HIS BELLISSIMA

TRAPPED

She was magnificent when she was angry.

Matteo watched her from across the table, his expression carefully neutral, his hands resting motionless on the polished mahogany. Inside, something stirred: something he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.

The firelight caught the red of her gown, setting it ablaze against her golden skin. The neckline dipped low, revealing the soft curve of her breasts, and he had to force himself to keep his eyes on her face. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like dark silk, wild and untamed, and her lips, those full, cherry-pink lips, were parted slightly as she stared at him in disbelief.

But it was her eyes that held him.

Hazel-brown, cat-shaped, blazing with fury and something else beneath it. Fear, yes. But not the kind that made women crumble. The kind that made them fight.

"Who I am is not important yet. What I want—" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "What I want will become clear in time. All you need to know right now, bellissima, is that you're coming with me. One way or another."

Her throat moved as she swallowed. "One way or another. What does that mean?"

He let his smile widen, slow and deliberate. "It means you can walk out that door willingly, or you can be carried. The choice is yours. But the destination is the same."

He watched her process it. Saw the flicker of understanding cross her face, followed by something sharper. Defiance. Even now, even trapped and outmatched, she still had fight in her.

She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the marble. The sound was jarring in the quiet room.

"Then you'll have to kill me."

He went still.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, her voice low and shaking.With fury. "You can drag me, you can carry me, you can lock me in a thousand rooms. But I won't go willingly. And if you want to take me, you'll have to put me in a body bag first."

She lifted her chin, and the firelight caught the tears glistening in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

"Because I don't care anymore. I've already lost everything. My parents are dead. My family is gone. I have nothing left to lose."

Something flickered in his chest. Surprise. Respect. Something else he couldn't name.

She stood there, trembling but unbroken, and for a moment, just a moment, he saw something in her that he'd never seen in anyone else.

But he didn't let it show.

"Who are you?" she demanded again, her voice cracking. "You owe me that much. Who the hell are you?"

He studied her for a long moment. Then he rose from his chair, slow and deliberate, and walked around the table until he stood before her.

He was close now. Close enough to see the rapid pulse beating in her throat. Close enough to smell the faint floral scent of her skin.

"My name," he said, his voice low, "is Matteo Santoro."

He paused, letting the name settle between them.

"The Don of the Santoro family."

He watched her face. The confusion. The flicker of recognition. And then the slow, dawning horror as she realized exactly what those words meant.

"You're—" She shook her head. "You're a—"

"Mafia," he finished for her. "Yes. I'm sure you've heard the word. Even in your world, you must have heard of the Cosa Nostra."

She went pale. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

He watched her process it. Watched the pieces click into place: the men, the guns, the body in the alley, the locked room, the mansion in the middle of nowhere. She was smart. She was already putting it together.

And still, she didn't back down.

"I don't care who you are," she said, her voice steadier than he expected. "I told you. You'll have to kill me."

He felt something shift in his chest. Something uncomfortable.

"Kill you?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Why would I kill you, Bellissima?

She blinked. "Because I saw you?" Because you shot someone....I don't care about that..... It's none of my business......" She trailed off.

He smiled. Then he raised one hand, a subtle gesture, his eyes never leaving hers.

One of his men appeared at her side. She startled, spinning around, but it was too late.

The man placed three photographs on the table in front of her.

Alondra froze.

Matteo watched her face as she looked down at them. Watched the color drain from her cheeks. Watched the defiance crumble into something far more fragile.

The photographs were simple. Unassuming. A dark-haired woman laughing at a café. A light-brown-skinned Black woman, with a mess of curls walking down a street. A man with kind eyes sitting on a park bench.

Melanie. Audrey. Dave.

"I don't—" She shook her head. "What is this? What are you—"

Your friends," he said calmly. "The only people in the world you actually care about, from what I understand. The only ones who would notice you're missing. The only ones who would come looking for you."

He watched her swallow. Watched her hands tremble as she reached for the photographs, her fingers hovering over Melanie's face.

"Please," she breathed. "Please don't."

"I haven't done anything," he said, his voice soft. Almost gentle. "Not yet."

She looked up at him, and the fear in her eyes was finally raw, finally real.

"But I will, Alondra."

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

He reached into his jacket, slow and deliberate, and pulled out his gun. Gold. Polished. Heavy in his hand. He didn't point it at her. He didn't need to.

He simply clicked the hammer back, the sound sharp and final in the silent room.

The message was loud and clear.

"Now," he said, his voice flat, "let's try this again."

