Chapter 3: The Library
944 Words
The “library” was not a room.
It was a cathedral.
Two stories high. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dark wood. A ladder on rails. And windows that looked out over the garden I wasn’t allowed in without an escort.
Elena left me there with a guard by the door. Not in the room. Outside. Like I was trusted enough to be alone, but not enough to be free.
I hated it.
So I did the only defiant thing I could. I didn’t read.
I paced.
I ran my fingers over the spines. Dante. Machiavelli. Art books worth more than my dad’s car. Nothing modern. Nothing soft. Everything here was power, history, control. Just like him.
Two hours passed.
The door opened. No knock.
Luca.
He was colder today. If that was possible.
Gray shirt. Black trousers. No smile. No “good morning.” Just eyes that scanned me like I was a problem he’d put on a shelf and forgotten.
“You didn’t eat lunch,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Wasn’t hungry.” Lie. My stomach growled an hour ago.
He didn’t react. He walked to the desk in the corner. Opened a folder. “Your father hasn’t called.”
46 hours left.
“I know.”
“Good.” He flipped a page. “Because I don’t repeat myself.”
That was it. That was all the care I was getting.
Defiance flared. “Am I supposed to thank you for telling me he’s going to get me killed?”
He looked up. Finally.
His gray eyes were ice. “You’re supposed to stay alive. That’s what I’m paying for.”
“Paying?” The word snapped out of me. “I’m not an employee, Mr. Romano.”
“No,” he agreed. “Employees can quit.”
The room went quiet. Just the sound of rain tapping the glass.
Scared crawled up my spine. I crossed my arms. Tried to look bigger than I felt. “So what am I to you? A painting? Something to hang on your wall until it gets boring?”
He closed the folder. Slow.
“You’re collateral,” he said. Cold. Final. “Don’t make it more than that.”
He turned to leave.
And that’s when my softness betrayed me.
“Don’t go.”
He stopped. Didn’t turn.
I hated myself for it. But the house was too big. Too quiet. And he was the only person in it who knew my name.
“I…” I swallowed. “I don’t know anyone here.”
He still didn’t turn. “You have Elena.”
“She’s staff.”
“You have books.”
“They don’t talk back.”
A beat.
Then, slowly, he turned.
His face was blank. Colder than before. “What do you want from me, Aria?”
The truth? I didn’t know. Company? Safety? Proof he wasn’t a monster?
“I want…” I started. Stopped. “I don’t want to be alone.”
There. Soft. Honest. Ugly.
For a second, nothing changed. He just looked at me.
Then he did something I didn’t expect.
He walked to the shelves. Not to me. He pulled a book down. Thick. Blue cover. No title I recognized.
He brought it back. Set it on the desk between us. Didn’t push it toward me. Just set it down.
“Caravaggio,” he said. “Italian painter. 1600s. Used light to hide the darkness.”
He opened it.
Inside were paintings. Violent. Beautiful. Saints with blood on their hands. Women looking away.
“This one,” he tapped a page. _Judith Slaying Holofernes_. “She killed a man to save her city. No one calls her a victim.”
He looked up at me.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “You have this.”
That was it. No apology. No touch. No “I’ll stay.”
But he’d stopped walking out. He’d stayed. He’d given me something.
Crack.
Tiny. Barely there. But I felt it.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because you didn’t throw the food,” he said, like that explained everything. “Because you’re angry, not broken. Yet.”
He closed the book. Pushed it toward me.
“Read,” he said. “Page 84.”
Then he left.
The door didn’t lock this time.
I stood there for a long time. Shaking. Angry at myself for wanting him to stay. Angry at him for leaving.
I sat.
I opened to page 84.
It was Judith. Knife in hand. Eyes steady.
Underneath, in small print: _“Courage is not the absence of fear, but the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”_
My throat tightened.
I don’t know how long I stared at it.
When Elena came at 6 PM, I was still there. The book open. My hands cold.
“Dinner is served, Miss Moretti,” she said gently.
I looked up. “Is he…”
“Mr. Romano dines alone,” she said.
Of course he did.
I followed her anyway.
The dining room was empty. One place set. Mine. His was across from me, but the chair was pushed in. Unused.
Cold.
I ate. Because I was soft. Because I was alive.
Halfway through, Elena set something beside my plate.
A cup. Hot. Smelling like chamomile.
“From Mr. Romano,” she said. “He said you looked cold in the library.”
He’d noticed.
He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t stayed.
But he’d noticed.
I wrapped my hands around the cup. It burned. In a good way.
Colder. Then care.
And I was in trouble, because I felt it.
- Writer
