|Carmen's POV|
Silk sheets. That was the first thing I noticed. Not chains, not concrete—just the unsettling softness of silk beneath my fingers.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, unease crept through me as my eyes fluttered open and slowly took in the room. Luxury surrounded me. Everything about the space spoke of wealth and careful taste, and that only made the dread settle deeper in my chest.
Who puts a prisoner in a room like this?
My face tightened into a frown as I pushed the sheets aside and sat up. The gown on my body made the expression deepen. I didn't remember putting it on.
For a moment, I just sat there, stunned.
My hand lifted instinctively to my neck—and froze.
No collar.
The absence was almost worse than its presence would have been.
Slowly, carefully, I slid off the bed, my bare feet meeting polished floors as my eyes moved across the room. The bed alone looked like it belonged in a five-star suite. The floors gleamed. A walk-in wardrobe stood against the wall, its doors slightly ajar. Every corner spoke of elegance, of money, of someone who could afford to waste both.
Whoever bought me could afford a billion.
Of course they were rich.
The thought came cold and flat as I moved toward the door. Each step was cautious, my body tense, my ears straining for any sound outside.
Maybe—just maybe—they hadn't left guards.
The hope was thin. People didn't spend that kind of money and then take chances. Not on something—or someone—they had paid for.
And the amount they had paid…
I swallowed hard.
I didn't think even my father could have afforded it while he was alive.
The thought hit like a knife.
Tears burned behind my eyes as I reached for the door. I pushed the feeling down, focusing instead on escape. I had to get out. I had to go back. Someone had betrayed me. Someone had sold me. And whoever it was could already be destroying whatever was left of my father's legacy.
The last thing I remembered was going to bed after the funeral.
Then darkness.
Then waking up in a cage.
My fingers had just wrapped around the handle when the door flew open so suddenly that I jerked backward.
A man stood there.
An armed guard.
The gun at his waist was impossible to miss. He was huge—broad shoulders, thick arms, fair skin, a bald head and a bushy beard that made him look even more intimidating.
I took another step back.
I knew how to fight. I had been trained well. But I wasn't stupid.
There was no way I could take him down before he put my face into the floor.
I glared at him, anger rising fast and hot.
Then he spoke.
"Do you need something, madam?"
The politeness should have been comforting.
Instead, dread settled deeper.
I had been born into a mafia family. I knew exactly how this worked.
There were only two ways to treat a prisoner.
Violence.
Or kindness.
Violence was simple. Pain until results. Direct. Efficient.
Kindness was worse.
Kindness was the white handkerchief waved after they had burned down your village.
My gaze hardened.
"What?" I asked coldly. "I can't step out?"
"You can, madam," he replied calmly. "But only after the maid arrives and you're properly dressed. You'll be dining with the master."
The master.
Before I could respond, he shut the door.
The sound echoed through the room.
I stood there staring at it, my heart pounding, my breath shallow. One minute passed. Maybe more. Then I turned and walked back into the room.
It was beautiful. Spacious. Tastefully decorated. Everything placed with care.
I didn't care.
I had been born with a silver spoon. Luxury didn't impress me. Not when it came with chains I couldn't see.
I headed toward the bathroom, checking every wall, every corner, every possible exit.
The windows were locked.
Of course they were.
And when I pulled the curtain aside and looked down, my stomach dropped.
Second floor.
Maybe higher.
If I jumped and survived, I'd break both legs. Maybe my spine. Maybe worse.
Still, I stayed there, leaning against the glass.
The night sky stretched wide and dark beyond the floor-length windows. No clock. No sound of the outside world. No way to tell the time.
Only silence.
Slowly, almost without thinking, I lifted my hand and made the sign of the cross.
It was strange.
For people capable of so much blood, so much destruction, mafia families believed deeply in God.
My father never missed Mass.
Never missed confession.
"May your soul rest in peace, Father," I whispered.
My eyes hardened as the memory surfaced—his body on the ground, the bloody hole in his head.
The grief was still there.
But the rage was stronger.
I was still staring at the sky when a knock sounded.
I turned.
The door opened, and a maid stepped inside, her head bowed the moment she crossed the threshold.
The sight almost made me laugh.
She treated me like I was her employer.
Not a prisoner.
The white handkerchief.
I pushed myself away from the window and walked toward her. She kept her gaze lowered as she spoke.
"I was told to prepare you for dinner with the master. I'll help with your bath and hair."
I could have refused.
But the truth was, I didn't care enough to fight over something so small.
I gave a short nod and moved back toward the bed, sitting down as she went to prepare the bath.
The sound of running water filled the room.
I stared ahead, my hands resting loosely at my sides.
Dinner.
Tonight I would meet him.
My new master.
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
Whether I wanted to or not, I would serve him.
Nausea rose as my eyes closed, and my mind betrayed me with images—things men like him could do. Things men in my own family had done without hesitation.
Cruelty wasn't shocking to me.
It was normal.
It was the world I had been raised in.
If I refused, there were other ways.
Drugs.
Methods to make me obedient.
Pliable.
I shivered.
Tears slipped down my face before I could stop them. I wiped them away quickly, before the maid could turn and see.
I refused to let anyone see me break.
I straightened slightly, forcing my breathing to slow.
I am a Castillo.
The words repeated over and over in my mind like a prayer.
I am a Castillo.
I will not show weakness.