Mia POV
I woke up at six in the morning and made a decision before my feet hit the floor.
I was not going to fall apart.
I had spent two months being quietly terrified of the pregnancy, of my aunt's disappointment, of Harold Finch and what marrying him would mean for the rest of my life. Two months of shrinking and waiting and telling myself that survival meant staying small and causing no trouble. Look where that had gotten me. On an island in the middle of the ocean, sleeping in someone else's sheets, with a threatening note folded in the pocket of a dress I had been kidnapped in.
Small and quiet had not saved me. So I was going to try something different.
I got up. I washed my face. I found the wardrobe Renata had mentioned and pulled out simple clothes that fit well enough. I put the folded note in the drawer of the nightstand and looked at it for one second before closing the drawer. Evidence. Not a reason to panic. Evidence.
Then I went to learn everything I could about where I was.
The compound was bigger than it looked from outside. There were three main buildings connected by covered walkways, a courtyard in the center with a fountain that actually worked, a garden along the south wall that smelled like rosemary, and a long stone path that circled most of the property. I walked the path first, counting my steps, noting where the guards were stationed. There were eight that I could see probably more that I could not. They watched me without stopping me. When I reached the east wing and kept walking toward the door there, one of them stepped forward with an apologetic expression and said, "Not that section, miss. Mr. Calabrese's offices."
"What about the gate?" I asked, nodding toward the main entrance.
"Not the gate either, miss."
"Everything else?"
"Everything else is yours."
I nodded like that was perfectly reasonable and walked back the way I came. I needed them to see that I was not going to fight the obvious limits. The limits I could not change were not worth my energy. I was saving my energy for the ones that might move.
By the time I found the breakfast room, I had a rough map of the compound in my head and three questions I wanted answered before the day was over.
The breakfast room had a long table and too much food for the number of people currently sitting at it, which was one. He was about thirty, with the same dark hair as Dante but a face that had clearly decided to be friendly instead of terrifying. He was eating toast and reading something on his phone and he looked up when I walked in with the easy smile of someone who had been expecting me and was genuinely pleased I showed up.
He stood and stuck out his hand. "Luca Calabrese. You must be Mia. Sit down, please the eggs are good today, Marco actually let the cook finish them properly for once."
I shook his hand. It was such a completely normal gesture in such a completely abnormal situation that I almost laughed. I sat down across from him and let one of the staff put a plate in front of me.
"You're the younger brother," I said.
"Smarter brother," he said cheerfully. "Don't tell Dante I said that. Actually, tell him. I've been saying it for thirty years and it hasn't gotten me killed yet." He picked up his toast. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I should have," I admitted.
"Good beds," he said. "Renata refuses to compromise on beds. It's her one absolute rule everything else in this house can be functional, the beds must be excellent." He looked at me with those easy eyes that I was quickly realizing were much sharper than they pretended to be. "She likes you, by the way. Renata. She doesn't like most people."
"She was kind to me," I said carefully.
"She was kind because she meant it," he said. "She doesn't do things she doesn't mean. Neither does Dante, which I know is hard to believe right now given the whole " he waved his toast vaguely " church situation."
"He shot someone," I said.
"Harold Finch was not a good man," Luca said, without any particular drama. "I'm not saying that makes it simple. I'm just giving you the full picture."
I looked at him for a moment. "What are the rules here? The real ones, not the ones a guard would say."
He put his toast down and gave me his full attention, which felt like a shift in the room's temperature. "Nobody touches you. Nobody speaks to you with disrespect. You have everything you need food, medical care, space, privacy. If someone is bothering you, you come to me directly." He counted on his fingers. "You don't go in the east wing or outside the gate. Everything else is yours. Those are the real rules."
"And when does Dante decide I can leave?"
"When he decides you can leave."
"Which is when?"
Luca grinned. It changed his whole face. "That is the genuinely interesting question."
I watched him. "Do you think I'm a trap? Someone your enemies sent to get close to your family?"
The grin faded into something more serious. He looked at me the way he had looked at me when I first walked in that careful, full look that was nothing like as casual as his manner suggested. He studied me for a long moment.
"No," he said finally. "I don't think you're a trap. I don't think you're a threat either." He tilted his head slightly. "You know what I think you are?"
"Tell me."
"I think you're neither," he said. "And in this world, that makes you the most dangerous thing that's ever walked in here."
I opened my mouth to ask what that meant how a person who was neither a trap nor a threat could be dangerous but before I could form the question, something changed in Luca's expression. It was small, just a slight straightening, the way people sit up when someone important walks into a room.
I turned around.
Dante was standing at the end of the breakfast table.
He was dressed, fully put together, and looking at me with an expression that gave away absolutely nothing. Not cold. Not warm. Just present, and focused, and waiting.
"When you're finished," he said, "I'd like to talk."
He did not say please. He did not say it as a question. He said it the way people say things when they have already decided the conversation is happening and are simply telling you the time.
He turned and walked back toward the east wing.
I looked at Luca.
Luca looked at his toast. "I'd eat fast," he said quietly. "He only asks once."
I looked down at my plate. Then at the door Dante had walked through. Then at my hands.
The most dangerous thing that had ever walked in here.
I was starting to understand what he meant.