★★Mariella's POV★★



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As I'm waiting—or convincing myself that I am—I try to distract myself, but my mind keeps circling back to one thing: why is my father coming to get me himself? Half of my upper body dangles off the edge of the bed while my legs anchor me in place, keeping me from flipping over entirely. My hair nearly brushes the floor, and the rush of blood to my head only adds to my confusion.

The man who raised me isn't the type to show up in person. If anyone so much as glances at me wrong, he'd tear the world apart to make them regret it. But here I am, caught in this twisted reality where he's apparently coming to get me, like some sort of errand boy. It doesn't make sense.

I hum a melody absentmindedly, trying to make sense of it, trying to untangle the mess in my mind. The pressure builds, not just from the blood rushing to my head, but from the nagging, insistent thought that something about this situation feels off. It's like I'm missing a crucial piece, and the puzzle can't quite fit together. Something doesn't sit right, and I can't shake the feeling that the truth is a lot darker than I want to admit.

The sound of the door unlocking snaps me out of my daze. The door swings open, and in walks Antonio, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. He freezes for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of me. I'm pretty sure he's mentally debating whether I belong in some high-security mental institution.

"What the hell are you doing?" he finally asks, his tone dripping with exasperation.

I grin at him from my upside-down perch. "Waiting for you, obviously. Took you long enough, knight in shining Armani."

He ignores my sarcasm, shaking his head as he approaches the bed. "Alright, I found a shirt and some shorts for you. This is all I could scrounge up," he says, holding them out like he's presenting a gift to a queen he doesn't particularly like.

I roll my eyes and flop over onto my stomach, propping my chin on my hands as I bat my eyelashes at him. "Come on, Antonio, I thought you'd go the extra mile for a girl in distress."

He glares at me, unimpressed. "You should be grateful you're getting anything at all. Leon wanted to let you rot in here, and honestly, I was starting to think he had the right idea."

Of, course.

I sit up in a huff, crossing my legs as I snatch the clothes from his hands. My eyes narrow as I examine the oversized shirt and shorts, holding them up like I've just been handed a pair of wet socks.

"Whose clothes are these?" I ask, my voice filled with theatrical disgust. "Did you steal these from a retired circus clown? Or is this what you wear when you're off-duty—'homeless chic'?"

Antonio's jaw tightens as he shoots me a glare, but I catch the faintest twitch of his lips. "You want to keep insulting my efforts, or do you want something to wear?"

I wrinkle my nose, holding the shirt at arm's length. "This thing is so big I could use it as a parachute. Are you sure this isn't yours, Antonio?"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Just put it on. I don't have time for your fashion critiques."

I stand up, twirling the shirt dramatically. "Fine, but if anyone sees me in this, I'm telling them I've been kidnapped and forced into sartorial servitude."

Antonio's jaw tightens, but I catch the faintest twitch of his lips. "You want to keep complaining, or do you want to take a shower and clean yourself up? There's soap, shampoo, and towels in the bathroom," he says, nodding toward the door.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Wait, what's the catch? Why are you suddenly being so... considerate?"

He doesn't answer right away, just jerks his chin toward the corner of the room. "Before you go in there, just so you know—don't change in this room."

"Why not?" I ask, frowning.

He smirks, gesturing to the far wall. "There's a hidden camera up there. Leon's orders, not mine. You change in here, and someone's getting a free show. Just thought you'd like to know."

My jaw drops as I whip my head around, spotting the faint glint of the hidden camera tucked near the ceiling. My hands ball into fists as I turn back to him. "You're kidding me, right? You let me sit in here with that thing pointed at me?"

He shrugs, his smirk widening. "Hey, I'm just doing my job. Now, are you gonna flip out, or are you gonna go shower?"

I flip the bird at the camera, my anger bubbling over. "You're all a bunch of creeps!" I snap before storming past him toward the bathroom, clutching the hideous clothes to my chest.

"Don't forget to lock the door," he calls after me, clearly enjoying this far too much.

I slam the bathroom door shut and lock it with a satisfying click, muttering under my breath as I turn on the water. If nothing else, at least I'll be clean... though I'm seriously considering strangling Antonio with that oversized shirt.

As the hot water cascades over my body, a shiver runs down my spine, but it's the good kind—the kind that reminds me I'm finally washing off the grime. "God, finally," I mutter to myself, the warmth relaxing every tense muscle. It feels like forever since my last shower, and I can't shake the feeling that I've been dragged through a sewer.

Probably because I feel like I have.

I take my time, making sure to scrub every inch of my skin and work the shampoo thoroughly into my hair. By the time I'm rinsing out the suds, I feel like a new person.

Well, almost.

Stepping out of the shower, I grab the towel hanging nearby and wrap it snugly around me, making sure to dry off every drop of water. The steam fogs up the mirror, so I swipe my hand across it, revealing my reflection. With a sigh, I dig into the pile of clothes Antonio brought me.

"Great. Just great," I grumble, holding up the oversized shirt. I pull on my underwear and bra before slipping the shirt over my head. As expected, it falls over me like a shapeless gown. Fantastic. I stare at myself in the mirror, unimpressed.

