"Sir? We've arrived."
My driver's voice pulled me from the memory.
I blinked, refocusing on the present. My estate loomed beyond the car windows, floodlights illuminating the manicured grounds and stone walls. Security cameras tracked our approach, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter.
A fortress fit for a king. Or a demon, depending on who you asked.
"Any issues while I was gone?" I asked as we passed through the gates.
"None, sir. The guest is secured in the east wing, as instructed. She attempted to break a window but ceased when informed of the consequences."
I smiled faintly. Of course she had. April De Luca wouldn't submit without a fight.
I'd be disappointed if she did.
The car rolled to a stop at the main entrance. Before exiting, I turned to my driver. "Tell Dante I want him at the office tomorrow morning. Early. We need to discuss our rat problem."
"Yes, sir."
Inside, the house was quiet, the staff having retired to their quarters for the night. I loosened my tie as I climbed the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing against marble. The east wing lay ahead, specifically, the suite I'd prepared for my reluctant bride.
I paused outside her door, listening. No sound came from within.
She was either asleep or waiting in silence, plotting her next escape attempt. Both possibilities were intriguing.
I decided not to disturb her. Yet. Let her stew in uncertainty, in fear of what came next. Psychological warfare was often more effective than physical force, though I was prepared to employ both if necessary.
Instead, I continued to my office, where a stack of reports awaited my attention. Marco De Luca's empire had been substantial, but integration hadn't been seamless. There were still pockets of resistance, loyal captains who refused to bend the knee to an outsider.
They would learn, as Rafael had.
I poured myself two fingers of scotch and settled behind my desk, opening the first file. Inside were surveillance photos of April— Hannah, as she'd called herself— over the past three weeks. April tending her flowers. April having coffee with that blonde girl. April reading on her balcony, hair loose around her shoulders, completely unaware she was being watched.
My fingers traced her face in one particular image. She looked peaceful, almost happy. A masterful performance for a woman whose entire existence was a lie.
My phone rang, breaking the silence. Dante.
"Report," I answered without preamble.
"Rafael's wife knew nothing," he said, his voice flat. "She's been taken care of."
"And the other matter?"
"The shop has been cleared out. All traces of Hannah Rossi have been eliminated. The landlord believes she returned to Sicily for a family emergency."
"The neighbor? The blonde?"
A pause. "Do you want her eliminated?"
I considered it. The girl had seen my face, had witnessed April's distress. She could cause problems.
"No," I decided. "Not yet. Monitor her. If she becomes troublesome, then we'll revisit the question."
"Understood. There's one more thing."
I waited.
"We found letters. Hidden in the apartment. To the nanny."
My interest sharpened. "April was in contact with Giulia?"
"No, sir. They were never sent. Just... written. Like a diary."
I smiled, pleased by this discovery. "Bring them to me. All of them."
"Already on their way with Vito."
"Good." I swirled the amber liquid in my glass. "Keep digging. I want to know everything about her life these past three years. Everyone she spoke to. Everyone she fucked."
"Sir, our surveillance suggests she was.. celibate."
This surprised me.
A beautiful young woman, living alone for three years without taking lovers? Interesting. Was it caution? Fear of forming attachments? Or something else entirely?
"Nevertheless," I said. "Be thorough."
After ending the call, I returned to the photos, to the life April had built while running from her obligations. A simple life, by all appearances. Modest. Honest.
Nothing like what awaited her now.
I drained my glass, the scotch burning pleasantly down my throat. Tomorrow, I would slowly begin April's education in earnest. She needed to understand her new reality, that Hannah Rossi was dead, that the freedom she'd tasted had been nothing but an illusion I'd allowed to exist until it suited me to end it.
That she belonged to me, as she always had.
I closed the file, tucking it into my desk drawer. In the morning, I would visit my little rose in her new garden. I would see if her thorns were as sharp as they appeared, or if they would break against my will.
I suspected the latter. They always did.
But some small, buried part of me,, the part that remembered hunger and doorways and surviving by any means necessary, hoped for the former.
After all, broken toys were never as amusing as those that continued to fight even as they shattered.