The option of sleep evaded her. It was an inky abyss devoid of dreams, and she had awakened gasping from it. Somewhere, for an instant, she was unsure of her whereabouts. Cool silk sheets slipped off her skin, the air was clean-scented with flowers, and gentle shafts of morning light stole into the room. Then memory crashed, hard, into her consciousness like a physical blow. The masquerade. The kiss. Gunfire. That final clicking sound of a lock as cold as death. Damiano Moretti’s gilded cage. She sat up with a tension in her body that was not yet healed of sleep. There was a heap of crimson draped with careless elegance on the floor beside her, the dress of a life that had ended just hours ago. On the adjacent velvet chaise lounge lay the clothes he had chosen for her. It was a silent, arrogant display of his power; in not only kidnapping her, he had set her up for imprisonment. Ignoring the feminine options that were far more delicate, she picked tailored black trousers and a simple cream silk blouse. This was armor of another kind—understated, elegant, and practical. She would not be his doll.

Precisely at eight in the morning came a single sharp knock on the door. She did not need to answer it. In a moment, without the courtesy of invitation, a man with the face of a stoic statue and the muscular body of a prize fighter entered. He was one of the guards she had seen with Damiano. "Mr. Moretti expects you for breakfast," he said with a tone as drab as his attire. This was not a request. Serena followed behind him as they traversed the silent, lavish corridors, every nerve in her awake. She memorized the twists and turns, the placement of art, the silent cameras that reposed diagonally above in the ornate ceiling corners. She cataloged her prison for flaws in its brilliance. Instead of taking her to a formal dining room, he led her to a terrace encased in glass, as though floating over the city. Morning warmth flooded in with bright sunshine, followed by the breeze of fresh air, serene domestic tranquility completely crushed under the weight of their realities. Damiano was already present at a small table set for two. Clad in a grey shirt, crisp, so disarming that one could ignore his scars, rolled up to reveal his arm with intricate tattoos, he looked not at all like a mafia king, but rather like a well-heeled, relaxed billionaire starting his day. A financial paper lay open on the table beside him, the other side steaming with a cup of his coffee. Until Serena was standing before him, he did not raise his eyes from the paper.

"Good morning, Serena," he said, at a deliberate pace folding the paper with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. His silver eyes raked over her, cataloging her choice of attire. An almost imperceptible smirk toyed with the corners of his mouth. "Please, sit." As she settled into a chair, a silent server had already appeared, pouring coffee and placing before her a plate of fresh fruits and pastries. The civility became a weapon for disorientation. "I presume the accommodations are to your liking?" His tone was light, conversational. "They're decent," she replied coolly. "I do, however, find the service a bit much." His smirk widened. "So sorry; we are not used to guests who arrive in the middle of a shootout. Hospitality protocols are still being tuned." Leaning forward, the nonchalance disappeared, overtaken by predatory intensity. "I thought of your story since you went to bed. The Falcones are ruthless; they are seldom careless. Leaving behind one survivor, a daughter no less, appears to be a loose end they would hardly entertain." Damiano was testing her again, prodding at the edges of her lie. "Some would argue it is arrogance that caused the loose end," she said and held his gaze. "They thought I was nothing but a girl. They didn't know what my father taught me." She paused for effect, sipping her coffee slowly before firing back, "Speaking of carelessness, it appeared to me that your security was breached rather easily; for one in your position, that suggests the threat came from somewhere within these walls."

At that moment, she saw it: a flicker. It was imperceptibly minuscule, an involuntary creeping stiffness of muscle around his jaw; a sundering of his silver eyes into blunt chips of granite. She had struck a nerve. There was a traitor in his ranks, and he was conscious of this fact. Recovering in an instant, the crack had shown itself to Damiano. He leaned back, the mask of an unbothered amusement sliding back into place. "My house is in order," he said dismissively, though they both knew it was a lie. "My only concern right now is the unexpected variable you represent." He picked up a single, perfect strawberry from his plate, examining it as if it held all the world's secrets. "I have made some inquiries, of course. Sent a few whispers down the vine about Alessandro Falcone's 'lost daughter.' We shall see which truths shake loose from the tree." The implication was clear: her story had an expiration date attached to it. He was giving her the opportunity to confess, dangling some threat of discovery over her head. The breakfast had turned into an interrogation, or perhaps a negotiation or a battle of wills over coffee and croissants. The beautiful morning, the stunning view, the exquisite food—merely decorous backgrounds for the war he waged against her, and so far, she had survived one skirmish. As if on cue, the guard reappeared in the doorway. Damiano stood, signaling the end of their audience. "Enjoy the view, Serena," he said, his voice once again a silken threat. "Get to know it well. For the foreseeable future, it is the only world you will have. And remember," he paused, his glare pinning her down in her chair, "this cage has ears. And I am always listening."