Grabbing the shorts, I step into them and immediately feel them slide down to my hips. "Of course," I mutter, rolling my eyes. I tighten the drawstrings, yanking hard until they cinch snugly around my waist, then tie a knot to keep them in place. Standing back, I take a look. The shirt's too long, the shorts are still baggy despite my efforts, and I look like some prepubescent boy who stole his dad's clothes.

Sighing, I decide to fix what I can. I gather the excess fabric of the shirt, twist it at the hem, and tie it into a knot, turning it into a makeshift crop top. I step back and glance in the mirror again, tilting my head to the side.

Not bad, Mariella. Not bad at all.

I run a brush quickly through my hair to smooth it out, letting it fall over my shoulders, before stepping out of the bathroom. Antonio is leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. At the sound of my footsteps, he looks up, and his eyes widen slightly as he takes in my makeshift outfit.

"Well," I say, spinning around for effect, "I guess it isn't so bad after all." I shoot him a cheeky grin and chuckle.

Antonio's brow quirks as he gives me an appraising look. "I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified at what you've done to the clothes."

I shrug, still smiling. "Necessity is the mother of invention. Besides, it looks way better now, doesn't it?" I do a quick twirl to show off my handiwork.

He snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're something else, Mariella."

"You're just jealous," I tease, flashing him a wink as I saunter past him.

Antonio rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, standing up straight. "Well, you hungry?" he asks, his tone casual but edged with impatience.

My eyes go wide, and I practically light up. Does this mean I finally get to leave this boring room? "Duh!" I say with a big smile, bouncing slightly in place.

But just as I'm starting to feel relief, Antonio narrows his eyes and steps closer, his expression shifting into something much more serious. The sudden change makes my stomach twist. "If you so much as do anything stupid," he says, his voice low and sharp, "Leon would gladly put you down. Understand?"

The smile drops from my face, and I swallow hard, trying not to show how much that statement rattles me. "I'll be on my best behavior," I reply with a forced grin, giving him a sarcastic little salute to lighten the tension.

Antonio doesn't laugh. He just stares at me for a second longer before turning on his heel. "Follow me," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As I trail behind him, my hands are clammy, and I can feel a cold sweat forming on the back of my neck. The idea of Leon "putting me down" is far too believable for comfort. That guy doesn't seem like he needs much of an excuse to pull the trigger.

We walk through a series of hallways, the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly off the marble floors. Portraits line the walls, most of them family pictures. They look so normal, so domestic. But then there's one face that catches my eye—the same man who'd threatened to shoot me in the torture room. The memory slams into me like a freight train: me chained down, his cold, hateful gaze boring into me like he'd relish watching me suffer. It's a look I'll never forget.

Why does he hate me so much?

I shake the thought away, focusing on the present as we descend a grand spiral staircase. A massive chandelier hangs in the middle of the entryway, glittering like something out of a palace. We take a sharp corner, and Antonio leads me into the kitchen.

The moment we step inside, the maids bustling around the room freeze in place. Their eyes flicker to me, wide with shock, though they quickly try to mask it. I can't blame them. I probably look out of place—like a stray cat dragged in off the street.

Antonio strides confidently to the island counter and motions to one of the maids. "Fix her something small," he orders briskly, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

I sit at the counter, my posture stiff and awkward, my sweaty hands gripping the edge of the table. The kitchen smells amazing—fresh bread, roasted herbs, something savory simmering on the stove—but I can't fully enjoy it. I keep glancing around, my eyes darting to every shadowy corner, half-expecting the devil himself—Leon—to show up.

The maids whisper to each other as they work, stealing quick glances at me when they think I'm not looking. I wonder if they're afraid of me, or if they pity me. Either way, their unease does little to settle my nerves. My gaze keeps scanning the room, searching for any sign of that cold, hateful glare. But so far, there's no sign of him.

Yet.

As I quietly munch on my salad, I have to admit—it's not bad at all. Who knew diced apples in a salad could be this good? The crisp sweetness actually makes the whole thing enjoyable, which is shocking considering I'm usually not a salad person. Meanwhile, Antonio sits across from me, glued to his phone, his fingers tapping away at some message. The silence is deafening, and it starts to itch at my nerves.

I glance up at him, debating whether or not to say something. Screw it. "Hey... Antonio," I say softly, my voice barely cutting through the quiet.

His eyes flick up from his phone, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised I spoke up. "Hm?" he hums, setting his phone down and leaning back in his chair.

I hesitate, suddenly unsure of how to phrase what's on my mind. "How come my father isn't, you know... going to start a..." The word war hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to say it. That's what I'd expected—a full-on mafia rampage the moment my father found out his precious princess had been taken. But instead, he's coming to get me himself?

It doesn't add up.

Antonio's smirk widens like he can read my mind. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies me. "You mean war?" he says, his tone teasing yet pointed.

I glance away, my fingers fiddling with the fork in my hand. "Well, yeah... I'm just surprised he's coming to get me himself," I admit, my voice a little unsteady. It's true—I don't get it. This feels so... anticlimactic.

