HIS BELLISSIMA

DINNER

The door clicked shut behind her, and Alondra pressed her back against it, her hands flat against the cold wood.

She was shaking. She hated that she was shaking.

But she couldn't stop. Her hands trembled against the wood. Her knees felt weak. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps that she couldn't seem to control.

She'd been terrified before. In the alley. Watching that man fall. Feeling the pain explode through her head.

But this was different.

This was cold fear. Calculated fear. The kind that came from looking into someone's eyes and realizing they had all the power.

She pushed off the door and crossed to the window, yanking the curtains aside. The same view stretched before her—rolling hills, distant trees, the sprawling estate.

Beautiful. Isolated. A prison.

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and closed her eyes.

The day crawled by in agonizing slowness. She paced the room. She tapped her fingers against her thigh. She chewed the inside of her cheek until it bled. Maids came and went, asking if she needed anything, and each time she bit back the urge to scream at them.

Her mind kept drifting back to her apartment. Empty now. The way it had been for five months, ever since her parents died. She could picture the dust gathering on the counters, her mother's cardigan still draped over the kitchen chair because she couldn't bear to move it.

Five months of silence in rooms that used to echo with their voices.

She was an only child. After they died, she learned exactly what that word meant—alone in a way she hadn't understood until the house emptied around her. No sibling to sit with her in the quiet. No one else remembered her father's laugh or her mother's humming.

Her friends had tried. Melanie, Audrey, Dave: they'd shown up, held her together, refused to let her disappear into grief. But they weren't here now. And she had no one else. Her relatives were strangers, kept at arm's length her whole life by some old family rift she'd never been told about. Whatever the reason, her parents had shielded her from it, and now that they were gone, the distance felt permanent.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching the light shift from morning to noon. The slow creep of shadows across the floor felt cruel, like a dream she couldn't wake from.

She paced the room in slow, measured steps, testing every surface—the locked door, the sealed window, the wardrobe, even the heavy escritoire in the corner. Nothing gave. The room sat three stories above a courtyard she didn't recognize, its walls indifferent to her searching hands.

The hours dragged on, sluggish and formless.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under, and she fell into a restless sleep.

When evening came, a soft knock stirred her awake. The maid's gentle voice called through the door: time to bathe and dress for dinner.

She hadn't eaten all day—too terrified to feel it. But now, her stomach gave a low growl that made her press a hand to it, annoyed at her own body for betraying her.

She soaked in the deep marble tub, letting the warm water ease her sore muscles, but her mind wouldn't quiet. She replayed every word, every look, every moment with him until the water went cold.

She wrapped herself in a robe and stepped back into the bedroom, where the maid had laid out an armful of dresses across the bed. Her eyes went straight to a red gown with a plunging neckline, the fabric cut to hug curves she'd almost forgotten she had.

She slipped into it, and the bold color made her feel both exposed and strangely powerful—as if the dress belonged to someone braver than she felt.

Her heart hammered with dread and something close to anticipation as she stepped toward the door.

Out into the unknown.

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

She followed the maid down a long corridor, her bare feet silent against the cold marble. Two bodyguards flanked her, one ahead, one behind, their presence a constant reminder that she wasn't a guest. She was a prisoner wearing silk.

The hallway opened into a grand foyer, and then they were at the entrance to the dining room.

It was vast. A chandelier hung low over a long mahogany table, its crystals catching the candlelight and scattering it across the walls in soft, shifting patterns. The table was set for two, gleaming silverware arranged with surgical precision. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth at the far end, casting warm shadows that did nothing to warm the chill in her chest.

The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, interrupted by oil paintings of stern-faced men who seemed to judge her with every step. A sideboard against the far wall held crystal decanters and silver platters, and the windows—floor to ceiling, like the ones in her room—looked out onto darkness.

It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Clarise stood beside the table, her hands clasped in front of her, her crisp uniform immaculate. When she saw Alondra, her face softened into something almost warm.

"Good evening, Signorina." She pulled out a chair. "Please, sit. Mr. Santoro will join you shortly."

Alondra sat, her fingers gripping the arms of the chair. "Mr. Santoro," she repeated flatly. "So that's his name."

Clarise's smile flickered, just barely. "I'm not permitted to say more, Signorina. Forgive me."

She paused, and when she looked up, there was something careful in her expression. Something almost like sympathy. "But I would advise you to be careful tonight. Mr. Santoro is not a man who responds well to... defiance."