"You're going to come with me to Italy. You are going to be by my side. You're going to smile when I tell you to smile. You're going to speak when I tell you to speak. And you're going to be very, very good."

He leaned in closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

"Because if you're not—" He glanced down at the photographs. "—they will suffer. And it will be your fault."

He watched her face crumble.

The tears she'd been fighting finally spilled over, tracking silently down her cheeks. She didn't sob. She didn't scream. She just stood there, frozen, broken, staring at the faces of the only people in the world she still loved.

And he felt something twist in his chest.

He didn't know what it was. He didn't want to know.

He stepped back, pocketing the gun, and straightened his jacket.

"We leave in two days," he said. "Get some rest. You'll need it."

He walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing against the marble.

At the threshold, he paused.

"And, Alondra?"

She didn't look up.

"Don't make me hurt them."

He left her there, surrounded by photographs and silence and the weight of everything she'd just lost.

He didn't look back.

He didn't trust himself to.

***********************************

The door clicked shut behind him.

Alondra stood frozen, her hands trembling at her sides, her eyes still fixed on the photographs scattered across the table. Melanie's smiling face. Audrey's easy laugh. Dave's kind eyes.

The tears came without warning.

They spilled over her cheeks, hot and fast, and she pressed both hands to her mouth to stifle the sob that clawed its way up her throat. Her knees buckled, and she sank into the chair, her body shaking with the force of it.

She was trapped. She was so, so trapped. And now they were in danger too—her only family, the only people she had left. All because of her. All because she'd walked into that alley. All because she'd been stupid enough to leave the party.

A soft sound behind her made her flinch.

Clarise was standing near the sideboard, her hands clasped in front of her, her face etched with something that looked almost like guilt.

"Signorina," she said quietly. "Please. Let me take you to your room."

Alondra looked up at her, and for a moment, she saw the fear in the maid's eyes. The fear she'd been trying to hide all evening. The fear of the man who owned this house.

"You knew," Alondra whispered. "You knew what he was going to do."

Clarise's jaw tightened. "I know what happens to people who get in his way. I know what happens to people he wants." She paused, and her voice dropped lower. "I know what happens to people he loves."

"Loves?" Alondra let out a bitter laugh. "He doesn't love me. He doesn't even know me."

Clarise said nothing. She simply held Alondra's gaze, and something in her expression made Alondra's stomach twist.

She didn't believe that. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

Clarise moved closer, her footsteps soft against the marble. "Please, signorina. Let me help you. It's not safe to stay here alone."

Alondra stared at her. Then, slowly, she looked down at the photographs still scattered across the table.

Melanie. Audrey. Dave.

She thought about their faces. Their voices. The way they'd held her together after her parents died. The way they'd refused to let her disappear.

She thought about what Matteo had said. What he'd implied.

They will suffer. And it will be your fault.

Her tears stopped.

Her breathing steadied.

She reached out and gathered the photographs, one by one, pressing them to her chest like they were made of glass.

"Help me up," she said, her voice flat.

Clarise hesitated, then extended her hand. Alondra took it, letting the maid pull her to her feet. She swayed once, steadying herself against the table, then lifted her chin.

"I'm not going to break," she said. "Not for him. Not for anyone."

Clarise studied her face for a moment then nodded.

"As you wish, signorina. This way."

She led Alondra out of the dining room, her hand gentle on her elbow, as if she were guiding a guest through a party instead of a prisoner back to her cell.

The hallway stretched before them, cold and silent. The fire crackled behind them. The photographs were warm against Alondra's chest, the only warmth she could feel.

******************************

What Clarise didn't see, what Alondra never knew, was the figure standing motionless in the shadows at the far end of the hall.

Matteo hadn't left.

He'd stopped the moment the door clicked shut behind him, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He'd told himself he was waiting to make sure she didn't try anything foolish. That he was making sure his men had her covered.

It was a lie.

He heard her collapse. Heard the sob she tried to smother. Heard her voice crack as she spoke to Clarise.

And then he heard the shift.

The sharp intake of breath. The silence that followed. The way her voice went flat and cold when she said, "I'm not going to break. Not for him. Not for anyone."

He closed his eyes.

Something was happening to him. Something he didn't want to name. Something that felt like a weakness he couldn't afford.

He waited until they were gone, until the sound of their footsteps faded, and then he pushed off the wall and walked in the opposite direction.

He didn't go after her.

He went to his office, poured himself a drink, and stared at the flames in the fireplace until the glass in his hand began to crack from the pressure of his grip.

She was going to be a problem.

And he had no idea what to do about it.