OMERTÀ- Bound by debt

Chapter five- Sloane

I don't remember exhaustion taking over my eyes but it did and I fell asleep. As I stirred awake, I felt softness around me. My eyes were still closed though.

The dark pressed against me like a living thing, heavy and suffocating. I blinked up at the endless blackness overhead, my eyes peered down at the softness that engulfed me and I noticed that it was the duvet from the bed I had refused to lay on. My body felt achingly foreign—stiff joints, a dull throb behind my eyes, and a cold that settled into my bones despite the thick blankets. Somewhere in the back of my mind, alarm bells clanged: I wasn’t alone.

“What time is it?” I whispered to no one in particular, voice rough with disuse.

A low chuckle drifted through the darkness. “It’s a little past three,” came the answer—deep, measured, unmistakably his.

My heart slammed against my ribs. He was there. Watching. Waiting. I forced myself not to scream, not to tremble. I drew in a shuddering breath and sat up, the duvet sliding from my shoulders to pool on the ground in soft folds. Above me, the shadows shifted.

The man that owned me, whose name I did Not know yet, stood at the foot of the bed, his silhouette tall and still, the sharp line of his shoulders framed by the faint moonlight filtering through high windows. His grey eyes—shone silver in the moonlight, illuminating it—studied me with predatory calm. I wrapped my arms around myself, the scratch of my cheap hoodie suddenly unbearably bare against my skin.

“You slept,” he said, voice low, almost gentle. “Longer than I expected.”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “I… didn’t choose to,” I managed, though the words sounded feeble even to me, but that statement made me wonder how long he had been in this room. Watching me.

He took a step closer, and I could see the crisp white of his shirt against the gloom. His sleeves were still rolled to his elbows just like when I arrived here, muscular tattooed forearms exposed and powerful. “You were cold” he said, gaze drifting to my exposed shins. “I had cover you with the duvets. “Can’t have you getting sick yet.”

I glanced down at the duvet. It was thick—far warmer than I’d had in weeks. My cheeks burned with a mixture of gratitude and humiliation. “Thank you,” I said softly.

He made a sound that might have been amusement or something darker. “Don’t make this about gratitude,” he warned. His voice grew harder. “Remember why you’re here.”

My chest tightened. I nodded, though he didn’t ask. “I know,” I whispered. “I’m your… payment.”

He stepped into the faint circle of light cast by a tall lamp, revealing the hard set of his jaw. “Yes. And yet…” He hesitated, as if measuring his next words. “I haven’t decided exactly what to do with you.”

My stomach dipped. “Do with me?” The words trembled. The realization hit me—a man so powerful that everyone feared him, admitting uncertainty about my fate.

He nodded, eyes locked on mine. “If you were a man, I would have made you a guard, trained to be one of my men. You’ve survived worse things than most. But you’re not a man.” His lips curved into the slightest smile—the one that sent ripples of dread through me. “And I don’t deal in female soldiers.”

I bit my lip, shame and anger flaring, I hated not knowing my fate, the one my owner held at the tip of his hand and I also need to know his name I couldn’t keep calling him ‘my owner’. “So—what then? I’m a liability? A curiosity?”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the footboard. “You’re both,” he said quietly. “A test. One from the devil that brought you here but I promise you, I am the bigger devil.” He uncrossed his arms and advanced a step. “Listen closely, Sloane Monroe.” His voice cut through the haze in my mind like a knife. “One wrong move, one attempt to escape, and it will be a bullet to your head, not your freedom.”

The words fell over me colder than any winter wind outside. I felt tears—hot, humiliating—prick at the corners of my eyes. But I swallowed them down, refusing to offer him the sight of my fear.

He reached out, his hand closing around my chin with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed away a stray tear. “Don’t make me regret sparing you.” His eyes burned into mine, fierce and unyielding. Then he released me and turned on his heel, his coat swirling around him as he strode toward the door. “A maid will be here at dawn with food and clothes. Stay inside. Understand? Try anything stupid, and I’ll have a bullet in your head before you cross the threshold.”

I bristled. My fists clenched beside me.