She busied herself with arranging the silverware, and Alondra watched her, trying to read something in the woman's careful movements. Clarise was afraid too—she could see it now. The tightness in her shoulders, the way she avoided meeting her eyes for too long. She was trying to be kind, or at least gentle, but she was also afraid of overstepping.

Alondra sat back in her chair, her heart hammering beneath the red silk of her gown. She was here. In this man's house. At his table. About to eat his food like this was all perfectly normal.

Her mind raced. What could he possibly want from her? She had nothing. No money. Her parents were dead. Her friends were just ordinary people. She was nobody.

Nobody with nothing to offer.

So why keep her alive? Why dress her up and feed her and lock her in a beautiful room instead of just—

She swallowed hard and pushed the thought away.

The fire crackled behind her. Clarise hovered near the sideboard, silent and watchful.

Then the doors at the far end of the room swung open.

And he walked in.

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

He'd changed into a dark suit, black as the shadows outside, tailored to fit his frame like it had been made for him. The grey one had made him look powerful. This one made him look dangerous. His dark hair was still slightly damp, as if he'd bathed and dressed as carefully as she had.

His face was sharp angles and hard lines, the kind of face that belonged on a statue or a wanted poster. A square jaw, a straight nose, cheekbones that caught the firelight and held it. But it was his eyes that stopped her—deep brown, almost black in the dim room, fixed on her with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

He looked nothing like she expected. He looked beautiful in a way that made her feel stupid for noticing. Like a Greek god carved from marble, except marble didn't move with that slow, predatory grace. Marble didn't smile like it already knew every secret she'd ever tried to hide.

"Bellissima."

The word rolled off his tongue like honey, and she hated how it made her skin prickle.

He sat across from her, settling into his chair with the ease of a man who owned everything in the room, including her.

She opened her mouth to speak, to demand answers, to throw every question she'd been holding onto all day right at his perfectly sculpted face.

"Eat."

He said it before she could get a word out, lifting his own fork like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She stared at him.

"You haven't eaten all day," he added, glancing at her plate. "Eat. Then we'll talk."

She opened her mouth again—to argue, to snap, to do exactly what Clarise had warned her not to do—but her stomach chose that moment to betray her with a low, desperate growl.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

Matteo's lips curved into the faintest smile. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

She picked up her fork.

The food was exquisite—rich, warm, perfectly prepared—and she hated how much she wanted it. She ate mainly because Clarise's warning echoed in her head, and because she was smart enough to know she'd need her strength for whatever came next.

They ate in silence.

The only sounds were the clink of silver against porcelain, the crackle of the fire, the whisper of Clarise's footsteps as she moved between them. Alondra kept her eyes on her plate, but she felt his gaze on her like a physical weight—watching her, assessing her, taking her apart piece by piece.

She hated it.

She hated that he noticed she hadn't eaten. She hated that he'd been paying that much attention. She hated that her body had betrayed her, and that he'd seen it, and that he'd used it against her without even trying.

She finished her meal without really tasting it, her mind churning.

Finally, he set down his fork. The sound was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

"I want you to come with me," he said. "To Italy."

She blinked. The words didn't make sense at first. They hung in the air between them, strange and disconnected, like he'd just announced the weather.

"I'm sorry?"

He said nothing. He just watched her, waiting.

"I—" She shook her head slowly, her thoughts scrambling to catch up. "Italy? As in... the country? You want me to go to Italy with you?"

"Yes."

"That's—" She laughed. It came out sharp and brittle, edged with hysteria. "That doesn't even make sense. You can't just— I can't just— I have a life here. I have friends, I have a job, I have—"

"Had," he corrected, his voice flat. "You had those things. Now you have me."

She stared at him. The arrogance. The sheer, unshakable arrogance.

"Who the hell are you?" She heard her own voice, low and shaking—not with fear this time. With fury. "You drag me here. You lock me in a room. You serve me dinner like I'm your guest, like this is all perfectly normal. And now you're telling me you want to take me to Italy?" She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the marble. "Who. Are. You?"

He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle he was still figuring out.

"Sit down, Alondra."

"Why didn't you kill me? I want—"

"Sit. Down."

His voice was low, quiet, and somehow more terrifying than any shout could have been. Something in his eyes shifted—cold and sharp, like the edge of a blade. She remembered the alley. The wounded man. The gunshots. The dark.

Her legs gave out. She sank back into the chair.

He watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, close enough that she could see the flicker of the fire reflected in his dark eyes.

"Who I am is not important yet. What I want—" He paused, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "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 went dry.

"One way or another," she repeated. "What does that mean?"

His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"It means you can walk out that door willingly—or you can be carried. The choice is yours. But the destination is the same.”