The Rosselli estate did not sleep. Even when the lights dimmed in the marble halls, there were always footsteps on the gravel drive, engines purring at odd hours, men moving with clipped precision and pistols tucked beneath their jackets. Bella learned this in her first sleepless night, staring at the ceiling while the faint hum of security cameras reminded her she was never alone.
By morning, the sun was pouring through floor-to-ceiling glass, daring her to pretend she had freedom. She dressed herself in jeans and a plain black shirt from the closet—a wardrobe stocked, she noted, with clothes in her size that she had never bought. The message was clear: they already knew everything about her.
She tugged on the shirt and muttered to her reflection, "Perfect fit for a cage."
When the knock came, she expected Angelo, the only one who'd spoken to her with something close to humanity. Instead, the door opened to reveal Matteo. Polished, slim, his suit immaculate as though he'd never bent to pick anything off the floor in his life. He had a pen in his breast pocket, his smile soft and disarming, like a man selling you life insurance before setting your house on fire.
"Signorina Marcelli," he greeted. "Breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," Bella said without turning from the window.
"I didn't ask," Matteo replied. "I was sent to bring you."
She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. "What are you, the house butler?"
"Consigliere," he corrected smoothly. "Advisor. Though today, perhaps courier will do."
Bella's mouth tilted in a sharp smirk. "Advisor to who—your tailor? He deserves a raise."
Matteo chuckled softly, like she was a clever child. "Come along. Darius doesn't wait."
The name burned like acid on her tongue, but she followed. In truth, she wanted to see him. To measure him again in daylight, to look him in the eye without the shadows and smoke of last night crowding the edges.
The dining room was a cathedral of glass and stone. Sunlight spilled across a long polished table set with white china and silver that gleamed too bright. At the head sat Darius Rosselli. His suit was charcoal today, hair brushed neatly back, jaw freshly shaven. He read a file while drinking black coffee, as if empires rose and fell between sips.
Angelo stood at his shoulder like a blade in a sheath, cigarette unlit but poised between his fingers. Carlo sat halfway down the table, already tearing into bread and cheese with thick hands, scars on his knuckles catching the light. Marcello leaned back in his chair, stocky frame spread wide, chewing like every bite was a fight to be won.
The moment Bella entered, every eye turned. She refused to falter.
Darius didn't look up immediately. He turned a page in the file, sipped, then finally raised his gaze. Blue eyes, sharper in daylight. They locked on her, assessing, pinning her like a butterfly.
"Good morning, Bella," he said.
"Don't call me that," she shot back before she could stop herself.
His smile was slight, cutting. "You prefer Isa? Or Isabella?"
"I prefer not to be named by my captor."
Carlo snorted into his bread. Marcello's grin was wide enough to split his face. Angelo's cigarette twitched once, but his expression stayed unreadable.
Darius closed the file. "Sit."
It wasn't a request. Still, Bella stayed standing. "You feed your pets at the table too?"
The silence was heavy, waiting for his reaction. Instead of anger, Darius's eyes gleamed with something else—interest, amusement, maybe even hunger. He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Her pulse hammered. Every instinct screamed at her to resist. But she remembered her vow: she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking her, nor the excuse to tighten the chain. Slowly, defiantly, she slid into the chair. Her back was straight, her chin lifted.
A servant appeared with a tray, laying out plates of bread, fruit, eggs, smoked meat. Bella's stomach twisted—she hadn't eaten since the night before. She forced herself not to reach for it immediately.
Darius set the file aside. "You should eat. Naples isn't kind to the weak."
"Good thing I'm not weak," Bella said, spearing a slice of melon. She bit into it, keeping her gaze on him the whole time. "And if you think food buys obedience, you're dumber than your reputation says."
Marcello barked a laugh, clapping his hand on the table. "She's got claws."
Carlo grunted. "Claws don't save kittens from wolves."
"Enough," Darius said, though his tone was mild. His attention remained on Bella. "Your father's debt bought you two weeks. If he fails, you belong to me."
Bella leaned forward, green eyes burning. "I don't belong to anyone."
Darius smiled faintly. "You think so now."
Breakfast was a battlefield fought with looks and words. Bella refused to look away first. When Darius lifted his coffee cup, she mimicked him with her glass of water. When he cut into bread, she matched his rhythm, a deliberate mockery. The men noticed. Angelo watched silently, smoke curling from his cigarette now. Carlo scowled, annoyed at the insolence. Marcello seemed entertained, like he was watching an arena fight.
