Novel-novel oleh J. C. Rodrigues Alves

AlinaThe smell of roasted meat with fresh herbs reached me before the door even opened. I sat in the armchair by the window, where I had spent the late afternoon reading, the book still open on my lap. The twilight painted the sky in orange tones, reflecting on the glass with an almost poetic melancholy. Even there, in that golden prison, I managed to find moments of silence that seemed to belong to me. Moments when I remembered who I was before all of this.The door opened with a soft creak. It was the housekeeper.I felt disappointed to see her — some strange little part of me had hoped it was Dante. Roseta always moved with precision, as if every gesture had been rehearsed. She carried the silver tray with dinner.— Dinner — she said in her calm voice, placing the tray on the small table beside the armchair.— I thought I would dine with him… again — My voice came out low.She adjusted the napkin, placing it carefully beside the plate.— Mr. Morelli is busy tonight. He asked me to

AlinaLight filtered through the cracks in the heavy curtains when the sound of the door opening woke me. Still groggy from restless sleep and the tangled dreams that haunted me through the night, I slowly sat up in bed. The warmth of the fireplace no longer heated the room as before, and my feet touched the cold floor with a slight shiver.Standing before the bed was the same middle-aged woman from before, carrying a silver tray with breakfast. She wore a simple black dress, a white apron, and her hair was tightly pinned in a bun. Her features were serious, but her eyes were kind. The housekeeper.“Good morning, Miss Ribeiro,” she said with a slight nod. “Mr. Morelli asked that your breakfast be served.”I blinked, surprised. I still felt tangled in the memories of the previous night — the tension of dinner, the piano, the warmth of his presence. My heart still echoed with Dante’s dangerous whispers. But in the present, it was just the woman before me, offering warm croissants, homem

AlinaI woke with a start, chest heaving, my heart still trapped in the darkness of the nightmare. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. The strange room. The high ceiling of dark wood. The scent of tobacco, leather, and smoke. The thick curtains blocking any natural light. The warmth of the still-burning fireplace licking the air with soft crackles. I sat up slowly, cotton sheets sliding over my skin. I was wearing a black silk nightgown. It wasn’t mine. And that was enough to make my stomach turn. Someone had undressed me. Someone had touched my unconscious body. A chill of dread ran through me.I stood up as quickly as I could, ignoring the weakness in my legs. The bed was huge, with an ornate canopy and embroidered pillows. Luxurious. The wooden floor creaked under my bare feet as I crossed the room to the door. I turned the knob forcefully. Locked.— ANYONE THERE?! — I screamed, pounding on the wood. — LET ME OUT OF HERE!Silence.My body trembled, a mix of fear and adrenaline. I

AlinaThe silence was deafening. Even with the soft crackle of the fireplace, the ticking of an old clock somewhere in the room, the silence weighed heavier than any loud sound. It seeped through the pores, lodged itself in the bones, made the mind scream. And me? I was frozen. My hands, still tied, tingled from poor circulation. My neck ached. My knees, still scraped from falling in the street, throbbed in protest. But nothing hurt more than the loss of control. The certainty that I didn’t know where I was. That he—that man—knew everything about me. And I, nothing about him. Dante Morelli. That was the name I heard murmured among the guards. Whispered as if it were a sin to say it aloud. Dante. The devil in a suit. My gaze searched the dimly lit room, even though my legs trembled too much to stand. It was a large space, far too wide. The windows were covered by thick burgundy curtains. There was an enormous bed in one corner, made as if no one dared to lie on it. And I was on

Dante MorelliIt’s raining.Raining like the sky is trying to wash this rotten city clean.But nothing washes away what was born stained.The warehouse I’m in reeks of rust, old oil, and fear.The kind of fear that drips in silence, that clings to the walls.I’m used to that smell. I grew up in it.Became a man with my hands dirty from it.The guy tied to the chair — swollen face, bleeding mouth, wide eyes — doesn’t look like the promising young man who studied abroad, full of diplomas and opportunities.A Ribeiro, they told me. Rafael or Adam, whatever.Just another idiot who thought he could climb fast by gambling with someone else’s money.My money.“Say it again.”My voice comes out low, steady. I don’t need to shout. I never do.The idiot in front of me hesitates. I see the terror in his eyes.It’s not just fear of pain. It’s fear of the end. Of death.He knows he’s one step from the grave.“I have a sister,” he murmurs, spitting blood with the words. “She’s almost done with her