Chapter 5 Chapter 5: The Gilded Cage

Elena woke to sunlight and silk sheets, and for three blissful seconds, she thought the nightmare had been a dream.

Then she opened her eyes to see the coffered ceiling twenty feet above her, the crystal chandelier catching morning light, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a city she could see but no longer touch. Memory crashed over her like a wave: the warehouse, the execution, Dante's dark eyes stripping her bare with a single look. The way he'd touched her face and called her beautiful even as he sentenced her to captivity.

Real. It was all horrifyingly, impossibly real.

Elena sat up too fast, and her head spun. The clock on the nightstand—an actual Cartier, because of course it was—read 10:47 AM. She'd slept for eight hours in the devil's guest room, and her body had apparently decided luxury trumped mortal terror when it came to rest. Traitor.

She took inventory of her surroundings in the daylight. The bedroom was larger than her entire former apartment, decorated in shades of cream and gold that probably cost more per square foot than she made in a year. The bed was a California King with a hand-carved headboard that looked Renaissance. Original artwork adorned the walls—a Monet, if her limited knowledge was correct, hanging casually like a poster from a dorm room.

The attached bathroom visible through an open door gleamed with marble and gold fixtures. A walk-in closet stood empty except for a white robe hanging on a hook, waiting.

It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was a cage designed to make her forget she was trapped.

Elena threw off the covers—Egyptian cotton, naturally—and stood on legs that shook only slightly. She was still wearing yesterday's interview suit, now wrinkled beyond salvation, and her stockings had runs up both legs. Her hair felt like a rat's nest, and her mouth tasted like fear and whiskey fumes.

She needed a shower. She needed clothes. She needed to figure out how to escape this gilded prison before she started finding it comfortable.

The bathroom was a temple to excess: a separate shower and tub, heated floors, a mirror that probably cost more than her car. Elena caught her reflection and barely recognized herself. Her makeup had smudged into raccoon eyes, her normally neat blonde hair stuck out in every direction, and her hazel eyes looked haunted.

"You're Elena Hayes," she told her reflection firmly. "You survived your parents' death. You survived working three jobs to put yourself through college. You survived Marcus the handsy manager and that mugging on Fifth Street. You will survive Dante Valeri."

Her reflection didn't look convinced.

Elena stripped off her ruined suit and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand. As steam filled the space and expensive shower products lined up like soldiers on the shelf, she let herself have one moment—just one—to break down. Silent tears mixed with hot water, washing away the terror she'd held at bay through sheer force of will.

She cried for her freedom. For her life turned upside down. For the man who'd died in front of her, whose daughter would grow up without a father because of debts and betrayals Elena didn't understand. For the version of herself who'd left for that job interview yesterday morning, naive enough to think the worst thing that could happen was another rejection.

That Elena was gone. Dead as Marco, though her body still walked and breathed.

Ten minutes. That's all she allowed herself. Then Elena Hayes—prisoner, survivor, unwilling guest of the mafia king—shut off the water, dried herself with a towel so soft it felt like sin, and wrapped herself in the waiting robe.

She emerged from the bathroom to find the bedroom no longer empty.

Dante sat in the armchair by the window, dressed in different clothes than last night—charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, reading a newspaper like this was perfectly normal. Like he hadn't just watched her shower. Like she wasn't standing here in nothing but a robe with her hair dripping down her back.

"Get out." Elena's voice came out steadier than she felt.

He glanced up, his dark eyes traveling over her with an assessment that made her skin prickle. "Good morning to you too. Sleep well?"

"I said get out. This is my room—you said so yourself."

"Technically, it's my room. I'm simply allowing you to use it." He folded the newspaper with precise movements. "And I knocked. Twice. You didn't answer. I was beginning to worry you'd done something dramatic."

"Like what? Tied bedsheets together and rappelled down forty stories?" Elena clutched the robe tighter. "You made it pretty clear escape isn't an option."

"I was thinking more along the lines of harming yourself." Something that might have been concern flickered across his face. "You were crying in the shower."

Heat flooded her cheeks—shame and fury in equal measure. "You were listening?"

"The penthouse has excellent acoustics." He stood, moving toward her with that predatory grace. "And before you spiral into righteous indignation, I wasn't listening for entertainment. I was listening to make sure you were alright."

"I'm a prisoner. How alright do you expect me to be?"

