Chapter 3 "Oh, I'm late for work"

Elena woke to the incessant ray of the sun slapping against her face. Lazily, she rolled to the far end of the bed. Then she stretched her hand for a second pillow, sluggishly dropping it over her face.

“Much better.”

She cuddled herself to the softness of duvet over her. The air was warm. And the bed soft. She felt comfortable—too comfortable.

Ohh, My God I'm late for work.

She quickly removed the duvet from her body, shoving it away. Next she stood up walking to table with the lamp stand by the head of her bed —-A habit.

She rubbed her eyes with her left palm stretching the other to get hold of her phone. Nothing.

Weird

She released her left palm stepping forward to search more thoroughly. Wait, My alarm clock.

Immediately, she turned around. Taking in the aesthetics of the room.

You've got to be kidding me.

Then she remembered.

The warehouse. The girl in the red dress. Salvatore Romano's cold blue eyes watching her like she was a puzzle he was deciding whether to solve or destroy.

Almost immediately a soft knock came at the door.

Elena's pulse spiked.

Already?

But the voice that followed wasn't his.

"Miss Moretti? May I come in?"

A woman. Older, by the sound of it. Gentle.

"It's not locked," Elena said, which felt like the kind of irony that would've been funny if literally anything about this situation was funny.

The door opened and a woman in her fifties stepped inside carrying a silver tray. She had kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun. A grandmother. Maybe. Which made her presence here feel deeply wrong.

"I'm Rosa," the woman said, setting the tray on the small table by the window. "The housekeeper. Don Salvatore asked me to bring you breakfast."

Don Salvatore asked.

Yeah, Of course he did.

Elena looked at the tray. Fresh fruit. Espresso in a delicate cup. Pastries that probably cost more than her monthly grocery budget.

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat anyway," Rosa said gently. Not unkindly. Just stating a fact. "You'll need your strength."

"For what exactly?"

Rosa smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "The day ahead, dear."

She moved toward the large wardrobe Elena hadn't noticed last night and opened it.

It was full of clothes.

Not just clothes. An entire wardrobe. Dresses, trousers, blouses, all in her size, all looking like they cost more than her rent.

Elena stared.

When did he—

How did he—

"The Don had these sent over early this morning," Rosa explained, running her hand along a silk blouse. "He thought you might want something fresh to wear."

"The Don can go—"

Elena stopped herself.

Rosa was just a woman doing her job. She didn't deserve Elena's anger. Even if that anger was the only thing keeping Elena's fear at a manageable distance.

"I'm fine in what I'm wearing," Elena said.

Rosa looked at the wrinkled red dress. Said nothing. But her expression said plenty.

Elena sighed.

"Fine. But I'm choosing."

"Of course, Miss Moretti."

Elena stood and walked to the wardrobe, scanning the options for detail.

Everything was expensive. Everything was tailored. Everything screamed money in that quiet way only real money could.

She chose the simplest thing she could find. Black trousers. A white button-down shirt. Practical. Professional. The kind of thing she'd wear to an interview.

Because that's what this is, isn't it? An interview. Except the subject is a man who kills people and I'm trying not to be the next body on his concrete floor.

She changed in the attached bathroom, which was larger than her entire apartment and had more marble than seemed strictly necessary for a place where people just brushed their teeth.

When she emerged, Rosa had laid out a small selection of jewelry on the dresser.

"I'm not wearing any of that," Elena said immediately.

"The necklace you came in with is still yours," Rosa said, gesturing to Lucia's gold necklace sitting in a small dish. "I had it cleaned."

Elena picked it up. The weight of it felt familiar. Grounding.

She fastened it around her neck.

Lucia. I hope you're raising hell out there.

Another knock at the door.

This time Rosa answered it.

A younger woman stepped in, tall and sharp-eyed, carrying what looked like a professional makeup kit. Behind her, a man with perfectly styled hair and an expression of vague artistic suffering.

"Good morning," the woman said brightly. Too brightly. "I'm Claire. This is Marco. We're here to help you look your best."

Elena stared at them.

"Help me look my best for what, exactly?"

"The Don didn't say," Claire admitted, already unpacking brushes. "He just said to make sure you looked like you belonged."

