THE WIDOW OF A MONSTER

CHAPTER 4

THE MANSION WITH NO DOORS

From the outside, the mansion was admired.

People slowed their cars as they passed the gates, craning their necks to glimpse the limestone façade rising from manicured gardens like something lifted from another world. Architectural magazines praised its balance—old-world elegance fused seamlessly with modern minimalism. Glass walls caught the sun and scattered it back in brilliant shards. At night, the lights glowed warm and inviting, a promise of luxury and safety perched above the city like a guardian.

Serafina learned early that admiration was the most effective disguise a prison could wear.

The gates opened silently for approved vehicles and closed just as quietly behind them. No iron bars. No visible locks. The security was invisible, embedded into the bones of the place—cameras hidden behind decorative molding, sensors beneath marble floors, guards who blended so well into the environment they became part of it. Men with guns did not stand watch openly; they observed from shadows, from cars parked at precise distances, from rooms she was never invited into.

The first time Serafina walked the grounds alone, she believed—briefly—that she might be free to wander.

The gardens stretched wide, terraced down the hill in careful symmetry. Olive trees lined stone paths, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze. Fountains murmured constantly, a sound meant to soothe. Roses bloomed in deliberate abundance, their scent thick and sweet.

She walked slowly, breathing deeply, letting the sun warm her skin. For a moment, she forgot to be afraid.

Then she noticed the men.

They were not obvious. One leaned casually against a tree, his phone held loosely in his hand. Another sat on a bench near the far wall, reading a newspaper that never turned a page. A third paced at the edge of the property, his gaze following her without appearing to.

They did not stop her. They did not speak.

They did not need to.

Serafina understood then: the mansion did not require locked doors because it did not believe escape was possible.

Inside, the house unfolded in vast, echoing spaces designed to impress and disorient. Ceilings soared high above her, adorned with chandeliers that sparkled endlessly. Hallways stretched long and straight, lined with art chosen for value rather than soul. Every surface gleamed—glass, marble, polished wood—reflecting light and sound until the space felt almost unreal.

It was a place built to be admired, not lived in.

Her rooms were expansive, impeccably decorated, and completely impersonal. Someone else had chosen the color palette, the furniture, the art. Someone else had decided what comfort should look like. Her wardrobe was filled with dresses she had not selected, shoes arranged neatly by size and color, jewelry locked in cases she was permitted to open only for events.

Nothing belonged to her.

Even the windows betrayed her. They were floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass offering breathtaking views of the city, the sea, the endless horizon. She could see everything—and touch nothing. They did not open more than a few inches. Enough for air. Not enough for escape.

At night, Serafina sometimes stood barefoot against the glass, her palm pressed flat to the cool surface, staring at the city lights flickering below. Somewhere out there, people lived ordinary lives. They argued over trivial things, laughed loudly, made mistakes without consequence. They slept without listening for footsteps.

Inside the mansion, sound behaved differently.

Footsteps echoed too clearly. Doors closed with deliberate softness. Voices carried farther than they should have. Serafina learned quickly that the house listened. That walls remembered. She lowered her voice even when she was alone. She avoided speaking her thoughts aloud, afraid they might take shape and be overheard.

The staff moved like ghosts—efficient, discreet, trained never to linger. They never knocked unless summoned. They never entered a room unless it was empty or permission had been granted. Their eyes slid past her respectfully, as though truly seeing her might be dangerous.

Serafina wondered how many of them had watched other women arrive before her.

How many had learned these same hallways, these same rules, only to disappear quietly when they were no longer useful.

Alessandro ruled the mansion the way he ruled the empire—through presence.

When he was home, the atmosphere shifted. The air seemed heavier, charged. Staff moved faster, quieter. Conversations stopped abruptly when he entered a room. Serafina felt his presence before she saw him, a tightening in her chest that had nothing to do with love.

His study was the heart of the house.

It was a large room paneled in dark wood, its windows facing the city. A heavy desk dominated the space, always immaculately organized. No personal items sat upon it—no photographs, no mementos. Power did not need sentimentality.

Serafina was not allowed inside unless summoned.

When she was, she stood just inside the door, never sitting unless instructed. The carpet muffled sound there, as if even footsteps were expected to be respectful.

Alessandro often worked late, meetings stretching into the early hours. Men came and went. Voices rose and fell. Sometimes there were arguments. Sometimes laughter. Sometimes silence that lasted too long.

Serafina learned not to ask questions.

Her days followed a rigid rhythm.

She woke early. She dressed carefully. She ate meals at designated times. She waited.

Waiting became her primary occupation.

Waiting for permission. Waiting for instructions. Waiting for Alessandro’s mood to settle into something predictable. Waiting for nightfall, for morning, for the next day that would look exactly like the last.

Occasionally, she was allowed to leave the mansion—to attend events, visit approved locations, appear in public where she was expected to smile and embody refinement. Each excursion came with guards, routes planned in advance, schedules that allowed no deviation.

She was escorted everywhere.

Once, she asked—softly, cautiously—if she might visit a bookstore she had seen from the car window.

Alessandro looked at her for a long moment.

“No,” he said simply.

She nodded. The question never left her mouth again.

The mansion taught her a deeper lesson as well: beauty could be weaponized.

The flowers were always fresh. The linens were always clean. The food was always exquisite. Luxury wrapped itself around her like a sedative, dulling the edges of her awareness. It whispered that she was lucky, privileged, envied.

She began to understand why people outside could not imagine her suffering.

How could someone so surrounded by beauty be unhappy?

How could a cage this elegant still be a cage?

Some nights, when sleep refused to come, Serafina wandered the halls barefoot, careful to avoid cameras she had memorized by instinct rather than knowledge. She traced the patterns in the marble floors, counted the steps between rooms, learned the mansion the way prisoners learned their cells.

She found no doors that led outside without passing through controlled spaces. No corridors that were not watched. No corners that were not accounted for.

The mansion did not need locks because it trusted fear to do the work.

One afternoon, she wandered into a gallery she rarely visited—a long corridor lined with portraits of men long dead. Former rulers. Founders. Kings whose names were still spoken with respect.

Alessandro stood at the far end, his back to her, studying one of the paintings.

“Do you know what they all have in common?” he asked without turning.

She hesitated. “No.”

“They were strong enough to keep what was theirs.” He finally looked at her. “Weakness is how empires fall.”

She nodded, her throat tight.

He gestured around them. “This house exists because of strength. Because men like me refused to let anyone take what belonged to them.”

His gaze settled on her, heavy and possessive.

“Remember that.”

She did.

The mansion became a mirror of her own existence—beautiful, controlled, silent. A place where nothing was accidental, where even kindness felt calculated. It wrapped around her life so completely that she began to forget what freedom felt like.

And yet, despite everything, there were moments when the illusion cracked.

Sometimes, late at night, Serafina heard Luca Romano’s footsteps moving through the house. Unlike others, his presence was unmistakable—not loud, not threatening, but solid. He moved with purpose, never hurried, never hesitant. The house seemed to accommodate him differently, as if recognizing one of its own architects.

Once, she passed him in a corridor. He stopped, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Signora,” he said.

That was all.

But something in the way he spoke—neutral, respectful, unpossessive—lingered with her long after he walked away.

The mansion remained unchanged.

The doors still opened silently. The guards still watched. The windows still framed the city like a painting she could never step into.

But Serafina began to understand the truth that would shape her survival:

The mansion was not designed to keep people out.

It was designed to make those inside forget there was ever a way out at all.

And in that beautiful, doorless prison, Serafina learned to measure time not by days or seasons—but by how much of herself she

could hide away and still remain alive.