Before Antonio can respond, a voice cuts through the room like a blade. "Why, Mariella? Were you hoping to see our bodies on the floor, dead?"

My body stiffens, my heart skipping a beat as I turn to see Thing 1—Damien—casually leaning against the table beside me. He's so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him, and I instinctively lean back.

I glance up at him, my heart pounding. Damien's eyes are sharp, unyielding, and far too similar to Leon's. Except Leon's stare feels like it's draining the life out of you, while Damien's feels more... cutting, like a blade pressed to your throat.

I stammer, trying to find my voice. "Well—no... I guess not," I manage, though my words sound unconvincing even to me. "Since my father found a way to come to an agreement," I add quickly, hoping to deflect some of the tension.

Damien leans in closer, his eyes boring into mine, and my heart sinks further into my stomach. "An agreement, huh?" he says softly, his tone dripping with skepticism. His lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. "How sweet."

My palms are slick with sweat, and my pulse is thundering in my ears. I don't trust myself to say anything else without making it worse, so I just sit there, frozen, staring up at him like a deer in headlights.

Antonio finally clears his throat, breaking the suffocating silence. "Alright, Damien. Stop trying to scare the girl. Leon will have your head if you make this messier than it already is."

Damien chuckles, straightening up and stepping back. "Just having a little fun," he says with a shrug, though his eyes linger on me for a moment longer before he finally turns away.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my hands trembling slightly as I grip the edge of the table. God, what is it with these people and their need to constantly keep me on edge?

As I begin to calm my nerves, both Damien and Antonio abruptly straighten, standing tall like soldiers awaiting orders. Their expressions harden, and their eyes fix on something behind me. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, as if the air itself is bracing for impact.

Then I hear it—a voice. Deep, raspy, and dripping with authority. "Mariella De Angelis."

The words send a shiver down my spine, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The maids immediately scatter, disappearing from the room like frightened mice. My back is still to the wall, but I know better than to delay. Slowly, I stand and turn around, forcing myself to face the source of that commanding voice.

There he is.

A tall, older man with silver-gray hair and a face lined with deep wrinkles that only enhance his stern, predatory aura. His sharp, calculating eyes—a colder version of Leon's—lock onto mine, dissecting me in a single glance. The resemblance is undeniable.

This must be the father.

His suit, a deep maroon Armani, fits him perfectly, exuding wealth and power. His posture is regal, with his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze flickers to my outfit—Antonio's oversized clothes, still tied in a makeshift crop top and cinched pants. Ah, crap. I curse internally, suddenly hyperaware of how out of place I must look in front of a French mafia leader. His lips press into a thin line, but he says nothing about it. Instead, he steps forward, closing the distance between us.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. De Angelis," he purrs, his voice smooth, deliberate. He takes my hand with practiced grace and presses a soft kiss to it. The gesture is polite, but his touch lingers, sending a cold shiver down my spine—not the kind that feels like respect. The kind that feels... dangerous.

I manage a tight, polite smile, masking the unease that churns beneath the surface. "Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr..." I trail off, the gap between us wide with the question of his name.

His smile is faint but sharp, his eyes cutting through me. "Please. Call me Mr. Laurent," he replies, his tone casual as he lets go of my hand, but not before his gaze lingers just a fraction too long.

"Mr. Laurent," I repeat, letting the name roll off my tongue with deliberate care, my smile polite but calculated. "Your hospitality has been... unforgettable. I'll be certain to let my father know just how thoughtful and accommodating you've been." My words drip with a thin veneer of sweetness, but underneath, they're razor-sharp. My pulse thrums in my ears, but I keep my composure, standing tall.

His piercing gaze remains locked on mine, testing me, waiting for a crack. Not a chance. I hold his eyes steadily, a silent challenge passing between us. The corners of my mouth curl just slightly, not in warmth, but in defiance masked as charm. I refuse to show an ounce of weakness, not to him, not to anyone. If this man thinks he can intimidate me, he's sorely mistaken.

His lips twitch upward in a small, knowing smile, and he chuckles softly. "Your father has arrived," he says, his tone as calm as it is commanding. "He's waiting in the driveway."

My eyes widen ever so slightly, but I quickly compose myself. Finally. Relief washes over me, though I keep my excitement in check.

"It's best you let him know you're alright," Mr. Laurent continues. He raises his hand in a subtle gesture, signaling Antonio. "Take Ms. De Angelis to her father."

"Yes, sir," Antonio replies, his tone curt and professional. He steps forward, motioning for me to follow him. I glance back at Mr. Laurent, offering one last polite nod before turning toward the door.

But just as I'm about to leave the room, Mr. Laurent's voice booms behind me, colder and sharper than before. "Damien," he barks. "Where the hell is Leon?"

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and I can practically feel Damien tense behind me. My steps falter for a fraction of a second, but Antonio places a hand on my shoulder, urging me forward. I follow him, my mind spinning as we make our way down the hallway. Whatever's going on, it's clear that Leon's absence isn't just noticed—it's a problem.

A big one.

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YAY her family's here!

wonder what her father is gonna react to seeing her???

*Introvert or Extrovert?*

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