Chapter 5: Marble Prison
1686 Words
The reception is a performance I’m not prepared for.
We stand in the grand ballroom of the Valenti estate, a fortress disguised as a villa perched on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. Everything is white marble and gold fixtures, excessive wealth displayed like a warning. The room is full of people who want us dead, smiling and toasting our union like we’re some kind of fairy tale.
Luca’s hand never leaves my waist. A constant reminder of ownership.
“Smile,” he murmurs as another guest approaches with congratulations. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
“Isn’t that what this is?”
His fingers dig slightly into my side. Not enough to bruise, just enough to remind me who’s in control. “It’s whatever I say it is.”
The guest, some capo from Catania whose name I’ve already forgotten, raises his glass. “To the happy couple. May your union bring prosperity to both families.”
Prosperity. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now.
I smile and nod and say all the right things while inside I’m cataloging exits. Three doors, all guarded. Windows that probably don’t open. Security cameras in every corner. Luca’s men everywhere, watching.
This isn’t a party. It’s a cage with champagne.
“Dance with me.” Luca doesn’t ask, just pulls me toward the floor where other couples are swaying to something slow and romantic.
His arms come around me, one hand flat against my lower back, the other capturing mine. Up close, I can smell his cologne, something expensive and woody that probably costs more than most people make in a month.
“You did well today,” he says as we move. “Very convincing.”
“I wasn’t trying to convince anyone of anything.”
“No?” His hand slides lower, just shy of inappropriate. “Then why does the perfect bride act? The demure smiles, the traditional vows. If you hate this so much, why not fight?”
“Maybe I’m choosing my battles.”
He laughs, low and dark. “Smart. But it won’t help you.”
“Won’t it?”
“No.” He spins me, pulls me back harder than necessary. “Because you’re thinking like this is a negotiation. Like if you play nice, if you behave, I’ll eventually soften. Let you have some freedom, some control.” His lips brush my ear. “I won’t.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Everything.” The word is simple, absolute. “Your obedience. Your submission. Your complete and total surrender. And when I have that, when there’s nothing left of Elena Romano who walked into that church, maybe then I’ll consider you’ve paid enough for your father’s sins.”
The song ends. Applause ripples through the room. Luca releases me, steps back with a smile that looks almost genuine.
“Enjoy the party, wife. It’s the last pleasant thing you’ll experience for a while.”
Then he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd of guests, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the dance floor.
The rest of the reception blurs together. Forced conversations with people who look at me like I’m already dead. Marcella Valenti’s cold assessment as she reminds me I’m expected at family dinner every Sunday. Tommy’s unsettling attention feels more like stalking than celebration.
Through it all, I search for Alessandro. He’s supposed to be here, but I can’t find him anywhere in the crowd.
Finally, as the evening winds down and guests begin to leave, Dominic appears at my elbow.
“Mrs. Valenti.” The title sounds wrong in his mouth. “Luca asked me to show you to your rooms.”
“My rooms?”
“Yes.” Something in his expression softens. Almost like sympathy. “Follow me.”
He leads me through a maze of corridors, past rooms that probably have names like the East Wing or the Gallery. The villa is massive, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure. We pass guards stationed at regular intervals, each one nodding to Dominic as we go.
Finally, we stop at a set of double doors at the end of a long hallway.
“This is you,” Dominic says, pushing them open.
The suite is beautiful. I’ll give them that. High ceilings, antique furniture, French doors that open onto a balcony with an ocean view. The bed is huge, draped in silk that probably costs more than my childhood home. There’s a sitting area, a bathroom visible through another door, and a walk-in closet that’s already full of clothes I’ve never seen before.
It’s a gilded cage, and we both know it.
“Your things from your family home were brought over this morning,” Dominic says. “Some of them, anyway. Luca had me go through everything first.”
“Of course he did.”
“Elena.” He uses my first name, and it startles me. “I know this isn’t… I know you didn’t choose this. But for what it’s worth, it could be worse.”
“Could it?”
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Is my brother still here?” I ask. “Alessandro. I haven’t seen him since the ceremony.”
Dominic’s expression shutters. “He left about an hour ago. Luca thought it was best.”
“Best.” I laugh, and it sounds jagged. “Best for who?”
“For everyone.” He moves toward the door, then pauses. “The doors lock from the outside. The windows have alarms. There are cameras in the hallway. Don’t try anything stupid.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll have to stop you. And I’d rather not.”
He leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him. I hear the lock engage. Confirming what I already knew.
I’m a prisoner here.
I walk to the French doors, test them. Locked. The balcony beyond is beautiful, all wrought iron and flowering vines, but it’s three stories up with nothing but rocks and ocean below. Even if I could get the doors open, where would I go?
My phone is gone. Taken at some point during the reception, though I didn’t notice when. My purse too. Anything that could connect me to the outside world, carefully removed.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, wedding dress pooling around me like sea foam. This morning, I was Elena Romano. Tonight, I’m Elena Valenti. A different person in a different prison, playing a game I don’t fully understand the rules to.
A door opens behind me. Not the main entrance, but one I didn’t notice before, half-hidden in the wall paneling.
Luca steps through, and I realize with cold clarity that our rooms connect.
He’s changed out of his tuxedo into dark slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks relaxed, comfortable. Like this is his space and I’m just a guest.
“The reception went well,” he says, moving to a small bar in the corner. He pours two glasses of something amber, and brings one to me. “You exceeded expectations.”
I don’t take the glass. “What do you want?”
“What any husband wants on his wedding night.” He sees my expression and smirks. “Relax. I’m not here for that.”
“Then why are you here?”
He sets the glass on the nightstand, then sits beside me on the bed. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the whiskey on his breath.
“I’m here to set expectations,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up in this room. You’ll find appropriate clothes in the closet, all in your size. You’ll dress, you’ll come down to breakfast, and you’ll smile like you’re grateful to be here.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then your brother loses a finger. Maybe a hand if you’re particularly difficult.” He says it casually, like we’re discussing the weather. “For every act of defiance, someone you love pays the price. That’s how this works.”
My hands clench in my lap. “You’re a monster.”
“Yes.” He stands, drains his glass in one swallow. “But I’m the monster you married. So I suggest you learn to live with it.”
He walks back toward the connecting door, then pauses. “Oh, and Elena? Don’t bother trying the balcony doors. The fall probably won’t kill you, but the rocks will do permanent damage. And I need you intact.”
“Need me for what?”
He looks back over his shoulder, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t read. Something darker than hatred.
“For everything.”
The door closes behind him. I hear a lock engage on his side too.
I sit there in my wedding dress, in this beautiful prison, and finally let myself feel the weight of what I’ve done. What I’ve walked into.
Three weeks ago, I thought I could fight this. Though I could find a way to survive, maybe even win. But sitting here now, in this locked room with a monster on the other side of the wall, I realize I may have miscalculated.
This isn’t a game I can win.
This is a game where the only prize is survival.
And even that might be asking too much.
I stand, walk to the mirror, and look at myself. White dress. Diamond jewelry. Perfectly styled hair. I look like a bride. Like someone’s beloved wife.
I look like a liar.
Slowly, mechanically, I start removing the jewelry. The earrings first, then the necklace Marcella insisted I wear. The veil, already crushed from the reception. Piece by piece, I strip away the costume until I’m just Elena again.
Just a girl in a wedding dress, locked in a marble prison, with no way out and no one coming to save her.
The worst part?
I knew this was coming.
And I walked into it anyway.
- Writer
