Page 26 of His Savage Ruin
"Enter," I call.
Luca appears, his expression carefully neutral but urgent. "The prisoner is awake."
"Finally." I stand, straightening my shirt. The captured Moretti soldier has been unconscious for hours, and I need answers about their security breach. "How long has he been conscious?"
"About ten minutes. Rafael is with him now."
I nod, then turn back to Alessia. "Make your list. I'll be back soon."
"Where are you going?" she demands, and I catch something almost like concern in her voice.
"Business." I move toward the door, then pause. "Don't even think about trying to leave this room."
"You can't keep me locked up forever," she fires back, her defiance sparking to life again.
"I can and I will." The words come out harder than I intend, but the thought of her wandering my estate, vulnerable to threats both external and internal, makes ice form in my veins. "This conversation is over."
I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me with perhaps more force than necessary. The lock engages with a satisfying click.
In the corridor, I find Romeo and Marco waiting—two of my most trusted soldiers, men who've served the Romano family for over a decade.
"She doesn't leave this room," I tell them, my voice carrying absolute authority. "She doesn't go anywhere without my explicit permission. She doesn't speak to anyone except you two and Isabella. Clear?"
"Clear, boss," Romeo responds, while Marco nods his understanding.
"Good. I want one of you on the door at all times. The other can rest, but never both of you. And if she tries anything—and I mean anything—you contact me immediately."
I pause, then add, " And have the kitchen send up a coffee—a single shot of espresso with a dash of milk. Have it delivered every morning."
They exchange a quick look but don’t question me. They know better.
Our conversation from last night lingers in my mind—the way she spoke about sneaking espresso as if it were rebellion, a scrap of freedom in a cage Lorenzo built for her.
That thought alone stops me cold. Remembering details, indulging them, is dangerous. It edges too close to something I can’t afford.
She's just a pawn, I remind myself. A strategic asset. Nothing more.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying.
Alessia
The room feels smaller somehow after Matteo leaves, the walls pressing in despite the luxury surrounding me. I stare at the phone and paper he left behind, torn between gratitude for small mercies and fury at the casual way he's decided my fate.
I can and I will.
His words echo in my head, delivered with the kind of absolute certainty that brooks no argument. It should terrify me—this complete control he's assumed over my life. Instead, I find myself thinking about the gentleness in his voice when he promised not to hurt me.
Heat pools low in my belly at the memory, and I shake my head sharply. Stockholm syndrome. That's all this is. Some twisted psychological response to captivity that makes me confuse control with care.
I'm reaching for the pen to start my list when there's a soft knock at the door.
"Mrs. Moretti?" A male voice calls. "I brought some food."
The door opens to reveal a young man carrying a silver tray, probably in his late twenties with dark hair and kind eyes. Behind him, another man stands guard—older, more weathered, watching everything with professional wariness.
"Romeo," the younger one says with a shy smile, setting the tray on the desk. "And that's Marco."
Marco nods but doesn't speak, positioning himself by the door like a sentinel.
