Page 27 of Ruined By Capture

My stomach growls on cue, reminding me I've had nothing but those cookies for hours. "I'd prefer to cook myself, no offense." I twist my mother's ring around my finger. "Your breakfast was..."

"Terrible," he finishes for me.

"I was going to say ambitious," I counter, "but yes."

He considers this. A motion draws my attention to his mouth before I force my eyes away.

"Fine," he finally says.

I stand, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. "I need a minute to save and encrypt my progress. Can't risk leaving this accessible if the power cuts out or something goes wrong."

"Fine," Alessio says, crossing his arms as he watches me work.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, creating multiple encrypted backups of my progress. The first layer was brutal but the next will be worse. I can't afford to lose ground.

"I also need to use the bathroom," I add, not looking up from the screen.

"The laptop comes with us to the kitchen," he says firmly. "I'm not leaving it unattended."

I nod, understanding his caution. "Of course. You think I'd leave my one bargaining chip lying around?" I finish the encryption sequence and close the laptop. "Here."

I hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a split second. I pull away quickly, ignoring the strange flutter in my chest.

"Two minutes," he says, nodding toward the bathroom door.

The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—dark circles under her eyes, skin pale from stress and lack of sleep.

I need a shower desperately after hours of nervous sweat and tension but my stomach growls again. Food first, then cleanliness.

When I emerge Alessio is leaning against the wall opposite the door, laptop tucked under one arm. His eyes sweep over me, assessing.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod.

He pushes off the wall and opens the door, gesturing for me to go first. As I pass him I catch that scent again—sandalwood and sea salt—and force myself not to drink it in.

We head toward the kitchen, an odd pair—kidnapper and captive—about to share a meal.

The hallway stretches before me like something from a luxury cabin magazine—all polished hardwood floors and walls lined with reclaimed timber. It's nothing like the concrete and steel I expected from a mafia safehouse. The ceiling features exposed wooden beams that give the space a rustic warmth completely at odds with my captive situation.

"Turn right at the end," Alessio instructs, his voice close behind me. "The stairs are there."

I move forward, my bare feet silent against the wood. Without my shoes I feel oddly vulnerable, though it's the least ofmy concerns right now. Small wrought iron sconces cast pools of amber light every few feet, illuminating framed black and white photographs of mountain landscapes. No personal photos—nothing that could identify the owners.

"This place is..." I pause, searching for the right word.

"Functional," Alessio supplies.

"I was going to say unexpected." I run my fingers along the wall as I walk. "Not exactly the dungeon I imagined."

A small sound escapes him—almost a laugh. "We save those for special guests."

I can't tell if he's joking.

At the end of the hall I turn right as instructed and find a staircase with wrought iron railings spiraling down to the floor below. The craftsmanship is impeccable—clearly custom-made.

"This is a Feretti property?" I ask, pausing at the top of the stairs.

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