Belonged.

Belonged where? In a house? In a cage? In his world?

"I'm not interested," Elena said flatly.

"It wasn't a request, Miss Moretti," Marco said, examining her hair with the kind of critical eye usually reserved for condemned buildings.

Elena looked at Rosa. Rosa gave her a small, apologetic shrug.

You could refuse. You could scream. You could fight.

And then what?

She sat down.

For the next hour, Elena was scrubbed, styled, and painted like she was being prepared for auction. Which, given the circumstances, didn't feel entirely inaccurate.

Claire talked the entire time. About the weather. About Florence. About absolutely nothing that mattered. Elena suspected it was intentional. Keep the captive calm. Keep her distracted.

Marco said almost nothing, but his hands in her hair were gentle, almost reverent.

These people aren't evil. They're just employed by someone who is.

When they finally finished and turned her toward the mirror, Elena barely recognized herself.

Her hair fell in soft waves instead of its usual practical ponytail. Her skin looked luminous in a way skin absolutely should not look before nine in the morning. Her eyes were defined but not overdone.

She looked expensive.

She looked like she belonged in this house.

She hated it.

"Stunning," Claire said, pleased with her work.

"Perfect," Marco agreed.

Elena said nothing.

After they left, Rosa lingered by the door.

"There's something you should know, Miss Moretti."

Elena turned.

"The guards change shifts at six and midnight. The kitchen staff arrives at five in the morning. The Don usually takes his coffee in the east study around seven."

Elena's brain caught fire.

Why is she telling me this?

Rosa met her eyes. Held them.

"The house is very large," Rosa continued carefully. "Easy to get lost in. Especially the older wings. The portraits in the south hall date back three generations. Very informative, if one is interested in family history."

Then she left.

Elena stood alone in the beautiful room, her heart pounding.

Why is telling me this?

But she didn't have time to figure that out. Because if the guards changed at six and it was already past eight, that meant the morning shift was fresh, alert, and probably less likely to let her wander.

She had to move now.

Elena opened the door carefully.

The hallway was empty.

She stepped out, keeping her footsteps light, her posture casual. Like she belonged here. Like she was just a guest exploring her host's home.

The house was a maze. Corridors branched into more corridors. Rooms opened onto rooms. But Rosa had said the south hall.

Elena found it.

The portraits lined both walls. Generations of Romanos staring down with varying degrees of cruelty and calculation. She walked slowly, scanning each face, each name plate.

Alessandro Romano. 1847-1903.

Giovanni Romano. 1901-1967.

Salvatore Romano Senior. 1943-2019.

She continued wandering. And then, at the very end of the hall, a photograph that didn't match the others.

It was smaller. Less formal. Tucked almost out of sight.

A group photo. Eight men around a table. Cigars. Wine. The kind of casual wealth that didn't need to announce itself.

Elena stepped closer.

Her blood went cold.

Because there, sitting to the right of an older man who looked exactly like Salvatore, was a younger man.

He was laughing. Glass raised. Looking at the camera like he owned the world.

Quite familiar

The nameplate beneath the photo read: The Commission of Five. July 1995.

And there, in elegant script at the bottom, two names were circled in faded ink.

Salvatore Romano Sr. & Michael Moretti.

Elena's hands shook.

No.

No, that's not—

He wasn't—

But the photo didn't lie.

Her father. Her gambling addict, poverty-stricken, disappeared-three-years-ago father.

Sitting at a table with the Romanos. Laughing with them. Part of them.

"He didn't tell you."

Elena spun.

Salvatore stood at the end of the hall, perfectly still, watching her.

She didn't know how long he'd been there.

"My father," Elena whispered. Her voice didn't sound like her own. "He was..."

"A Don," Salvatore finished. "Head of the Moretti family. One of the Five. Until he wasn't."

Elena couldn't breathe.

"You lied to me."

"I never lied to you, Elena. I just didn't correct your assumptions."

He started walking toward her. Slow. Measured.

"Your father didn't lose your mother's inheritance gambling. He used it to buy protection.”

Closer.

He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could smell cedar and smoke again. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at his face.

“Protection from what?” Elena asked, gritting her teeth.

“From me.”

You. Again