Chapter 6

The safe house door was directly smashed open.

Not picked, not technically opened. Pure violent impact.

Ricardo Conti stepped over the fallen door panel and walked in.

I could see the expression on his face—a suppressed, cold anger, more chilling than his usual calculated coldness.

But suddenly, the fury in his eyes flickered, cracking open a fissure. He pressed his forehead against mine, very close. I could see the red veins in his eyes, could smell the alcohol on him, and beyond that, a kind of... exhausted scent.

"I looked for you all night," his voice changed, no longer a roar but hoarse, even with a barely perceptible tremor. "Your apartment was empty, the usual places too. Phone off, signal disappeared. I thought... I thought something happened to you."

A sharp stabbing pain caught me off guard, piercing my heart—that fleeting, nearly broken thing in his eyes when he said these words. Too similar, too similar to long ago, when I came back late from a mission and he'd yelled at me with worry hidden underneath.

But only for a moment.

My heart clenched sharply, then came deeper coldness. No, Ella, wake up. This is just another trap, another more cunning form of control. He's acting, using this vulnerability to break down your defenses. You can't be fooled again.

"Let me go, Ricardo." My voice was unexpectedly calm.

"Tell me what you're planning." He didn't release me, his forehead still pressed against mine, voice very low. "Open those boxes. Tell me where you're going. Why?"

"This has nothing to do with you."

"Nothing to do with me? You think what's between us is just an employment contract that can be terminated at any time?"

He reached out one hand toward Marco. Marco immediately handed over a flat dark wooden box that looked aged. Ricardo opened the lid and took out a roll of old, yellowed parchment. He untied the black silk ribbon binding it and unrolled the parchment.

Even from several steps away, I could recognize the complex coat of arms and calligraphic signatures on it. At the bottom were two dried, dark brown bloody fingerprints.

My blood seemed to freeze instantly.

"Eighteen years ago," his voice changed, no longer the angry questioning of lovers, not the cold commanding of a leader, but something older, heavier, belonging to "Conti." "Your father, Luca Moratti, was ambushed in Palermo. It was my father, old Conti, who brought men to drag him from gunpoint. He himself took a bullet to the abdomen and nearly didn't survive. For this life-saving grace, your father swore a blood oath on the Moratti family's honor and bloodline."

He raised his eyes, looking at me. Those gray-green pupils were like a frozen lake in the dim light.

"The Moratti family owes the Conti family a life, a blood debt. And as collateral and guarantee of loyalty, the most treasured daughter of Luca Moratti—you, at ten years old—your life, your loyalty, your entire future, from that moment on, belonged to the Conti family."

He took a step forward, raising that parchment emanating an old scent before my eyes. Those ancient characters and brown blood marks were like inescapable shackles, pressing heavily on my breathing.

"This isn't an employment contract, Ella. This is a blood pact. A deed of sale signed in black and white with your Moratti family's generations of reputation, with your freedom."

He stopped, his voice dropping, carrying a cruel clarity:

"Your life doesn't belong to you. It belongs to me."

Ricardo was now using this contract my father had signed in guilt as chains, firmly fastened around my neck.

"So," Ricardo put away the parchment, returning it to the wooden box, his movements unhurried, "you don't have the option to 'leave.' You only have obedience."

He surveyed the chaotic living room. "Open these boxes. Put things back. Then get ready—tomorrow night, come with me to the dinner."

"Dinner?" My voice was dry.

"My engagement dinner," he said, as if stating something perfectly ordinary. "You need to attend. And you will, in the name of the only Moratti family representative present, present to Sofia Rostov the 'peace gift' sent by the Rostov family as an alliance token—that heirloom necklace supposedly containing a seventeenth-century antique dagger."

He paused, his gaze like a cold probe piercing into my eyes.

"You will publicly kneel on one knee before Sofia, present the necklace, and on behalf of the Moratti family, pledge loyalty and support for the future Conti-Rostov alliance."

I stood there, motionless. The room was very quiet. I could hear my heart beating heavily in my chest, could hear blood rushing to my head with a buzzing sound.

He wanted me, in front of everyone, to kneel before the woman who'd replaced me.

He wanted me to use my ten years of devotion, my love, my last shred of pride, as decoration for his power feast.

I looked at Ricardo. There was no guilt on his face, only a matter-of-course control.

In his eyes, I had never been an equal person, not even an emotional lover. I was just a trophy his father had won, a useful and handy tool.

And now, this tool's final use was to be broken by his own hand, used to demonstrate his absolute authority to his new ally.

Heart dead as ash.

I couldn't think of other words. It was as if the last bit of warmth in my chest, the last spark, had also been extinguished in this complete coldness and humiliation. Only ashes remained—numb, cold ashes.

"I understand," I said. My voice was hollow, emotionless, as if coming from far away.

Ricardo seemed surprised by my compliance. He was silent for a few seconds.

"Good." Finally, he said, his tone softening slightly, but that condescending posture unchanged. "Remember your place, Ella. Do what you're supposed to do. Don't test my patience again."

He walked out. His footsteps disappeared at the end of the corridor.

I remained standing there, head bowed. After a long time, I slowly raised my hand to cover my face. No tears, not a single one. My eyes were painfully dry.