Matteo, ever quiet, observed her with those patient eyes, storing everything. She felt it like a chill on the back of her neck.
Darius finally broke the silence. "Tell me, Bella. Do you know why your father gambles?"
"Because he's a fool," she said flatly.
Darius cocked his head. "Because losing gives him the same thrill as winning. Because risk feels like control, when in truth it's surrender. He gambles because he can't face his own weakness."
Bella's hands curled into fists on the table. "Then take his weakness. Not me."
"I take what has value," Darius said simply. "And you, Bella, have value."
Her laugh was sharp. "To you, maybe. To me, I'm not for sale."
Darius leaned back, fingers steepled. "Not yet."
After breakfast, Bella left the table in a storm of silence. She walked the halls until she found a side door that led to a stone courtyard. The air smelled of lemon trees and sea salt. She needed space, distance, oxygen not tainted by Darius Rosselli's voice.
She lit a cigarette she'd stolen from Carlo's pack. The smoke burned her lungs, but she welcomed it. A rebellion in every drag.
"You don't smoke," Angelo said from behind her.
She turned. He leaned against the wall, coat hanging sharp, cigarette between his own fingers.
"Guess I do now," Bella said. "Captivity inspires new hobbies."
Angelo took a drag, exhaling slow. "You shouldn't push him like that."
"Why? Afraid he'll bruise his pride?"
"Afraid he'll decide you're easier to control broken."
Bella met his gaze, sharp. "I told him. I don't break."
Angelo's eyes narrowed, not unkindly. "Everyone breaks. The question is how long it takes and what it costs."
She flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under her heel. "Then I'll make it cost him everything."
For the first time, Angelo smiled—a ghost of one, barely there. "Careful, Bella. That's how empires fall."
Later, she wandered into the training yard—a square of concrete behind the estate where men sparred with knives and pistols under the sun. Carlo was there, sleeves rolled, fists wrapped. His shoulders were slabs of stone, his face a battlefield of scars and years of violence.
He caught her watching. "You ever throw a punch, girl?"
Bella raised a brow. "Want me to practice on you?"
Marcello laughed from the sidelines, sharpening his knife on a whetstone. "Now that, I'd pay to see."
Carlo stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Come on then. Let's see if that mouth has hands to match."
Bella didn't hesitate. She dropped her jacket and squared up. Carlo grinned, circling. He lunged, slow enough to give her a chance. She dodged, barely, her heart in her throat. He swung again, this time faster. She ducked, fists up.
She landed a punch on his ribs. It hurt her more than him, but she didn't flinch. Carlo looked down at the spot, then at her, surprised. His grin widened.
"You've got fire," he said. "But fire burns fast."
She spat to the side, breath sharp. "Better to burn than rot."
He barked a laugh, clapping her shoulder hard enough to bruise. "I like her."
Marcello smirked. "Don't get too attached. Fire goes out when the wind changes."
From the balcony above, Darius watched the entire exchange, silent, unreadable.
That evening, Bella found herself in the library—shelves of leather-bound books, a chessboard left mid-game on a table. She ran her fingers along the spines, pretending she wasn't thinking about escape, pretending she wasn't aware of the cameras hidden in corners.
Matteo entered without sound. "You read?"
Bella glanced at him. "I burn books more than I read them."
"Fire is wasteful," Matteo said, stepping closer. "Knowledge should be used."
"Knowledge is useless if it belongs to men like you," she snapped.
He smiled faintly. "Men like me make sure empires stand. Men like Darius. Men like Victor DeLuca."
Her stomach knotted at the name, though she kept her face still. Matteo's eyes caught the flicker anyway.
"Careful who you look at when I speak of Victor," Matteo said softly. "Rosselli notices everything."
Bella forced her voice steady. "And what do you notice, consigliere?"
"That you are sharper than your father. That you are dangerous if left unchecked. That you might decide to play both sides."
Bella's smirk cut sharp. "Maybe I already am."
Matteo's smile widened. "Then I'll enjoy watching which side you choose. And how you pay for it."
He left her in the quiet, the weight of his words pressing harder than the walls.
That night, Bella sat on her bed, staring out at Naples glittering under the dark. She thought of her father hunched over a poker table, of Darius's cold blue eyes, of Angelo's warning, Carlo's bruising test, Matteo's threats.
She wasn't weak. She wasn't broken. But she was in the fire now, and fire consumed.
Her reflection in the glass met her gaze, unblinking. "Two weeks," she whispered. "And I'll set the whole city burning."