In such nauseous silence did the private elevator risk death, taking us silently and smoothly into the sky. Dante stood across the small chamber, from one end to the other, creating a presence that was a sort of palpable force-field. My eyes were still glued to the polished steel doors, impassively watching my own reflection: a pale woman in a hideously expensive emerald dress, apparently terrified. Dusty little libraries and the smell of old paint were things she loved; that girl was now missing. All that remained now was this apparition serving the man whose reflection coolly stood next to mine. No chiming to signal when the elevator was slowing: the doors opened, not into a corridor, but right into the belly of the beast's lair.
The feeling, once stepping out, was that of walking out of a giant-infested empty cliff: The penthouse is its own universe of glass, steel, and shadow. One wall is completely made of floor-to-ceiling glass, showing the sprawling city below, a glittering tapestry. The lights of millions of people flickered like fallen stars, light-years away from this sterile silent peak. The furniture was minimalist yet somber: a low black leather sofa; a glass table; chrome chairs that resembled sculptures more than seats. Priceless unreal abstract art peppered the walls: slashes of color in what otherwise was a monochromatic world. A home for a man who adored beauty but felt warmth: a mausoleum to wealth. Completely cold, a huge cage for a gigantic being.
Dante walked on, his expensive shoes making no sound on the polished black marble floor. He stood by the wall of windows, back turned towards me, surveying his kingdom from above.
"Your life as Alessia Romano is over," he said. It was said with a chilling calmness as if issued from the mouth of an executioner pronouncing a death sentence. "You do not leave this penthouse. You do not speak to anyone without my permission. You will be provided with clothes, food, anything you require. In return, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?"
For this moment, a spark of the old me—the girl who argued with her professors and was never afraid to whowhen she was right—fizzled. "You can't do this," I whispered, the words sounding pathetically weak, swallowed by the vastness of the space. "I am no thing. I am not your property."
He turned his head slowly. The look in his eyes bore no trace of anger, only mild, indifferent amusement, much like one would regard an irritating puppy. "You are whatever I say you are," he replied in soft tones. "You were bought and paid for. Your father saw to that. The question of your consent is irrelevant." He paused, dark eyes surveying my face with that unnerving intensity. "You ask why you are here. Why I paid such a price."
He did not give me time to answer. The steps he took led him out toward the center of the enormous living room and to the wall that was conspicuously blank except for a single, gigantic object draped with heavy, dark red velvet. It was completely out of place among cold, modern decor. It had the shape of a large classical portrait. My art historian's brain, traitor at this moment, sparked with interest even through the haze of my terror.
"Your father," Dante continued, his voice like a siren's call drawing me closer, "did not have a problem with gambling; his debts are much older than that. They are...generational."
By the time I realized I was drifting towards him and the veiled object, my feet were moving against my will. I halted a few feet short as he grasped a thick, tasseled cord hanging to one side of the covering.
"This is why you are here," he stated, locking his eyes onto mine, holding me captive. "This is the debt."
Swift as a flick, he pulled the cord, and the velvet cloth slipped away in silence. I had gasped, suddenly choking on the air itself. I kept staring, my very mind refusing to internalize what it saw: the painting—magnificent life-sized portrait, exuberantly portrayed in a rich classical oil style, vibrant and breathtakingly real—was a portrait of my mother.
Younger than in my last memories of her before her death, there truly was no mistaking it: the same auburn hair falling in soft waves, the same gentle curve of her smile, the same smattering of freckles across her nose. The eyes...her most distinct feature, a very unusual shade of green flecked with golden, the one thing the artist got perfectly. They seemed to stare out from the painting with such life and light it felt like a kick in the air taken out from my lungs. A flood of grieving and confusion rolled over me. How was this even here? My dad had a tiny photograph of her taken at that time but nothing like this. This was a masterpiece.
"My...my mother," I stammered; my hand flew to my mouth. Was this some kind of sick tribute to mock me with the image of the one person I loved the most? A manic laugh arose within me, hastening to escape.
Dante's expression grew utterly grim as he kept his eyes focused on the portrait. "No," he said, a quiet tone of voice but one that cleaved through my confusion, sending shards of icy dread to rent my heart. "That is not your mother."
My head shook as my mind descended into riot. "What? Of course it is; I know her face; I..."
"You know the face," he cut me off, at last extracting his eyes from the canvas to puncture me with their intensity. "But that is not Elena Romano." Now he took a step closer toward the painting and raised his hand, hovering it just above the frame. "That is a portrait of my mother: Isabella Moretti. She died when I was sixteen."
The world tipped and tilted at its axis. I turned my attention from the painting's laughing green eyes to Dante's cold, dark ones, and then mentally, to my reflection in the elevator door. I had always been told I looked like my mother. But it was not just looking like my mother. I was his spitting image. It was as if in different lineages, there existed an absolute uncanny resemblance: a perfect genetic echo across two diverse families. The pieces slammed together in my mind with sickening force. The astronomical price. The talk of old, generational debts. His cold, possessive satisfaction that had nothing to do with desire. He hadn't bought me, Alessia Romano. He had bought a ghost. A living, breathing replica of his dead mother. The horror of it was a physical thing, a cold dread that seeped into my bones, paralyzing me. This wasn't about money. This was a dark, twisted obsession, a psychological game so warped I couldn't begin to comprehend its depths.
I stared at him, speechless with terror, my heart hammering against my ribs. The mask of controlled indifference on his face slipped for just a moment, and I saw a flicker of something ancient and raw in his eyes—a deep, bottomless well of pain. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold obsidian.
He looked from the portrait of his mother to me, and a slow, chilling smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Every debt must be paid," he whispered, the sound slithering into the silent room. "Welcome home, Isabella."