Liana woke to the sound of distant footsteps.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Not in this place. Not on that bed. But exhaustion had pulled her under like a heavy tide. Now, early morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden sheen across the black silk sheets.
She sat up quickly, disoriented for a moment, then remembered exactly where she was.
A prisoner.
In the mansion of a mafia boss who wore the mask of a CEO.
The door unlocked with a heavy click. This time, it wasn't Leonardo.
A woman entered—tall, sharp-featured, with platinum-blonde hair tied into a bun and eyes like polished steel. She carried a folded pile of clothes.
"You're to bathe and dress," she said curtly. "The boss wants you downstairs in twenty minutes."
"I don't take orders from strangers," Liana snapped, surprised by her own courage.
The woman arched an eyebrow. "Then I hope you enjoy cold floors and locked doors for the rest of your life."
She placed the clothes on the end of the bed and walked out, heels clicking like gunshots.
Liana stared after her, then at the clothes: a soft black blouse, tailored pants, and a simple gold chain. Modest. Elegant. Still designer.
A shower later, she dressed and followed the guards waiting outside her door. They didn't touch her, but they flanked her like she might bolt at any second.
They led her through a hall of mirrors, then down a marble staircase. Every corner of the mansion whispered money and danger. Expensive vases. Thick Persian carpets. Portraits of men with cruel eyes and matching rings.
Finally, they arrived at a set of towering doors. One guard pushed it open.
A dining hall.
Long table. Fresh roses. Eggs, toast, and fruit laid out like a five-star hotel.
At the head of the table sat Leonardo.
He was reading a newspaper, dressed in a dark charcoal suit with the collar open. No tie. No expression. Just that same stillness, like nothing could touch him.
"Sit," he said, not looking up.
Liana hesitated.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not yet."
She sat at the opposite end, as far from him as the table allowed.
He turned a page. "You slept well?"
She didn't answer.
He looked up. "I asked a question."
She picked up a strawberry and bit into it, defiantly. "Is this supposed to make me feel safe?"
"No," he said, folding the paper. "It's supposed to make you feel human. Because I expect you to behave like one."
Her eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means this isn't a movie. You're not going to scream, run, and magically escape. This isn't a joke to me. Your presence here has consequences."
"For you, maybe. Not for me. I'm just a girl who saw the wrong thing."
"And now you live in the middle of it."
He stood and walked slowly around the table until he reached her. He didn't sit beside her—he crouched in front of her, gaze leveled with hers.
"There are rules in my world," he said softly. "Rules you will follow if you want to survive."
Her voice shook. "What if I don't?"
"Then you become a liability. And I don't keep liabilities."
His hand moved. For a second she flinched, thinking he'd strike her. But he didn't. He reached forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You have fire," he whispered. "Let's see if it burns or keeps you alive."
He stood and walked back to his seat. "You'll stay in the east wing. You're free to walk the second and third floors. First floor and lower levels are off limits."
"You think I want to wander around your palace?"
"I think you'll want to breathe fresh air eventually."
Liana pushed her plate away. "I'm not your pet."
"No," he said, sipping his coffee. "You're my guest. For now."
She stood, trembling with silent fury. "You can lock me up, feed me your food, dress me in your clothes—but you can't control my mind."
He finally smiled. A real one this time. "I don't need to. You'll do that all on your own."
He picked up his paper again. "You may leave."
Liana stormed out, but her knees were shaking.
She had come to breakfast with fire in her chest.
She left with ice in her veins.
And somewhere, deep inside, the terrifying realization that she might never escape this man—not his mansion, not his world… not even his gaze.