Rose sat curled on the edge of her bed—the bed that had never truly felt like hers. The sheets were soft, the mattress plush, the pillows fluffed daily by the maids Salvatore kept around like quiet ghosts, but none of that mattered. It wasn't hers. It was a cage dressed in velvet.
She sat in a fetal position, knees pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs like she could hold herself together. Her cheek rested on her knees as she stared out of the window. The room was dim, lit only by the ambient glow of the moonlight spilling through the glass. The trees swayed gently outside, the breeze playing with the leaves like a lullaby. The sky, once painted with stars just hours ago, was now swallowed in clouds. Thick, dark, ominous. Rain would come soon. She could smell it in the air. The atmosphere was heavy, just like her chest.
Her finger tapped her knee. Once. Twice. Three times.
Always three times.
That was the rhythm. The pattern. The one thing burned into her muscle memory like a brand.
Three knocks. Always three knocks.
That was how he used to come into her room—Salvatore. That was how he always announced his presence. A mockery of courtesy. Not a request for entry, but a declaration. Three firm knocks and then the door would swing open, whether she welcomed him or not. Whether she was dressed or not. Whether she was crying or not.
She couldn't remember a single time he'd waited for her permission.
Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, her breath shaky as she blinked against the memory. Her tapping continued—three times. Always three. The sound was stuck in her head like a song she hated but couldn't stop humming.
That rhythm had become her constant.
Her hand gripped her ankle, grounding herself. She glanced at the mirror across the room. Her reflection was a ghost—pale skin, dull eyes, red curls cascading messily over her shoulders. Her face looked older than twenty-three. She looked like someone who had seen too much and felt too little.
She exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, the paint slightly cracked at the corners where water had once leaked in during a storm. She remembered lying in bed, watching that drip, trying to count how many seconds passed between each drop. She had made a game of it. Anything to avoid thinking about the sound of the door opening.
The orphanage had been a hellhole, but at least there, she hadn't been touched. At least there, the pain had been physical—cold showers, harsh words, hunger. Not what Salvatore had given her. Not the lies dressed as love. Not the twisted affection that had turned her body into currency.
She was only five when her world ended. The fire had destroyed everything. Her mother's greenhouse. Her father's laughter. Her baby brother's room. The whole house had gone up in smoke. And she had lit the match. Not intentionally—but still.
She had turned on the gas stove, too young to understand what she was doing. She remembered the hiss, the cool metal knob beneath her fingers. She'd been looking for a snack. She hadn't even lit anything—just turned the dial and left it. Then she'd wandered off to her mother's greenhouse to play, brushing her fingers along the petals like her mother used to do.
The explosion had rattled the entire neighborhood.
They told her it was a miracle she survived. She wasn't so sure.
Her extended family hadn't seen it as a miracle. They called her cursed. A murderer. A cursed little girl who took away the only good people left. Her aunts had made sure the orphanage staff treated her like vermin. Some kids were warned to stay away from her, others were paid to torment her. She had learned to be small. To be invisible.
And then Salvatore had come.
He had walked through the orphanage like a savior, wearing an expensive suit and a charming smile. He'd said all the right things. Promised her a better life. Said she deserved to be spoiled, taken care of. She was sixteen then. Desperate. Tired. Hopeful.
She remembered clinging to his words like they were lifelines. She remembered the way the other girls had looked at her with envy when she left. She had a new wardrobe. A room of her own. Food every day. A bath that smelled like lavender.
And then, night came.
And so did he.
No more words needed. No more promises kept.
The first time, she had screamed. Kicked. Bit his hand.
She had begged. Sobbed.
The third month, she stopped crying. She stopped pleading. She just went quiet. Learned how to breathe through it. Learned when to moan, when to be still. How to make it easier for herself.
She became both his daughter and his woman. The roles were played depending on who was watching.
But she never forgot.
Not a single detail.
She closed her eyes and let the silence settle over her like a blanket. It had been years, and still she couldn't fall asleep unless she knew all the doors were locked. Unless she had her knife under her pillow. Her sarcasm became her armor, her sharp tongue her weapon. She learned to wear her pain like jewelry—visible, but stylish.
Salvatore never hit her—at least not since that one time. The only time he raised his hand to her was the week after she started hanging out with Alejandro. She had called Salvatore a fat pig with a small dick. He slapped her so hard she flew against the wall.
She smiled at the memory now, not because it wasn't painful, but because that was the day she stopped fearing him.
Alejandro had opened her eyes. Salvatore's only son. The golden boy turned rebel. They weren't close—not really. But he'd shown her things. Introduced her to porn. Talked to her about real relationships. Told her she wasn't crazy for being disgusted. He'd never touched her. Never tried. But he understood.
He also hated his father with a passion.
They bonded over that.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened her contacts. Alejandro's name stared back at her. She tapped it.
ROSE: Your dad sold me.
She hit send and waited, her heart pounding. Seconds passed. Then a minute.
Her screen lit up.
ALEJANDRO: To who? Carlos?
She let out a bitter chuckle. Carlos—the obese, perverted cigar-smoking bastard who once told Salvatore he'd pay a fortune to "borrow" her for a night. Salvatore had laughed, slapped his back, and said, "Maybe one day."
ROSE: Bratva. Some guy named Nikolai Ivanov.
She stared at the screen, expecting an immediate reply. But it didn't come.
One minute. Then two.
Was he typing? Why was he quiet?
She scrolled to their older messages. Memes. Sarcastic jokes. Half-assed plans to blow up the mansion.
Then her screen lit up again.
ALEJANDRO: All I can say is good luck.
Her heart dropped.
That was it? Good luck?
She stared at the message like it might morph into something else. Something comforting. Something useful.
But it didn't.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
ROSE: What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is he dangerous?
No reply.
She tossed the phone on the bed and stood, pacing the room like a storm cloud with legs. Her breath came in sharp bursts. Her palms were sweaty. She walked to the window and looked out at the swaying trees. The wind had picked up, howling softly like a whisper warning her to run.
But where would she go?
She was 23. No education. No degree. Her records were altered, her name legally tied to Salvatore Russo. She had no one. No home. No real friends. Just Alejandro and even he seemed afraid of Nikolai.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and watched the first drops of rain streak down the pane.
Tomorrow, she'd be his.
Not a choice.
Not a wish.
Just another possession, handed off from one monster to another.
She whispered to herself, voice barely audible.
"What's the difference between a cage made of gold and one made of steel?"
She didn't know.
But she was about to find out.