The ride was quiet. Too quiet.
The only sounds breaking the silence were the low, humming purr of the engine and the occasional whoosh of passing vehicles. Rose sat stiffly in the backseat, arms crossed and legs tucked beneath her, trying not to lose her mind in the unbearable silence.
She hated silence.
Silence reminded her of pain. Of the cold, lonely rooms at the orphanage. Of nights when she cried herself to sleep and mornings when her screams were swallowed by indifference. Silence gave her brain permission to crawl back into memories she'd buried with blood and sarcasm.
And yet, there it was, surrounding her like a fog, thick and suffocating.
She glanced sideways at Nikolai. He hadn't spoken a word since they got in the car. He just sat there, statue-still, his posture relaxed but too composed to be normal. Like he had no intention of engaging with the world around him unless it benefited him somehow. His sharp features were unreadable, blue eyes fixed forward. There was something in that stillness that unnerved her.
She turned her gaze to the window instead, watching as the city blurred past them in streaks of light and concrete. The vibrant noise of honking cars and bustling sidewalks faded the farther they drove, until the buildings began to thin out, the colors dulled, and the roads stretched emptily ahead.
After about thirty minutes, they were out of the city entirely. The world beyond the tinted glass looked sterile, distant. And now, even the comforting sound of urban life was gone. Replaced with nothing. Just the engine and her own erratic heartbeat.
She shifted in her seat, clenching her fists.
It felt like withdrawal. Like the silence was stripping her bare, peeling back her layers until all that was left were old wounds. She tried to breathe through it, but the tension was too thick. The cleanliness of the car wasn't helping. It wasn't just tidy—it was freakishly pristine, like a museum display or a crime scene someone had wiped spotless.
It reminded her of Salvatore, in the worst way. His cars were always polished, his house always spotless. But not like this. Not like it had been surgically cleaned by a man who found chaos offensive.
She pressed her palms to her thighs and exhaled slowly.
No music.
No chatter.
Just her thoughts clawing at the insides of her skull.
She closed her eyes and tried to drown them out, but they came anyway—images of children mocking her, laughing as they smeared her food all over her body in the orphanage cafeteria. Flashbacks of being locked in that dark closet. Her aunts whispering to the other kids that she was a murderer, a curse.
She inhaled sharply and whispered to herself, "It's in the past. It's in the past."
But it wasn't, not really.
Desperate for distraction, she reached into her purse. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth case of her earpods. She glanced at Nikolai. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, gaze sharp and unyielding.
She rolled her eyes.
"Chill," she muttered. "That was my last piece of gum you threw out, psycho."
He said nothing.
She shoved the earpods into her ears, tapped her phone, and let the music flood her senses—angry, loud, electric. The kind of music that could drown out the noise inside her head. Finally, the silence was gone. Her body relaxed, her eyes fluttered shut.
Somehow, despite herself, she fell asleep.
—
She woke to someone tapping her shoulder.
Her eyes snapped open.
The car was empty. Nikolai was gone. The driver was gone. The doors were all shut.
She sat up, blinking in confusion. The sky was dark, almost black, far darker than it should've been if it was still morning.
She opened the car door and stepped out.
She wasn't in a driveway. She wasn't even near a building.
She was in the middle of an open field.
Alone.
"He bought me just to dump me here?" she muttered to herself, scoffing. "Classic."
"Rose."
The whisper came from behind her.
She turned.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She was standing in front of her childhood home—the one that had burned to the ground.
No. No, no, no.
It was engulfed in flames. The walls cracked and melted. Fire danced like demons across the roof.
And then, through the blazing doorway, two figures emerged—burning, charred bodies with melting skin and empty eyes.
Her parents.
Rose's chest tightened. Her breath came in short, painful gasps.
"Why did you kill us?" they said in unison, voices hollow, inhuman.
"No," she whispered, stumbling back. "No, I didn't. I was five. I was five!"
"You are a murderer!"
The voices multiplied. Her aunts. Neighbors. Teachers. Children. All of them. A chorus of accusation.
"You are a murderer! You are a murderer!"
"No! I didn't mean to!" she screamed. "I didn't mean to!"
And then—
She jolted awake.
The car had come to a stop.
Her heart pounded violently. Her breath was ragged. She looked around. Nikolai was seated beside her, his brow raised, his cold gaze watching her with mild curiosity.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked quickly, pushing the fear back down where it belonged.
He didn't answer right away.
"You were screaming," he said simply.
"So?" she shot back, yanking out her earpods and shoving them into her purse.
He sighed, shaking his head slightly.
"What? Would you giggle at being sold to a man like you?" she asked, sarcasm dripping off every word.
"Sir, we've arrived," the driver said from the front.
Rose looked out the window.
She expected a mansion in the woods. Something secluded and dramatic. But instead, they were in an underground parking garage. Stark concrete, dim lighting, and thick metal beams. It was part of a city—maybe another city outside Salvatore's territory. Maybe even another country.
"What is this? An underground entrance to one of those mafia-run brothels?" she muttered. "Salvatore had one of those. I heard you Bratva types are into that."
"Your silence would be very much appreciated," Nikolai said calmly.
He got out of the car. She followed.
They walked to a private elevator. Nikolai stepped inside, and the elevator scanned his face. Facial recognition. Fancy.
She raised a brow. "You paranoid or just important?"
No response.
The ride up was—of course—silent. No music. Just the faint hum of machinery.
When the doors opened, she stepped into a penthouse.
And froze.
It was immaculate.
Cold, sleek, modern. Clean in a way that felt clinical. The floors gleamed. The furniture was minimal, arranged with obsessive precision. Everything was monochrome—black, white, grey. Not a single misplaced object.
It didn't feel lived in. It felt like a photograph.
"Shoes off," he said behind her.
She looked down at her sneakers, then back at him.
"You know, Salvatore used to say that if you want something done, you should do it yourself," she said with a smug smile. "So if you want my shoes off, come take them off yourself."
He stared at her.
That look.
If looks could kill, she'd already be six feet under.
With an exaggerated sigh, she bent down and slipped off her shoes.
"Creep," she muttered.
He led her through the living area. She followed, taking mental notes. Hidden cameras. No pictures. Not even of him. Nothing personal. No warmth.
"Your room is down the hall to your right," he said.
Then came the rules.
"No touching anything. No walking around with your shoes on. No messes outside your room. No gum outside your room. If you make a mess in your room, fine. But out here—it's mine. Break a rule, I break a bone."
She blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
"Seriously? That's your grand speech? I was expecting some mafia military schedule—wake up at six, gym at seven, torture someone at eight. And all I get is no gum and no dirt? And would you really break a bone?"
He looked at her with deadly calm.
"Try me."
His voice was flat, emotionless. But his eyes—those icy blue eyes—were not joking.
She stopped laughing.
She turned and walked down the hall. Her room was at the end. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
It was clean.
Too clean.
And yellow.
Everything was yellow.
Walls, bedspread, curtains.
Her least favorite color.
She stood there for a moment, letting the absurdity sink in.
"Creep," she muttered again.
Then she dropped her purse on the floor and flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
So this was her new prison.
Signed, sealed, and delivered.
To the man who ruled silence and shadows.