Chapter 02 : The Price Of Silent
1038 Words
She tucked the photo into her bag.
When she came out of her room with her suitcase, her father was standing in the living room.
Lorenzo Marchetti looked at her with red-rimmed eyes that held no tears as though they had run dry long before tonight.
"Odette—"
"Don't," she said quietly.
"Sweetheart, listen to me—"
"There's nothing left to say, Dad. " She held his gaze for a long moment , but steady.
She walked past her father. Past her mother, still standing in that same spot in the hallway. Past the living room with the dining table where her life had been decided without her.
Dante was waiting at the door. His eyes dropped to the suitcase. Then back to her.
He said nothing.
***
The car was dark inside.
The cold leather seats pressed against Odette's back like a reminder this is real, this is happening, nothing can undo it.
The scent of cedarwood and something expensive hung in the air. The windows were tinted too dark to see out clearly.
Odette sat as far from Dante as the seat would allow, her head leaned against the glass, watching the shadows of Rome drift past outside.
Streets she knew.
The coffee shop on the corner she passed every morning before her shift. The small church where she once took shelter from the rain when she was nine. The market that opened every Tuesday and Friday, where she used to buy vegetables with whatever coins she had left.
All of it slipping past.
One by one.
Like letting go of something she never knew she'd have to let go of.
"You haven't eaten," Dante's voice broke the silence.
Odette didn't turn her head. "That's none of your business."
"It is now."
"I'm not hungry."
Silence settled back between them. Odette counted the seconds without meaning to one, two, three.
"You haven't slept in three days."
This time she turned.
Dante wasn't looking at her. His eyes were forward, toward the driver who hadn't made a sound since they left. But his jaw set just a little too tight to be a neutral expression was saying something Odette couldn't quite translate.
"You've been watching me?" she asked.
"I needed to know what condition I'd be bringing home."
"Condition." She repeated the word slowly, like she was tasting how bitter it was. "I'm not an object."
Dante looked at her then. Just for a second. One second that felt far longer than it should have those dark eyes meeting hers directly, no pretense, none of the polite distance strangers usually kept.
"Not yet," he said.
Odette turned back to the window.
She wasn't about to let him see what that single word did to something inside her chest.
***
The house sat on top of a hill.
Odette saw it first through the car window a large white stone building, flanked by old trees that stood twice its height.
Small lights lined the long driveway, casting a warmth that felt somehow dishonest.
Beautiful, she thought.
Then immediately pushed the thought away.
She wasn't allowed to find anything here beautiful. This wasn't her new home. This was a prison with nice windows.
The car stopped in front of the main entrance. One of the men in black suits had her door open before she could reach the handle. She stepped out with her suitcase, refusing the help she hadn't asked for, and stood beneath a night sky thick with stars.
In Rome, you almost never saw this many.
Stop it, she told herself.
Dante was already walking toward the front door. He didn't look back to check if Odette was following as if it never once crossed his mind that she might not. And that, somehow, was what bothered her most. Not his arrogance. Not his power.
His certainty.
The way he moved and spoke and went quiet like someone who had never once been wrong about what would happen next.
Odette followed him inside.
Marcello met them at the door. A young man with a sharp jaw and dark brown hair combed neatly back. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves folded to the elbows polished without being stiff. His eyes landed on Odette immediately not with judgment, not with the kind of curiosity that felt intrusive. Just a look, brief, with something behind it that felt like recognition.
Like he had seen this expression on someone's face before.
"Marcello," Dante said. "This is Odette. Have her room ready."
"It's been ready, sir."
Dante gave a single nod and walked off without another word. No further introduction. No explanation of the house, of what would happen tomorrow, of what her life was supposed to mean now.
Just his back, disappearing down the corridor.
"Follow me," Marcello said quietly.
Odette followed him up a wide stone staircase, past a corridor lined with large paintings she didn't look at, past closed doors she didn't bother counting.
"Have you worked here long?" Odette asked more to fill the silence than out of any real curiosity.
"Twenty-three years."
"That's a long time."
"Yes." Marcello stopped in front of a door and opened it. "This is your room."
The room was larger than her parents' entire apartment.
Odette stood in the doorway for a moment, just taking it in. A bed dressed in white linen that looked like clouds. Tall windows with sheer curtains swaying gently in the night breeze. A large wooden wardrobe. A vanity with a round mirror. A small lamp on the nightstand casting a soft, warm glow.
And on the chair in the corner several neatly folded pieces of clothing. Dresses with cuts she wouldn't have been able to afford even if she'd had the money.
"Those are for you," Marcello said. "The sizing has been taken care of."
Odette stared at the dresses. "He prepared all of this."
Not a question.
"Mr. Volfango prepares everything carefully."
"Of course he does." Odette set her bag down on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress absorbed her weight with a gentleness that felt almost offensive too soft, too comfortable, like a joke that wasn't funny. "Marcello."
The man paused in the doorway.
- Writer
