His Virgin Stripper

40- Dead Air

Sienna

Two weeks. Fourteen days of looking at the same walls, tracking the same shadows across the floorboards, and trying to make the best of it.

It had been two weeks since I last saw Marcello, since he left me sitting alone at that dining table with a list of rules ringing in my ears.

And the worst part—the part that made me want to scream into my pillow out of frustration—was that I was actually beginning to get worried.

It was a twisted realization to come to in the middle of the night. I was a captive. A girl from Los Angeles who had been forced to sign her life over to a mafia don just to keep herself and her best friend from being wiped off the map.

I should have been celebrating his absence. I should have been praying that whatever war he was fighting out there kept him occupied forever.

But instead, every time the front doors opened or the guards’ radios crackled to life down the hall, my chest tightened. My mind kept betraying me, flashing back to the image of his dark hair pulled back into that neat man bun, the striking look of that dress shirt against his frame, and the terrifying weight of his eyes.

Enzo finally showed up yesterday, breaking the agonizing stretch of isolation. He had walked into the main foyer with his usual quiet stride, looking tired but unharmed.

The second I saw him, the question had slipped past my lips before I could stop myself.

"Is he okay?"

Enzo had given me a long, calculating look, his expression unreadable before he gave a slow, reassuring nod. "He's fine, Sienna."

He didn't offer details, and I knew better than to ask, but the wave of relief that washed over me was enough to make me sick to my stomach. I hated how much his safety had suddenly become tied to my own peace of mind.

But Enzo hadn't just come to deliver a status report. He had looked at both Roxy and me, his voice dropping into that flat, transactional tone that always signaled a shift in our reality. "Pack your things. Both of you. We're moving."

I had thought we were going to stay together. In my mind, a move just meant transferring our little survival bubble from one reinforced fortress to another.

I had spent the entire night packing our few clothes into duffel bags, comforting myself with the fact that no matter where Marcello decided to hide us next, I’d still have Roxy to binge-watch shows with, and we'd still have Ma Rosa to mess up recipes with in the kitchen.

But I was wrong.

By the time the SUVs pulled to a stop yesterday evening, the reality of the situation had crashed down on me like lead. I was left alone in a big-ass mansion, watching the taillights of the second vehicle disappear down the driveway with my best friend in it.

Enzo had told me that Roxy was being taken to a separate, safe place under heavy guard, but she wouldn't be staying with me anymore.

He said I would be allowed to visit her eventually, but the reassurance felt empty as the heavy front doors of the new house clicked shut behind me, sealing me into a brand-new cage.

To be fair, this house was prettier than the old house. It was far more modern, built with soaring panels of glass, clean white marble, and sharp, architectural lines that made it look like something out of an upscale design magazine. It didn't feel like a dark, concrete bunker hidden away in the shadows.

And for the first time in weeks, I was surrounded by life. The mansion sat on a high, gated perimeter overlooking the city grid.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, I could see the distant haze of traffic, the glittering lights of skyscrapers, and the constant hum of civilization moving just beyond the gate. I was back in the city. Thankfully.

Just seeing the faint glow of regular streetlights and knowing there were normal people living normal lives a few miles away kept me from feeling completely disconnected from humanity.

But without Roxy or Ma Rosa here to fill the space, the modern luxury meant nothing. The house was painfully boring. The big rooms felt sterile, devoid of the chaotic warmth we had managed to manufacture over the last week.

There was no one to throw popcorn at me, no one to argue about television plots, and no one to laugh at my terrible cooking skills.

Marcello had left guards here, of course—built like brick walls, standing outside the doors with their hands crossed over their weapons—and he had assigned two new maids to the property.

They were younger women, dressed in identical uniforms, who moved through the kitchen like ghosts. They didn't speak unless spoken to. They didn't offer knowing smiles or ask me if Marcello was being difficult.

When I tried to offer to help them clear the breakfast plates earlier, they had both looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, stammering out apologies and begging me to sit back down.

They treated me like a fragile glass doll that belonged to their boss, and the distance they kept made the isolation feel twice as heavy.

I paced the length of the modern living room, my socks sliding softly against the polished marble floor. The city outside was drenched in the bright, golden heat of the afternoon, but inside, the air conditioning was a steady, freezing draft that made my skin prickle.

Unable to take the quiet for another second, I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

With a shaking thumb, I pulled up my contacts and dialed Talia’s number for the umpteenth time.

I lifted the phone to my ear, holding my breath as I listened to the line. Praying for it to just ring. But once again, the flat drone of an automated operator stating that the call could not be completed as dialed filtered through the speaker.

I dropped my hand, letting out a frustrated breath as I stared at the dark screen. It was just like all the other times I had tried over the past two weeks.

Every single day, I dialed her number, hoping for a glitch in the system, hoping that Talia would finally pick up and tell me she was safe back in LA.

But there was never anything. Just dead air. The silence on her end was a constant, low-grade panic that lived under my skin, a reminder that while I was trapped in a golden cage, my family was completely out of my reach, oblivious to where I was.

Disgusted with the lack of results, I swiped through the screen and dialed the only other number I could think of.

"Sienna?" Roxy’s voice burst through the speaker, sounding incredibly loud against the quiet of the empty living room.

"Hey," I said, relief breaking through my frustration at the sound of her voice. I slumped down onto the black leather sofa, tucking my knees up against my chest.

"Looks like you don't miss me? I’ve been sitting here for hours staring at the walls. I thought you said you'd come over the second they cleared the security route."

On the other end of the line, I heard a dramatic sigh, followed by the rustle of bedsheets as Roxy shifted around.

"You think I want to stay here?" Roxy responded, her tone dripping with the familiar irritation that instantly made me feel like myself again.

"Alone? In this stupid, oversized bedroom with nothing to do but stare at a security camera in the corner? I was told that I couldn't come... at least not till next tomorrow. They won't even let me step out onto the patio without an escort, Sienna. It’s infuriating."

"Next tomorrow?" I repeated, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Two more days of this isolation before I could even see her. "Why the hell are they keeping us separated like this if we're both supposed to be safe?"

"Because they're paranoid control freaks, that's why," Roxy groaned, clearly over the conversation about her own confinement. I could hear her tapping her fingers against the phone casing, her restless energy vibrating through the line.

Before I could press her on the security details, she abruptly changed the subject, her tone sharpening with an anxiety that matched my own. "Look, forget about Enzo for a second. Have you gotten a hold on Talia? Cause I haven't.”