The red ink burns into my eyes.
*YOU WERE NEVER HIS TO OWN.*
*WE CAN RENEGOTIATE*
M.
I flip the page, half expecting more.
There’s a smaller sheet folded behind the contract copy.
I unfold it with numb fingers.
Plain white paper.
One line, in the same, careful English as the threat.
> If Moretti doesn’t want you, I do.
My stomach turns.
I read it again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange into something less obscene.
They don’t.
Moretti doesn’t want you.
As if this is a lovers’ spat.
As if I’m something he tossed away.
I do.
As if what Marco’s offering is not another cage, just…different wallpaper.
I sit down hard on the bed.
The tile is cold under my bare feet.
The room feels smaller.
No armed guards.
No, Luca.
No, Dante.
Just me, a cracked ceili
