs refused to cooperate. Panic wrapped around me, icy and suffocating.
I was frozen.
"Lisa?"
The voice didn’t belong to the maid.
Silvio stood in the doorway. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms etched with ink and scars. He surveyed the scene: the pale figure on the floor, the evidence of weakness he had anticipated.
His face was carefully blank.
"Are you genuinely unwell," he asked, stepping inside, "or is this some sort of pathetic act?"
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.
He was looking directly at me. Really looking.
And for the first time, I glimpsed something flicker in his eyes that wasn’t pure hatred.
Curiosity.
And that was far more dangerous.