Chapter 20: The Gilded Captive
The breakfast spread laid out on the marble island was a masterpiece of Italian hospitality—fresh pastries, figs drizzled with honey, and artisanal cheeses—but to Élise, it looked like a last meal. She sat on the high stool, her posture rigid, watching Adriano as he stood by the window, already back on his phone, commanding his empire with a series of clipped, ruthless sentences.
He looked devastatingly composed. The morning light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the expensive sheen of his watch, making him seem more like a monument than a man.
"I need my phone," Élise said, her voice cutting through his phone call.
Adriano didn't look at her immediately. He finished his sentence, tapped the screen to end the call, and finally turned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her device, but he didn't hand it over. He walked toward her, the space between them shrinking until he was standing between her knees as she sat on the stool.
"You want to call your friend," he stated, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to echo in her very bones.
"I need to tell Zara I'm alive," Élise whispered, her gaze trapped by his. "She'll be worried. I need a sense of reality, Adriano. Everything in this house feels like a fever dream."
Adriano leaned in, his hands resting on the marble on either side of her hips. He was so close she could smell the crisp citrus of his soap and the dark, lingering heat of his skin. He held the phone up, just out of reach.
"One call," he murmured, his dark eyes searching hers with a possessive intensity that made her heart race. "Speakerphone. I want to hear every word. And if you mention where you are, or the fact that I am standing this close to you... the call ends."
"You're a tyrant," she breathed, her pulse thundering in her throat.
"I am a man who protects what is his," he countered, his thumb grazing the back of her hand as he finally placed the phone on the counter.
The call to Zara was brief and strained. Élise kept her voice steady, telling her friend she was "working remotely on a special project" for the CEO. Zara sounded suspicious but relieved, her chatter about the office gossip feeling like a lifetime away. Throughout the conversation, Adriano never moved. He stayed leaned over her, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder, his eyes never leaving her face. The heat radiating from him was a constant, silent reminder of who truly held the power in the room.
When the call ended, Adriano took the phone back. He didn't say a word; he simply leaned down and pressed a lingering, authoritative kiss to the side of her neck—a mark of ownership that left her skin tingling long after he pulled away.
"I have meetings in Milan," he said, straightening his tie. "Eat. Rest. Don't think about the gate."
The moment the roar of his Maserati faded into the distance, the silence of the estate became a challenge. Élise stood in the center of the atrium, her jaw set. She wasn't going to sit and wait like a Victorian maiden. She was a Parisian; she was resourceful.
She headed for the massive glass doors. They slid open automatically, the cool air of the lake rushing in to meet her. He forgot to lock them, she thought, a spark of hope igniting in her chest.
She began to run, her sneakers crunching on the gravel path that led toward the main gates. The forest on either side was dense, the pines tall and imposing, but she kept her eyes on the iron bars in the distance.
As she approached the gate, she saw a figure step out from the small stone guardhouse. It was a man in a black tactical suit, his expression as unmoving as the stone walls of the estate.
"Good morning, Miss Laurent," he said, his voice polite but firm.
"I'm going for a walk," Élise said, her heart hammering. "Open the gate, please."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. Signor Moretti's instructions were very specific. You are to remain within the perimeter of the gardens for your own safety."
"I am not a prisoner!" she snapped, trying to push past him toward the control panel.
The guard didn't touch her, but he stepped effectively into her path, his height making it impossible to pass. "Miss, please don't make this difficult. There are three more checkpoints between here and the road. The sensors are active. Even if you climbed the wall, the alarm would trigger before your feet hit the grass on the other side."
Élise backed away, her chest heaving with a mix of fury and despair. She turned and ran in the opposite direction, toward the cliffside that overlooked the lake. She thought perhaps there was a service path, a boat dock—something.
She reached the edge of the property where the infinity pool seemed to spill into the gray waters of Lake Varese. There, she found another worker—a gardener trimming the hedges. He didn't even look up as she approached, but as she moved toward the stone stairs leading down to the water, he spoke.
"The dock is locked, Signorina. And the boat keys are with the Signor."
She was trapped. Every beautiful inch of the estate was a calculated barrier. Every worker was a silent warden.
Defeated, she walked back toward the house. As she entered the cool, shaded interior, she noticed something she hadn't seen before. In the foyer, a small wooden slot in the wall—the old-fashioned mail delivery system—contained a single, thick envelope.
She pulled it out. It was heavy, made of expensive cream paper. There was no stamp, no return address. Just her name written in a handwriting she recognized instantly. It wasn't Adriano's sharp, aggressive script.
It was the elegant, looping hand of the man who lived next door.
With trembling fingers, she tore it open. Inside was a single polaroid photo and a key.
The photo was of her bedroom in Paris—the one she hadn't lived in for months. On the back, a message was scrawled:
"He can lock the gates, Élise, but he can't lock out the truth. The key fits a locker at the Milano Centrale station. Inside, you'll find the reason why the Vigna del Sole burned. Don't wait for him to tell you. He never will."
She looked at the key, then at the empty, glass-walled house. She realized then that Adriano wasn't just keeping her away from Pedro. He was keeping her away from a version of himself she might not survive.