Chapter 5 - The Gilded Cage
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The executive suite in the east wing of the Moretti estate was a masterpiece of Renaissance luxury. Silk tapestries hung on the walls, a massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the churning Mediterranean Sea.
It was a beautiful, opulent cage.
Seraphina stood in the center of the room, wearing a plush white bathrobe provided by a silent, terrified maid. The grime and sweat of the holding cell had been scrubbed away in a scalding marble shower, but the chill of the concrete floor still lingered in her bones.
The heavy mahogany door clicked open.
Elias walked into the suite. He held a thick file folder and a glass of dark amber whiskey. He did not ask for permission to enter; he owned the very air she breathed.
“Eat,” Elias ordered, gesturing toward a silver tray of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruit resting on a side table.
“I’m not hungry,” Seraphina replied, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.
“You haven't eaten in three days. You will eat, or I will have Stefan hold you down while the medic feeds you through a tube,” Elias stated flatly.
She glared at him, but her stomach betrayed her with a loud, hollow growl. She walked to the table, tearing off a piece of bread and eating it with slow, deliberate bites.
Elias watched her, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“I had my intelligence team run a deep background check on the orphanage in Kingston,” Elias said, tossing the file onto the bed. “A large, anonymous cash donation was made exactly twenty years ago, two days after the Falcone massacre. Someone smuggled you out of Corsica, bought you a new identity, and hid you at the bottom of the world.”
“My mother is Mary Hayes,” Seraphina insisted stubbornly. “She adopted me when I was six.”
“Mary Hayes was a paid caretaker who took the money and kept her mouth shut,” Elias corrected ruthlessly. “Your blood belongs to the Falcone syndicate. Your father was Don Lorenzo Falcone.”
Seraphina gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. The foundations of her reality were crumbling. The nightmares she had suffered as a child—the screaming, the smell of smoke, the flash of silver in the dark—were not bad dreams. They were memories.
“If what you say is true,” Seraphina whispered, looking up at him. “Why didn't you kill me in the basement? Your family wiped mine out. I am your enemy.”
Elias stepped closer, his imposing frame blocking the light from the window.
“Because killing you would be a waste of leverage,” Elias murmured. “The Corsican syndicate fractured after your father died. Rival families took the territory. But there are still loyalists waiting in the shadows for the true heir to return. If they find out you are alive, they will rally behind you. They will start a civil war.”
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“And you want to control the winner,” she realized, disgust pooling in her stomach.
“I want to control you,” Elias corrected, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You are the key to the Mediterranean. And you belong to me.”
