Chapter 3 – Caged Roses
Valentina Cruz
If you've ever wondered what it feels like to be kidnapped politely and given a luxury suite in hell, let me tell you: the room smells like lavender, the sheets have a thread count in the thousands, and the doorknob is made of pure gold.
Also, it doesn't open from the inside.
So yeah. Prison, but make it fashion.
⸻
Day one in the House of D'Amico was like waking up in a movie where I was the only one who hadn't read the script. A maid brought breakfast that could've fed a village. I ignored it. My stomach had staged a protest.
I checked the phone Rafael gave me. No messages. No apps. Just a blank screen, a list of emergency numbers, and one contact saved as "The Beast".
Funny.
I typed "Get bent" and almost hit send.
Almost.
Instead, I chucked the phone across the bed and paced like a lioness who'd just realized her cage had velvet bars.
That's when she knocked.
A soft tap. Then the door opened, and in walked the kind of woman who made you instinctively sit up straighter. Petite, stylish, a few years older than me — probably in her late twenties — with a clipboard in one hand and a gun holstered casually at her waist like it was lipstick.
"Good morning," she said. "I'm Camilla. Rafael's assistant."
"Let me guess," I muttered. "You're here to schedule my next breakdown?"
She smiled. "Close. I'm here to explain your new life."
⸻
Camilla gave me the tour like we were in some twisted version of MTV Cribs: Mafia Bride Edition.
"This is the solarium, where you can read or have tea. Here's the dining room — dinner is at 7 sharp unless someone's been assassinated. And this is the east wing, which is off-limits unless you enjoy being shot."
"Charming," I said. "And what happens if I decide I'd rather be anywhere else?"
She didn't flinch. "You won't get far."
Her voice was polite. Almost kind. But her eyes were pure steel.
I hated how calm she was. How controlled. I wanted to scream, throw a vase, maybe set the whole mansion on fire just to make a point.
Instead, I asked, "What exactly does Rafael expect from me?"
She stopped walking. "He expects loyalty. And strength."
I scoffed. "He buys women now and expects loyalty?"
"You weren't bought," she said, folding her arms. "You were chosen."
My laugh was hollow. "Great. I've been selected like a cursed Disney princess."
Camilla's expression softened for a second, then hardened again.
"You'll find your way here," she said quietly. "Or you'll break."
⸻
The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. I met a few of the staff — silent guards with neck tattoos, an older cook named Nonna Lucia who insisted I eat "or I'll get skinny and die ugly," and a tall, broad-shouldered guy named Nico who introduced himself as my new "shadow."
Translation: personal bodyguard / babysitter / potential executioner.
Nico was quiet. Observant. Always five steps behind me, even when I went to the garden just to breathe.
The garden, by the way, was full of roses.
Black ones.
Poetic, really.
Caged roses. Just like me.
⸻
That night, I sat on the balcony outside my suite, staring at the moon and pretending I wasn't plotting an escape I knew was impossible.
I thought of school. Of my professors, my part-time job at the café, my best friend Lila who still thought I'd gone on a "family trip."
I thought of my dad — somewhere out there, probably drunk, probably gambling again.
And then I thought of Rafael.
Of his eyes like dark smoke.
His calm voice.
The way he looked at me like I was fire and he didn't mind getting burned.
What kind of man chooses a wife like you'd choose a weapon?
A dangerous one.
But I'd be damned if I let him win.
⸻
I pulled out the phone again.
Typed:
You're still a jerk. Just so we're clear.
Paused.
Then I deleted it.
Instead, I wrote:
Tomorrow, I'm coming to your office. We need rules.
Sent.
Three minutes later, a reply lit up the screen:
"Looking forward to it, Beauty."
I threw the phone again.
But this time, I smiled.
Just a little.