"Fair point." He stopped a respectful distance away, though Elena could still feel the pull of him, the gravity that seemed to bend the air around his presence. "Your things arrived. I had them brought up while you were sleeping. Your cat is in the kitchen—my chef is remarkably tolerant—and your clothes are being pressed. They should be ready within the hour."

Despite herself, relief surged through Elena. "Mr. Whiskers is here?"

"Orange tabby, approximately twelve pounds, extremely vocal about breakfast preferences?" Dante's lips quirked. "Yes, he's here. Though I should warn you—he's made himself very much at home. Currently napping on my favorite chair."

The image of her scruffy rescue cat lounging on expensive furniture in a mafia king's penthouse was so absurd Elena almost laughed. Almost. She swallowed it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"I want to see him."

"After you're dressed. I won't have you wandering around in a robe." His gaze dropped to where the silk gaped slightly at her throat, then snapped back to her face with visible effort. "It's... distracting."

"Good. I hope it's uncomfortable."

"Oh, it is. But not in the way you're hoping." The heat in his voice made Elena's stomach clench. "Breakfast is ready. Get dressed, come eat, meet your cat. Then we need to talk about the rules of your stay here."

"I know the rules. Stay put, don't escape, be your prisoner."

"Those aren't rules, they're facts." Dante moved past her toward the door, and Elena caught a hint of his cologne—different than last night, fresher, with notes of bergamot and something green. "The rules are about making this arrangement bearable for both of us."

"There's nothing you could say that would make this bearable."

He paused at the door, looking back with an expression that was almost sympathetic. Almost. "You'd be surprised what people can adapt to, Elena. Humans are remarkably resilient creatures. Give it a week and this will start to feel normal."

"Never." The word came out fierce, absolute.

"We'll see." He pulled something from his pocket and set it on the dresser by the door. "Your phone. I had it retrieved from your purse. It's been... modified. You can use it for entertainment—music, books, whatever—but calls and internet are restricted. Try to circumvent the restrictions and it will brick permanently. Understood?"

Elena stared at the phone like it was a snake. Her phone, her connection to the outside world, now neutered and controlled. Another piece of her life Dante had claimed.

"I understand you're a controlling bastard."

"That's been established." He opened the door. "Twenty minutes, Elena. Then I'm coming back in, dressed or not."

He left before she could respond, the door closing with a soft click that sounded like a cell lock.

Elena stood alone in her gilded cage, dripping on marble floors that cost more than her education, surrounded by luxury that mocked her with every gleaming surface. She should feel grateful—she had her cat, her things, her life. Many people in her situation would have far less.

But gratitude was the last thing burning in her chest.

She dressed quickly in her own clothes once they arrived—jeans and a soft sweater that smelled like her old apartment, like freedom—and braided her wet hair with shaking fingers. The familiar motions steadied her, reminded her of who she was beneath the fear.

Survivor. Fighter. Someone who didn't give up just because the odds were impossible.

Elena took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door. Time to see exactly what her new prison looked like in daylight. Time to meet the rules Dante thought would make her compliant.

Time to start planning her escape, because she would be damned if she adapted to this.

The hallway stretched before her, empty and waiting. Somewhere in this penthouse, a monster was making breakfast and petting her cat, playing at domesticity like he hadn't stolen her life last night.

Elena stepped into the hall, following the scent of coffee and something baking toward what she assumed was the kitchen. Her bare feet made no sound on the cool floors. She felt like a ghost haunting someone else's life.

She rounded a corner and stopped dead.

The kitchen was a chef's dream—all marble countertops and professional appliances—but Elena only had eyes for the man standing at the stove. Dante, sleeves rolled up, wielding a spatula with the same confident grace he probably used to wield a gun. Mr. Whiskers sat on the counter beside him, orange tail swishing, watching the eggs cook with feline intensity.

Her cat. The last piece of her old life. Looking completely comfortable with a mafia king.

"Traitor," Elena whispered.

Dante turned, and the smile that spread across his face was devastating—genuine, warm, transforming him from monster to man in a single heartbeat.

"There you are. Come meet your new home, Elena. We have so much to discuss."

And as Mr. Whiskers meowed happily and Dante gestured to the breakfast spread like this was normal, like this was fine, Elena felt the ground shift beneath her feet.

This was the real danger, she realized with dawning horror. Not violence or threats or obvious cruelty.

But this—kindness wrapped in captivity, comfort laced with control, a

monster who made breakfast and smiled like sunshine and looked at her like she mattered.

This was how he would break her.