Chapter 8

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Lisa

Slut. That's what I think to myself as I look at my reflection in the mirror. The sight that greets me is both familiar and disturbing. My skin is marked with bruises, hickeys, and bites—testaments to the past two weeks of torment. Despite the pain, my hair and skin appear normal, untouched by illness or neglect. I look almost healthy, but the evidence of Matteo's cruelty is unmistakable.

Every time I think I've hit rock bottom, Matteo finds a new way to prove me wrong. He pushes me further, testing the limits of my endurance. But despite everything, I haven't broken. I'm still me, and it's clear that my stubbornness irritates him. He can see the defiance in my eyes, the way I refuse to be crushed completely.

I can't help but dream of the day when I can escape this torment. The thought of enduring this for another four months feels suffocating. But I hold on to the hope of the future—the moment when I can publish my book and finally escape to Paris. Paris has always been a dream of mine, a place where I could start fresh and reclaim a sense of freedom.

My mother was from France, and her memory is one of the few things that keep me going. She taught me to cook with love and passion, showing me the secrets of French cuisine. Her recipes were more than just dishes; they were a connection to her warmth and care. I remember the way her eyes would light up as she spoke about her homeland, sharing stories and recipes that made our meals feel like a slice of France right in our kitchen.

In those moments, cooking was more than just a task—it was a way for us to bond, to share a piece of her world with me. Now, those memories are bittersweet, a reminder of the life I long to return to. I dream of the day when I can wander through Parisian streets, savoring croissants and baguettes, and perhaps find a little bit of peace amidst the chaos of my current existence.

But there's also James's threats hanging over me. I'm under constant pressure to find information that will destroy Matteo as a Capo. I don't know how I'm supposed to do it. Matteo keeps me locked in my room, a prison within his mansion, and when he's gone, he watches me through a camera installed in my room. At first, the idea of being watched like that terrified me. When Matteo first spoke through the camera, I was so scared I nearly had a panic attack. His voice coming from nowhere, that cold, detached tone, made my heart race and my knees go weak.

Every time I try to gather my thoughts or think of a plan, I can't shake the feeling that I'm constantly being monitored, my every move scrutinized. It's not just the physical confinement that gets to me; it's the psychological strain of knowing that Matteo can see me at any time, listening to every sound I make. I have to be careful with everything I do, every word I utter. My only solace is the thought of what lies beyond this—publishing my book and going to Paris.

I slip into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath my feet a welcome relief from the oppressive weight of the past few days. I turn on the faucet and let the water run, filling the tub with hot, steaming water. The scent of lavender fills the air as I pour in some bath salts Matteo allows me to use, a small luxury amid the chaos.

As the water rises, I undress slowly, each movement deliberate as if it might somehow ease the heaviness in my chest. My reflection in the bathroom mirror catches my eye, and I wince at the sight. My skin is marred with bruises, hickeys, and bite marks—evidence of Matteo's relentless demands and my own forced submission. Despite the pain, my skin is still smooth, and my hair falls around my shoulders in soft waves. I look healthy enough, but the sight of those marks is a stark reminder of my reality.

I sink into the tub with a sigh, the hot water enveloping me and easing some of the tension in my muscles. The heat soothes the lingering aches, but it also feels like a bittersweet escape from the constant vigilance and fear. I let my head fall back against the rim of the tub, closing my eyes as the steam rises around me.

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