OWNED BY THE DON

CHAPTER 13 - SECOND THOUGHTS

The silk of the cream lounge set felt like a second skin, a mocking reminder of the wealth that now surrounded her. Rachel spent the hours pacing the master suite, her reflection in the gilded mirrors looking like a stranger.

One half of her—the part that remembered the bridge and the cold cell—screamed at her to find a window, a vent, any way out. She was terrified of the "Punisher."

But the other half was exhausted. She was tired of the cold, tired of her father’s cowardice, and tired of being a girl who ran until her lungs burned.

Her feet eventually led her to Fabio’s nightstand. Amidst the high-tech gadgets and a heavy gold watch lay a simple, silver-framed photograph. She picked it up with trembling fingers.

It wasn't a photo of him looking like a mobster. It was Fabio, perhaps a few years younger, standing on the deck of a boat. He wasn't wearing a suit; his hair was windswept, and he was looking away from the camera with a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He looked... peaceful.

Rachel traced the line of his jaw in the photo, her thumb lingering on the image of his lips. Suddenly, a sharp, traitorous flutter erupted in her chest. Her heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs—not with the jagged tempo of fear, but with something warmer and far more dangerous.

How can I feel this for a man who hit me? she wondered, her eyes stinging. How can I want to stay in a house built on blood?

She realized then that Fabio hadn't just captured her body; he was beginning to colonize her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the fist—she felt the warmth of his hand holding hers in the dark of the night. She was falling for the monster, and that realization was more terrifying than any dungeon.

Feeling the walls of her "golden cage" after five days of closing in, Rachel slipped out of the master suite and began to wander the second-floor gallery. The estate was massive—easily twice the size of her childhood home—and dripping in opulent gold-veined marble. From the lobby below, Lucia spotted her and hurried up the stairs.

“Rachel? You shouldn’t be out here,” Lucia whispered urgently, trying to steer her back toward the suite. “Don Fabio will be home any minute. You need to rest.”

“I can’t just stay cooped up all day, Lucia,” Rachel countered. “I need to breathe and..I'm not sick anymore.”

Lucia studied her for a moment, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. “You want to play Dora the Explorer?”

Rachel managed a small smirk. “That used to be my favorite.”

“There are cameras everywhere,” Lucia said, glancing toward the corners of the ceiling. “But if you’re with me, I think we can get away with it.”

“I like the sound of that,” Rachel said, pausing. “So... lead the way.”

“Come on. I’ll show you something interesting.”

Lucia led her down to the first floor and pushed open a set of heavy double doors. Inside, the room felt like a private museum, housing hundreds of artifacts.

“The Family Archive,” Lucia explained.

Rachel’s gaze drifted across the rows of family portraits until she stopped, mesmerized by a painting of a handsome young boy.

“Is this him?” Rachel asked, her voice hushed with fascination. “Is this Fabio?”

Lucia turned back, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, yes. Quite the heartbreaker, even then, right?”

“And this must be his father.” Rachel stood between the two portraits, her eyes darting from one to the other. “The resemblance is striking...” she muttered, almost to herself.

Lucia’s expression turned unreadable as she stared at the older man’s face. “Indeed,” she replied quietly.

They drifted deeper into the hall, leaving the soft brushstrokes of the portraits behind for a section that felt noticeably colder. Here, the walls weren't decorated with memories, but with machinery.

Rachel slowed her pace as she entered the armory. Rows of vintage rifles and polished handguns were mounted against dark velvet, their steel barrels gleaming under the recessed lighting.

These weren't just antiques; they were kept with a terrifying, surgical precision. Each piece—from the ornate 17th-century flintlocks to the modern, matte-black pistols—seemed to pulse with a silent, violent history.

Rachel took a deep breath, the air here tasting of gun oil and old metal. It was a stark reminder that the "gold marble" upstairs was built on the foundation of what hung on these walls. The sheer volume of the collection made her skin prickle; it wasn't a hobby, it was an arsenal.

“He knows how to use every single one,” Lucia whispered, her voice barely audible in the heavy silence.

Rachel reached out a hand, her fingers hovering just inches from the cold steel of a heavy rifle, but she couldn't bring herself to touch it.

🔥🔥🔥🔥

It was already nine o'clock by the time Lucia led her into the private theater. They settled into the oversized seats with a bowl of popcorn Lucia had managed to sneak from the kitchen.

“Does he really let the staff spend time in here?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide as she scanned the opulence of the private theatre. She was mesmerized by the velvet seats and the vast, darkened screen.

Lucia, already comfortably settled with a handful of popcorn, nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! As long as our work for the day is finished, he doesn't mind at all.” She held out the bucket, and Rachel took a small, hesitant handful.

“He’s actually quite generous,” Lucia added, a playful glint in her eyes. “For a monster...”

She smiled, but Rachel stayed silent, her mind racing. The word 'monster' felt different coming from Lucia, less like a warning and more like an inside joke. Listening to these small reveals, Rachel felt her certainty wavering. Perhaps the man she had fought on the bridge wasn't the only version of the Don that existed.

When the massive screen flickered to life, the bright colors of Dora the Explorer filled the darkened room.

“I really can't get enough of this,” Rachel said, a genuine, wide smile breaking through her exhaustion.

“I just wonder when Dora actually sleeps,” Lucia joked. They both laughed, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room, momentarily forgetting the "King" and his arsenal downstairs.

Their laughter was cut short by a low, rhythmic sound vibrating through the walls—the heavy crunch of tires on gravel. Below the window, headlights swept across the estate’s gates like searchlights.

The "King" was home.

The playful atmosphere vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp panic.

At the sound of the tires, Rachel bolted from the theater seat. She didn't look back as she sprinted down the hall, her heart hammering against her ribs. Reaching the master suite, switch on the wall lamp and dove under the heavy silk sheets, pulling them up to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her breathing to slow into the rhythmic, heavy pace of someone deep in a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, Lucia moved with practiced efficiency. She didn’t run, but she moved fast, grabbing a silver tray she had staged earlier. As the heavy front doors groaned open downstairs, she was already positioned at Rachel’s door, backing out into the hallway as if she had just finished clearing away a late-night meal.

When the "King's" footsteps began their steady, ominous climb up the marble stairs, Lucia was simply a diligent maid finishing her chores, and Rachel was nothing more than a captive fast asleep in her cage.

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