Chapter 7 The First Rebellion

The window wouldn't break, and Elena was running out of objects to throw at it.

She'd started with a brass bookend from the library—bounced off like a rubber ball. Then a crystal paperweight—same result. Now she was hefting a marble statue that probably cost more than her college tuition, and the floor-to-ceiling window didn't have so much as a scratch.

But Elena wasn't thinking clearly anymore. She'd spent two hours exploring her gilded cage, cataloging every locked door and monitored camera, every impossible exit and crushing reality. The penthouse was designed to contain her, and with each dead end, the walls seemed to close in tighter.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't accept that this was her life now.

So Elena had stopped thinking and started acting.

The marble statue hit the window with a crack that echoed through the bedroom. The window remained intact. The statue's arm did not—it snapped off and clattered to the floor, three thousand dollars of art destroyed in service of futile rebellion.

"Come on!" Elena screamed at the glass. "Break, damn you!"

"Put. It. Down."

She spun to find Dante filling the doorway, and she'd never seen anything more terrifying. Gone was the controlled man from breakfast. This was the killer from the warehouse—fury etched into every line of his body, darkness bleeding from him like smoke.

"Put it down," he repeated, his voice lava over steel.

Elena's hands tightened on the statue. "Make me."

The words were out before she could stop them, a challenge neither of them could ignore.

Dante moved.

He crossed the room in three strides and wrenched the statue from her hands with enough force to make her stumble. He threw it aside and grabbed her wrists, spinning her around and pinning her against the window she'd been trying to break.

"Are you insane?" His breath was hot against her ear. "This is bulletproof, blast-resistant glass. You could throw a grenade at it and it wouldn't crack. What the hell did you think you were going to accomplish?"

"I was going to get out!" Elena struggled against his grip. "I was going to find a way down, find help—"

"Find a way to fall forty stories and paint the sidewalk?" He spun her around, keeping her wrists trapped while his other hand gripped her chin. "There is no escape, Elena. I told you that. Did you think I was exaggerating?"

"I had to try!"

"Why?" His face was inches from hers. "Why destroy priceless art and trigger every alarm when you know it won't work?"

"Because I can't just accept this!" Tears of frustration burned her eyes. "What did you expect? That I'd settle into your pretty prison and play house? I can't—"

Her voice broke, and the fury in Dante's expression flickered into something more complex. His grip on her wrists loosened fractionally.

"You're scared," he said quietly.

"Of course I'm scared! You're a monster who kills people and kidnapped me and keeps talking about waiting for me like it's romantic instead of horrifying!"

"Then what's the point?" The fight drained out of her. "If I can't escape, if you're going to kill me anyway, why drag this out?"

Dante stepped closer, and this time Elena had nowhere to retreat. His hand came up—she flinched—but he only plucked a piece of brick dust from her hair.

"I told you. You interest me." His fingers lingered near her temple. "Do you know how rare that is? But you keep surprising me."

"That's not a good thing."

"People like me don't like surprises."

"I know." His smile was gentle, understanding. "But you're starting to hate yourself more for not hating me enough. And that's the crack, cara. The first real evidence that you're feeling what I'm feeling."

"I hate you," she whispered, but it sounded like a confession instead of an accusation.

"I know." Dante's smile was gentle. "But you're starting to hate yourself more for not hating me enough. That's the crack. The first evidence that this isn't just captor and prisoner anymore."

Before Elena could respond, Enzo's voice crackled through Dante's radio: "Boss? The statue. Isabella's men just released the hostages. All of them. Unharmed."

"The consequences," Dante said, his voice carefully neutral. "That was a sixteenth-century Bernini. Irreplaceable. You're going to work off its value."

Elena's laugh was slightly hysterical. "I couldn't pay for that in ten lifetimes."

"Then I suppose you'll be here for ten lifetimes." His smile was pure wickedness. "Congratulations, cara. You just made your prison sentence significantly longer."

He left, and Elena sank onto the bed beside the broken Bernini, reality crashing over her. She'd tried to escape and failed spectacularly. She'd destroyed priceless art and achieved nothing. She'd screamed and fought and thrown things, and Dante had simply absorbed it all, understood it, and used it to bind her tighter.

You're afraid of what happens if you stop fighting.

His words echoed in her mind. He was right—she was terrified of adapting, of getting comfortable, of waking up one day and realizing the cage didn't feel like a cage anymore.

But as Elena sat surrounded by evidence of her failed rebellion, she had to face an uncomfortable truth: fighting wasn't working. Resistance only exhausted her while Dante remained unmoved, patient, willing to wait however long it took.

Maybe survival meant something different here. Maybe she needed a new strategy.

Elena stood, gathered the broken pieces of the statue, and headed downstairs. She found Dante in the living room, on the phone speaking rapid Italian. He ended the call when he saw her.

"I'm sorry," Elena said, setting the pieces on the coffee table. "About the statue. I understand now. You've built a fortress, and I'm just one person. I can't win by fighting."

"No. You can't." He moved closer. "So what will you do instead?"

"Learn." The word came out steady, certain. "If I'm trapped here anyway, I might as well understand the cage. Understand you. Figure out how to survive with some dignity intact."

Something flickered across his face—approval, maybe, or cautious hope. "That's the smartest thing you've said since I took you."

"Don't celebrate yet. Understanding you doesn't mean accepting this."

"Fair enough." His lips quirked. "I'd be disappointed if you surrendered completely. The fight is part of what makes you interesting."

"Go. Rest. Tomorrow we start weapons training."

"What?"

"You heard me. If you're in my world, you need to protect yourself. Seven AM, the gym. Don't be late."

"I'm not learning to shoot so I can be a better mafia princess."

"You're learning so you don't die if someone comes for me and gets to you instead." His voice hardened. "This isn't a request. This is survival."

He left, and Elena stood alone with her shattered rebellion and a new realization: Dante was giving her weapons. Teaching her skills that could be used against him. Either he was incredibly confident, or he actually cared about keeping her alive more than he feared what she might do.

Neither option was comforting.

Tomorrow, Dante Valeri would put a gun in her hands.

And she would finally have the weapon she needed.

Whether she'd use it for protection or rebellion remained to be seen.