CLAIMED BY THE MAFIA KING

CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE OF MORETTI

The Moretti estate cut through the fog like something designed to be hated. It used iron, stone, and windows that looked more ominously than they welcomed. Mira had been told rumors about this house growing up like all the other kids in my neighborhood were told about wolves: kind of, sort of, maybe once, about other people, in other places. Now Mira was walking in the doors that would be hers to control and the myth had a name, a face, and a vice like grip that was more like command and not at all cruel.

“You’ll be in the east wing,” Dante said without turning to check if she was there. He didn’t have any doubt that she would be. “Don’t go into the west. What’s there is not for you to see.”

“More debts you’re collecting?”

That got a glance from him.Sharp. Assessing. Delighted, but not really, like a man surprised by something he shouldn’t be. “You’re a mouthy one, owning nothing, not even the clothes you wear.”

“You said I was terms and conditions. Not silence.”

“I never said that, but I enjoy hearing you talk back,” he said, as he arrived at a pair of double doors, and opened them. He indicated the bedroom beyond, larger than her entire apartment had ever been, with silk sheets, and a fire burned, and warmth enveloped her frozen body, and healed her from a cold that was more emotional than physical. “This is yours, for now.”

“For now,” she said, and repeated it to herself, but this time it was more like a possibility than a threat, more like a promise.

"Nothing in my world is permanent, little bird. Debts, grudges. And what's this now? Curiosity. I have no idea how to deal with that last one." He studied her, something behind his eyes, something patient and collecting, the way a man looks at a painting he is not sure he is going to love or is going to covet. “And curiosity,” he said.

He left, without saying anything. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving her in a room that was worth more than she was ever going to be, while she thought about the deal she had made, and what had been sold, the girl and the man, each of them watching the other.

She didn't cry, she made that promise to herself after getting out of the car, the last thing that she was going to do that would give her some life that was her own. Instead she began to catalog the room like she had used to catalog the things in the bakery, the daily stock, it was the only way she could cope to feel that she was not going to be controlled by the things that were in her life. A wardrobe that was empty, waiting for her to pick out clothes that she never even had the right to choose. A window that was locked, but it was not a barred window, and she did not know if that was carelessness or that was a message to her. A door to a bathroom that was larger than her bedroom, with soaps and oils that she never could save money to buy in a life time of work.

She dreaded sleep that night more than she ever had before. Under her, the violent men in the house whispered to one another, talked to each other through the old stone, slammed doors, and paced restlessly. The mansion took on a foreshadowing presence of danger the way other houses gathered dust and rested in quiet. She spent the night cataloging the shapes and measure of the sounds that would be her prison, the way she had once memorized the layout of the bakery. This time, it wasn't out of affection; she was taking note of which creaks and which paces and which voices went with which shadows, because information had always been the only thing she had control of.

Before long, a woman called Renata came to the door with food. She had a neutral expression, the sort of expression someone in this house would have to learn to develop to cope with the emotions that come with the job. “Eat.” Renata said. “He doesn’t like waste.”

“What does he like?”

Renata’s expression softened slightly, an almost imperceptible smile. It was a small break in her personality gave Mira an impression that this woman had worked here long enough to develop strong feelings. Renata continued. “Silence, control, and obedience. You'll learn quickly, or painfully. Most learn both, eventually, in whatever order the house decides to teach them.”

“Great. Bringing painful lessons seems to be a specialty of this place.”

Renata shrugged. “I’m not here to bring you comfort, signorina. I’m here to do my job; that is, to keep you alive long enough to be of importance.” Renata continued to look at Mira longer than necessary. The expression on her face was almost the same sort of look Dante had. They both had an impression that all the household employees had been trained in this particular sort of measurement.

The words stuck in Mira’s mind after Renata left. This was an ominous sign that this was the first time he had brought someone new to the estate and they didn’t cry in the car.

She did not know if it was bravery or dumbness that inspired her to act when others had been too afraid. Women she would never know, imagining their faces as they walked and disappeared from these very halls, leaving no explanations for the in-laws who ran the house.

The meals were the first and possibly last genuinely good things to happen. For that reason, she took her time, and savored the food so Moretti's cruelty couldn't take away the feeling of comfort that a warm meal can provide. From her room, she could see absolutely everything the Estate had to offer, from greenhouses trimmed with perfection, a decorative fountain that had been still when they arrived, guards looking like caged animals as they patrolled the grounds with no doubt artificial perimeters.

She had already come to understand the essential truth of the Estate, she would understand the rest of it much later. Slowly and unknowingly, Moretti was constructing the doors to his own creation, and what she didn’t understand then was that the man who built this prison would escape it at the same time as her.