The vibration of the engine felt like it was trying to shake the soul out of my bones.
I lay on the floor of the SUV, my cheek pressed against cold, industrial-grade carpet that smelled of ozone and stale cigarette smoke. My hands were bound behind my back, the zip-ties biting into my wrists with every lurch of the vehicle. Every time we hit a pothole, a fresh spike of pain shot through my ribs...a souvenir from the Moretti grunt who had tackled me into the dirt outside my burning home.
My lungs felt like they were lined with shards of glass. Every breath was a struggle, a raspy, shallow reminder of the smoke I'd inhaled while watching the Vitale legacy go up in pyrotechnic glory.
Don't cough, I told myself, squeezing my eyes shut. Don't let them hear you struggle.
"She's awake," a voice rumbled from above. It was deep, rough, and devoid of any empathy.
I opened my eyes. Through the haze of my disheveled hair, I saw two men sitting on the leather bench seat. They were silhouettes of tactical gear and arrogance. The one speaking..a man with a jagged scar running through his eyebrow...was staring down at me with the kind of clinical curiosity one might afford a strange insect.
"The little Vitale princess looks a bit scorched around the edges, doesn't she, Russo?" the other one chuckled. He was younger, with a buzz cut and a sneer that made my skin crawl.
"Don't get close enough for her to bite, Marco," Russo warned, his eyes never leaving mine. "The Iron Don said she's got a temper. Her father might be a coward, but the girl... she's a different breed."
I pulled my knees toward my chest, trying to maintain some shred of dignity despite the silk robe that was now torn and stained with soot. The weight of the Velvet Ledger was a heavy, comforting lump against my hip, hidden in the secret inner pocket of my robe. They hadn't searched me yet. They'd been too busy dragging me away from the heat.
"My father will peel the skin from your faces," I rasped. The words came out in a dry croak, but the venom was there.
Marco laughed, a sharp, ugly sound that echoed in the cramped space. "Your father is a ghost, sweetheart. He's probably halfway to the Swiss border by now, carrying as much gold as his crooked back can handle. He didn't even look back when the first match was struck."
The truth of his words burned worse than the fire. I gritted my teeth, forcing the tears back. I wouldn't cry. Not in front of the dogs who served the man who destroyed my world.
"Noah Moretti is a thief," I said, my voice gaining strength. "He couldn't take our territory in a fair fight, so he acted like a coward in the night. He's no Don. He's a scavenger."
The car suddenly swerved, and my head slammed against the base of the seat. Stars exploded in my vision. I felt a heavy boot press into my shoulder, pinning me to the floor.
"Watch your mouth," Marco hissed, leaning down until I could smell the garlic and coffee on his breath. "The Don paid a high price for you. Or he will, anyway. You're not a Vitale anymore. You're just... inventory."
"Marco, enough," Russo snapped. "We have orders. No marks on the face. She needs to look pristine for the intake."
Marco grumbled but retracted his boot. I lay there, gasping for air, the cold rage in my gut the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.
Inventory. The word looped in my mind, a sickening mantra. I wasn't a daughter, a woman, or a human being. I was a line item in Noah Moretti's ledger. I was the interest on a debt I hadn't accrued.
The car began to slow. The smooth hum of the highway was replaced by the crunch of gravel. I felt the SUV tilt as we descended a ramp. The air became cooler, damp, and heavy with the scent of concrete and salt.
We stopped. The engine cut out, and for a moment, the silence was absolute...deafeningly so after the roar of the fire and the rumble of the car.
The rear hatch opened, and the sudden influx of fluorescent light blinded me. Rough hands grabbed my biceps, hauling me out of the car. My legs were numb, and I stumbled, falling to my knees on the cold, damp floor of an underground garage.
"Get up," Russo commanded.
I looked up. The garage was massive, a cathedral of grey concrete and steel. Armed men in black uniforms stood at regular intervals, their faces obscured by shadows. At the far end of the bay, a set of heavy steel doors stood guarded by a biometric scanner.
I forced myself to my feet, my muscles screaming in protest. I caught my reflection in the darkened window of the SUV. My face was streaked with soot, my eyes bloodshot and haunted, my hair a tangled nest of mahogany and ash. I looked like a ghost. I looked like the ruin of a princess.
Good, I thought. Let them see what they've made of me.
They marched me toward the steel doors. As we approached, the scanner hissed, and the doors slid open with a heavy, pneumatic sigh.
The air inside was different. It was filtered, sterile, and freezing. This wasn't a dungeon in some ancient castle; this was a modern, high-tech processing center. It was a factory for human souls.
"Intake Room 4," a woman's voice announced over an intercom. She sounded like an automated recording—devoid of life.
We walked down a long, white hallway. The walls were featureless, the lighting so bright it made my head ache. My bare feet felt the bite of the polished floor, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the villa I had left behind.
They pushed me into a small, square room. It contained nothing but a steel table, a single chair bolted to the floor, and a large, one-way mirror that took up half of the back wall.
"Sit," Russo said.
