Chapter 2

Beyond the gate, the grounds opened into a sprawling expanse of manicured lawn, shrouded in mist drifting up from the lake bluffs. The main house was a fortress disguised as a French Normandy chateau—limestone walls two feet thick, slate rooflines, arched leaded windows, and detached wings flanking a central courtyard.

At least four armed sentries patrolled the gravel perimeter, long coats failing to hide the silhouettes of submachine guns slung beneath their shoulders.

Nico brought the SUV to a halt beneath the porte-cochère.

Marco stepped out into the biting wind, buttoning his coat. He turned and opened my door himself, extending an arm. “Out.”

I didn’t move immediately. I hesitated, shrinking back into the leather seat, staring out at the armed men like a terrified deer staring at a pack of wolves.

“Chiara,” Marco said, his voice dropping into that low, warning register that brokered no debate. “Don’t make me carry you.”

Sniffling, I slid across the seat, clutching the oversized cashmere blanket around my shoulders like a shroud. The moment my flats hit the crushed gravel, I made my left ankle give way.

It was an old stunt technique—shifting the center of gravity while dropping the hip—and it looked entirely involuntary. With a sharp gasp, I stumbled forward, my knees buckling toward the frozen stones.

Marco moved before thought could register.

His arm whipped around my waist, broad and iron-hard, hauling me up against his chest before I could touch the gravel. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs for real this time; his torso was like a wall of solid brick. The scent of him washed over me—bergamot, rain-soaked wool, and the bitter gunpowder residue on his collar.

“Careful,” he muttered into my hair.

I gasped, instinctively wrapping my fingers into the lapels of his heavy wool coat. I buried my face into the crook of his neck, letting my entire body tremble against him as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

It was a deliberate invasion of his space, engineered to bypass his natural defenses. Men like Marco Bellini lived in an ecosystem of calculated distance; they were targeted, watched, and betrayed. Physical proximity was usually a threat. But a helpless woman, half-fainting from terror, clinging to his coat as though he were a savior rather than her captor?

It triggered every dormant instinct of a man raised under an old-world code of honor.

I felt the sudden hitch in his chest. His arm tightened around my waist, not roughly, but with a sudden, protective possessiveness that made the hairs on my arms stand up. His free hand settled between my shoulder blades, holding me steady.

“I can’t... my legs,” I choked out against his throat, feeling the hot thrum of his pulse beneath his collar. “I can’t walk, please...”

Two guards approached, their expressions cautious. “Boss? You need a hand with her?”

“Back off,” Marco snapped, his voice sharp enough to draw blood.

The guards instantly froze, dropping their eyes to the gravel.

“Nobody touches her,” Marco commanded, his jaw clenched as he shifted his weight, effortlessly scooping me into his arms. One arm supported my shoulders, the other hooked beneath my knees. “Open the front doors. Tell Maria to brew chamomile tea and bring extra blankets to the west suite. Now.”

“Yes, boss.”

I kept my eyes squeezed shut as Marco carried me up the wide stone steps, but my ears worked with surgical precision.

*Clack of heavy oak doors.* *Biometric chirp on the entry latch.* *Six paces across marble foyer.* *Ambient acoustics suggest vaulted ceilings, twenty-five feet minimum.* *Footsteps on the right—two guards stationed near the arched gallery leading to the east wing.*

“Put me down, please,” I whispered weakly against his lapel, playing the reluctant victim to perfection. “I can try to walk...”

“Be quiet,” Marco murmured, his voice softer now, close to my ear as he took the grand curving staircase two steps at a time. “You’re shaking so hard your teeth are chattering. Save your breath.”

His stride was rhythmic, effortless despite carrying my full weight. He was broader than I had estimated from surveillance files; the tension in his shoulders spoke of decades of rigorous physical conditioning. As he carried me down the second-floor hallway, I peeked through my eyelashes.

The west wing was quiet, lined with dark wainscoting and framed oil paintings of Italian coastlines. But beneath the aristocratic luxury lay the skeleton of a prison. I spotted the faint glass glint of a hemispherical surveillance lens recessed into the crown molding every twenty feet. The baseboards were fitted with subtle motion sensor strips—commercial grade, but calibrated for high sensitivity.

Marco stopped before a heavy pair of double doors at the end of the corridor.

He didn’t use a key. He raised his hand to the brass escutcheon, pressing his thumb against an integrated biometric plate concealed within the scrollwork. A soft mechanical click echoed in the hallway, and the doors swung inward.

He carried me inside, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.

The suite was vast, opulent, and suffocating. A king-sized four-poster bed draped in deep emerald velvet dominated the center of the room. A marble fireplace crackled with pre-laid logs that ignited at the touch of a wall panel. Beyond the sitting area, French doors led out to a curved stone balcony overlooking the lake.

Even from across the room, I noticed the detail that mattered most: the delicate wrought-iron filigree on the balcony wasn’t merely decorative. The vertical bars were closely spaced and anchored into reinforced steel brackets embedded directly into the exterior masonry.

A gilded cage.

Marco carried me straight to the bed, lowering me onto the mattress with an almost unnatural gentleness. He pulled off my damp canvas flats and tossed them aside, then reached for the heavy velvet duvet, draping it over me alongside the cashmere blanket.

I huddled into the pillows, pulling the covers up to my nose, watching him with wide, tear-rimmed eyes.

Marco stood over the bed, breathing evenly, his jacket unbuttoned now to reveal the leather shoulder holster fitted against his white dress shirt. The matte-black grip of a customized SIG Sauer rested against his ribs.

He looked at me for a long moment, his dark eyes cataloging my pale skin, my tousled hair, the fragile tremor running through my frame.

“This room is yours,” he said, his voice flat but not unkind. “There’s an en-suite bathroom through that door. Fresh clothes in the armoire. Maria—the housekeeper—will bring up food and tea in twenty minutes. Eat it.”

“Are you... are you going to lock me in?” I asked, my voice barely a thread of sound.

Marco’s expression hardened slightly, the shadow of the capo returning to settle over his aristocratic features.

“Yes,” he said simply. “For your safety, and for mine.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered, letting fresh tears spill over my cheeks. “I just... I just grow flowers, Mr. Bellini. I don’t know who Frankie was. I don’t know who you are!”

Marco knelt down beside the bed, resting one large forearm on the edge of the mattress. The proximity brought that scent of rain and smoke back into my senses, electric and dangerous.

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