Page 34 of Stolen Queen

With a deep breath, I open her door.

She looks up at me from where she’s working on a new piece of jewelry. Her eyes are wary, but she tries to hide it with a smile.

“You’re home.”

“Yes. I was thinking maybe you'd like to leave this room for a bit. Get a change of scenery?"

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You mean… I can go outside?"

"Well, not outside, exactly," I clarify. "But you could come into the living room, maybe watch some TV or something."

"Okay. I'd like that."

"Great," I say, trying not to sound too eager. "But before we go, I need you to promise you won't try to run away. I know you don't trust me, but if you leave here, your father will find you, and I can't protect you then."

Ava stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I promise.”

I want to believe her, but I can't shake the feeling that she's just telling me what I want to hear. She probably has her fingers crossed behind her back.

I hold out my hand to her. She glances at it like she isn’t sure what I’m doing. Finally, she takes it and lets me help her up. Her hand is small and warm, sending a sizzle of energy through me. It’s a strange sensation, different from other women. It’s not just the draw of attraction. It’s more. Deeper. Intense. It makes me think about what Elio said about finding a single love.

As I lead Ava into the hall, I say, “Want to help me make dinner?”

Ava looks up, surprise evident in her eyes. "You want me to help you cook?"

I nod, trying to keep my tone casual. "Yeah, if you're up for it. Thought it might be nice to do something together."

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Okay, sure."

As we make our way to the kitchen, Ava's gaze darts toward the main door. My body tenses instinctively, ready to stop her if she makes a break for it. My breath holds as I wait to find out whether Ava is ready to accept the reality of our situation or if she’s going to try to flee and force me to lock her up again.

13

AVA

Iglance at the front door, my heart racing with the possibility of escape. It's right there, tantalizingly close.

No. I can't run again. It didn't work last time, and it won't work now. Matteo caught me so easily before, and I have no doubt he'd do it again. Plus, where would I even go? Home to my father's wrath? To strangers who might be even worse?

I swallow hard, reminding myself that for now, at least, I'm safer here with Matteo than anywhere else. He hasn't hurt me. He's been… kind, in his own way, bringing me food, giving me things to do. It's more consideration than I ever got at home.

As we enter the kitchen, I make a conscious decision. I'll stay. I'll play along. Maybe if I can get him to trust me, to let his guard down, I'll have a better chance at real freedom later. It's not ideal, but it's the only plan I've got.

I step into Matteo's kitchen, my eyes widening at the sleek, modern appliances and gleaming countertops. It’s a kitchen made for someone who likes to cook. As Matteo busies himself gathering ingredients, I let my gaze wander beyond the kitchen.

The open floor plan reveals a spacious living area, bathed in the evening light from floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Chicago's skyline is breathtaking.

Plush, charcoal gray sofas face a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Abstract art pieces add splashes of color to the otherwise neutral palette.

I focus on a few framed photographs on a nearby shelf. They're mostly of Matteo with Elio, Lana, and Lazaro, with others I don't recognize. They're smiling, looking like any normal family. It's hard to reconcile this image with the ruthless reputation I've always heard about. But I suppose people could say that about my family’s photos. My father looks like a docile middle-aged man in them, not the ruthless criminal he is.

The place is undeniably beautiful and speaks to wealth and taste I hadn't associated with Matteo before. It makes me realize how little I actually know about him beyond his reputation and our few encounters.

Matteo moves around the kitchen with ease, pulling ingredients from a massive refrigerator that looks like it could hold enough food for a small army. I watch as he retrieves pots and pans from cabinets, noting how everything seems to have its perfect place.

I slide onto one of the plush leather chairs at the island and watch him prepare our meal. Part of me wants to pepper Matteo with questions about his life, about why he's doing this. Another part wants to stay silent, to not give him any more power over me than he already has. What if I annoy him and he locks me back in my room?

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. I find my eyes tracing the lines of a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, wondering about its significance. His hands, so capable of violence, now wield achef's knife with impressive skill, dicing vegetables at lightning speed.

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