“Why are you telling me this yourself?” I asked. “Surely you have men for that.”

His eyes returned to mine—dark, unreadable. “Because I want you to understand the consequences directly from me.”

Then he released me and walked out without another word, the door shutting behind him like the sealing of fate.

And just as he left, I realized that I forgot to ask him of his name.I stared at the spot where he’d stood, mind racing. My heart felt bruised by his words, by the way he’d claimed ownership of me so casually. Yet beneath the fear, a spark ignited—anger, resolve, and something like… defiance.

I sat there in the dark, the echo of his presence lingering like perfume—or poison.

Morning crept in slowly, staining the walls with a pale gray light. I hadn’t slept. Not really.

True to his word, the door opened and two maids stepped in silently. One wheeled in a cart of steaming food—eggs, fresh bread, thick-cut bacon, fruit I hadn’t tasted in years. The other moved toward the closet, and when she opened it, I gasped softly.

It was filled.

Thick woolen coats in muted colors, lined hoodies, sweatpants, cashmere loungewear—comfortable things, warm things. Not the wardrobe of a prisoner. But also not of a guest.

The one that wheeled the cart of food placed tray’s delicate china clinked softly on the vanity.

“I’m Amelia,” she said quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mr. Moretti asked me to bring these, and to check if you need anything.” She stood farther back than seemed necessary, eyes polite but distant—well-trained, like she’d delivered messages her whole life.

I cleared my throat. “Thank you.” I gestured to the foods and clothes. “Are these mine?”

She nodded. “Casual wear, thicker fabrics—just in case and food. He insisted.” There was a flicker of sympathy in her eyes before she masked it. “I’ll come back after you’ve changed.”

They both left as quietly as they’d arrived, leaving me alone with the soft clatter of china and the scent of honeyed porridge filling the room. My stomach rumbled despite my nerves. Could it be drugged?

I stared at it for too long before finally whispering, “What’s the point of starving?”

So I ate.

Slow at first, then hungrily, my fingers trembling. Every bite made me feel a little more alive. A little more like myself again. Whoever that was.

Once done, I turned toward the closet. I chose a pair of gray sweatpants and a thick navy hoodie and wool socks. Dropping them on the bed

Changing behind a folding screen, I felt the weight of my old garments shed from me and I have never been more happier to put on a new piece of clothing. I made my way to the en-suite bathroom, where steam curled from a large marble tub and a modern rain-shower fixture gleamed. Bottles of luxury shampoo, conditioner, soap, and lotions lined a polished shelf. Pampering, designed for royalty.

The jets massaged away the ache in my muscles. I closed my eyes, letting the steam swirl around me. For a moment, I recalled Mama singing me lullabies in warm baths at home. The memory was bittersweet, but I clung to it.

When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth robe that felt like a promise of rebirth. The robe’s softness comforted me as I brushed my hair, the mirror reflecting a woman on the brink—a woman choosing to fight rather than wilt.

Dressed and dry, I returned to the vanity where the remains of my breakfast waited. Full and more focused, I sat and stared at my reflection again. My eyes burned with urgency. I could not remain this pawn forever. I had to escape. To live. To reclaim the future that was stolen the moment that gun went off.

I opened the closet. Beneath the casual layers were more options—jackets, pants, sturdy gloves. I slid my fingers over each, testing seams and pockets. If I timed it right—when the guards changed shifts, at dusk, or perhaps the next morning—I could slip away. I could navigate the corridors, find the exit, and disappear into the cold night and hopefully no one notices.

My heartbeat hammered with possibility. The bed was soft, the room was beautiful, and Moretti’s world—as I learned is his last name—glittered with wealth—but beauty meant nothing without freedom. And I would have it, or I would die trying.

I closed the closet and turned to the window. The pale light of dawn was beginning to stain the sky. Soon, masks would fall, routines would start, and my window of opportunity would come.

I drew in a steadying breath. “I’ll get out of here,” I whispered. “You’ll see.”

And for the first time since I arrived, I felt resolve deeper than fear. The cold room no longer felt like a cage; it was the crucible forging my escape. I would not be his payment forever. Not without a fight.