He pulled a pair of shears from his belt and sniped the zip-ties on my wrists. The sudden rush of blood back to my hands was agonizing, a thousand needles stabbing my skin. I rubbed my wrists, the red welts standing out starkly against my pale flesh.
"Wait here. Don't touch the walls. Don't talk to the glass," Russo warned. He looked at me for a beat longer than necessary, a flicker of something—perhaps pity, perhaps respect for my silence—crossing his scarred face. Then he stepped out, and the door locked with a definitive, electronic thud.
I was alone.
I looked at the mirror. I knew someone was behind it. I could feel the weight of a gaze—heavy, dark, and familiar. Noah. He was there, watching the "inventory" he'd acquired.
I stood up, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and walked toward the glass. I didn't hide my face. I leaned in close, until my breath fogged the surface.
"I know you're there, Noah," I whispered, my voice a jagged blade. "I hope you like what you bought. Because I'm going to be the last thing you ever see."
I didn't wait for a response he wouldn't give. I turned my back on the glass and sat in the steel chair, folding my hands in my lap.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The silence of the room began to feel like a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums. I focused on my breathing. One, two, three. One, two, three. I reached into my robe, my fingers brushing the edge of the Velvet Ledger. I needed to hide it. If they stripped me, they'd find it.
I looked around the room. No vents. No loose tiles. The chair was solid steel. The table was a single piece.
The door opened again. It wasn't Noah. It was a woman in a clinical white lab coat, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the corners of her eyes upward. She carried a tray of medical supplies and a stack of folded grey clothes.
"Strip," she said. Her voice was flat, bored.
"No," I replied.
The woman didn't look annoyed. She just pressed a button on a device at her hip. Two guards stepped into the room.
"You can do it yourself, or they can do it for you, Bianca Vitale," she said. "The Don wants a full physical appraisal. We need to document every mark, every scar, and every blemish. You are Moretti property now. We keep our property in good repair."
I looked at the guards. They were large, impersonal machines of muscle and indifference. I looked back at the one-way mirror.
Noah wanted to see me broken? He wanted to see me humiliated?
I stood up. Slowly, with my eyes fixed on the mirror, I reached for the belt of my robe. My hands were shaking, but I forced them to be still. I untied the knot.
As the silk began to slide off my shoulders, I felt the Velvet Ledger start to slip. I caught it against my thigh, using the fabric of the robe to mask the movement. As the robe pooled around my feet, I stepped back, subtly kicking the ledger under the edge of the steel table, into the shadows where the leg was bolted to the floor. It was a gamble..a desperate, pathetic gamble...but it was all I had.
I stood before them, naked and trembling in the frigid air, my skin covered in the soot of my father's sins.
The woman approached me with a digital camera. Click. Flash. My profile. Click. Flash. The burn on my arm. Click. Flash. The bruise on my hip.
"Hair is damaged," the woman noted, tapping a tablet. "Skin requires deep exfoliation. Lungs show signs of minor smoke inhalation. Otherwise... the asset is in excellent condition."
She stepped closer, donning latex gloves. She checked my teeth. She checked my eyes. She ran her hands over my ribs, her touch clinical and cold. I stared at the ceiling, imagining I was back in the orchard, the scent of lemons filling my head instead of the smell of latex.
"Finished," she said, tossing her gloves into a bin. She threw the grey clothes onto the table. "Put these on. You'll be moved to the primary holding cell shortly."
She left, and the guards followed.
I scrambled to the floor, my heart racing. I reached under the table, my fingers searching the shadows. I found it. The leather was warm. I tucked the ledger into the waistband of the oversized grey sweatpants they'd given me, the fabric thick enough to hide the bulk as long as I kept my shirt untucked.
I sat back on the chair, the grey cotton scratching my skin.
An hour later, the door opened for the final time that night.
Noah Moretti stepped into the room.
He didn't look like he'd been near a fire. He was immaculate in a black suit, his white shirt crisp, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked like a man who had just come from a board meeting, not a massacre.
He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, his sea-grey eyes raking over me in my drab grey clothes. The silence stretched, a taut wire between us.
"You look small in grey, Bianca," he said finally. His voice was like velvet over gravel...smooth, but with a dangerous edge.
"You look like a coward in a suit, Noah," I retorted.
He took a step toward me, and I felt the air in the room vanish. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face. I didn't flinch. I glared at him, my jaw set.
He didn't hit me. He didn't touch me. He simply tucked a stray, soot-stained lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm...unexpectedly so.
"The auction is in forty-eight hours," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from mine. "Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. Because after the bidding ends, you'll never be alone again."
He turned and walked out, the click of his shoes on the tile sounding like a death knell.
The lights in the room dimmed to a low, eerie blue. I was alone in the dark, in a cage built of silence and secrets. I curled up on the cold floor, my hand pressed against the ledger hidden at my waist.
I'm still here, Noah, I thought as the first tear finally escaped. I'm still a Vitale. And I'm going to burn your world to the ground.