5. A Wedding Dress and a Warning

ℑ𝔣 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔞 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔢, 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔴𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯.

— 𝔲𝔫𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔫

[CAMI]

The minutes drag on. 

I don’t know how long it’s been—there’s no clock on the walls that are otherwise quite occupied with decor to tell the time. My stomach starts to rumble, waves of dizziness washing over. 

Shifting on the bed, I look over to the table where the platter of food lies. Once steaming hot, it’s now gone cold. And yet the sight is maddening. 

A growl erupts in my stomach. 

A reasonable voice in my mind tells me to eat. There’s no point staying hungry. If I wish to make an escape, I need to have my strength. 

About my escape though… I appear to have been imprisoned in an impenetrable fortress. I have not seen enough, except that the patio overlooks the edge of a cliff—a vast expanse of sea on the other side. But there’s no harm in assuming the worst. 

Our wedding is in four hours. 

The words return to me, just as they were said in that cold, deep voice of his. I can barely think because of the hunger but it seems like the man I met all those years ago has just been polished to the darkest humanity can offer. 

And then it crashes in like a blizzard. 

He killed a man. 

Shot him dead right in front of me. In front of his wife. 

And he didn’t even blink. Didn’t even hesitate. As if it’s as normal as eating. 

What was the reason? Because his wife slapped me? That seemed to be the revelation that decided the man’s fate. But was it just that? 

I know it wasn’t just something my brain came up with. I know it from the feeling of the soft fabric beneath my body, from the patter of rain outside the tall glass windows. It was very real. 

Zeke. 

His name is Zeke.

He did it to scare me, to show me that I was helpless, didn’t he? Because if that was his intention, he fucking got it right. 

The moment returns, the sound of the trigger clicking, the bullet erupting and settling into the man’s forehead. And suddenly, I’m shuddering. My lungs feel like they’ve collapsed. There’s no air in the room to breathe. 

Where is Claire? Jake? Daniel? 

Daniel is… dead. I remember that man saying—

Fuck. 

Why has no one come looking for me? Are they ever going to? Will anyone ever find me here?

What is this nightmare that I can’t shake myself off from? 

The doorknob turns.

My heart stumbles. I push back against the headboard, body stiff, breath caught halfway up my throat. I don’t even have the strength to flinch properly.

The door creaks open.

The woman from earlier—Mrs. Mancini, steps in.

She looks like she’s aged ten years in the last few hours. Her eyes are puffy, rimmed in red, her mouth pulled tight in something that isn’t quite grief and isn’t quite rage. Just... emptiness. She moves like someone who’s forgotten how.

But she’s here.

Still alive.

Still breathing.

Behind her, a man lingers in the doorway. He does not give a damn. There’s a smirk stretched across his face, like he’s watching a dark comedy and I’m the punchline.

“I’m the best man,” he announces, like this is all some kind of twisted celebration. His grin grows wider, almost boyish. Then the door clicks shut again.

Mrs. Mancini doesn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes flick to the tray of food I still haven’t touched.

“It might be your last meal,” she says, flat. Unblinking.

She looks drained. Like her soul’s been scraped clean.

“You can never really know what Zeke wants,” she mutters. “He’s one of the real monsters. What he did today was nothing.”

The food still smells good. My stomach growls loud enough to echo. I feel the hunger deep in my bones

I pick up a fork.

Take a bite.

It’s not hot anymore, but it tastes like survival. The second bite is even better. I don’t stop.

I don’t even look at her until I’ve swallowed again.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “About your husband.”

Her gaze sharpens.

“If I feel like slapping you again, I will,” she says without emotion. “All I’ve got left is my life.”

I nod once. I understand. It still makes me flinch, but I get it. Her grief’s bigger than me. Bigger than the room.

“Why am I here?” I ask after a few quiet minutes have passed between us. Even if I don’t get a real answer, at least the suffocating silence will end. 

She breathes out slow, like the question physically pains her.

“Because Zeke wants you here,” she says. “And Zeke always gets what he wants.”

My fingers go still on the plate.

“Who is he?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer. “I don’t… really know him.”

She slumps down on the sofa chair like the weight of everything is finally crushing her. Then she speaks.

“He’s the kingpin. Zeke Russell… He comes from a long line of criminals—ruthless leaders who built empires on blood and fear. He inherited theirs and turned it into something even bigger,” she says, gaze fixated on her clasped hands in her lap. “Now he runs half the city. The rest of it bends when he speaks. Arms. Power. And something darker. He doesn’t break rules—he doesn’t see them. Maybe he was always like this. Maybe loss turned him worse.” Her eyes dull. “He doesn’t feel things like normal people. He calculates. Destroys. If he wants something, he’ll burn cities for it.”

I don’t breathe.

“I don’t want this,” I say. It sounds like begging.

She looks at me, face hard.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You’ll do what he wants. Or you’ll get hurt.”

Then after a pause—

“Even if you do everything right… he’s not gentle. He’s a fucking monster. I’ve seen him become one. Elio would tell me things but I never—” her voice trails off, and tears emerge in her eyes. 

Then we hear it.

The quiet whirring of wheels.

The doorknob doesn't turn this time. Instead, the door pushes open just a sliver—enough for a sleek, gold-trimmed clothing rack to be rolled in by unseen hands.

The rack is glossy. Expensive. Like something that belongs in a couture studio in Milan, not in a fortress on a cliff where people die for slapping a woman.

And hanging on it, under the glow of the room’s warm lights, is the dress.

Ivory silk. Delicate lace sleeves. A slit that promises allure, and a bodice so carefully tailored it could have been sewn with blood and obsession. Pearls stitched into the fabric gleam like soft warnings.

A wedding dress.

My wedding dress.

Mrs. Mancini doesn’t speak. She walks over to the rack and runs her hand over the fabric like it’s a memory.

“Don’t make him wait,” she says after a moment, voice flat.

I swallow. Hard. “I’m not doing this.”

She turns to me, and there’s something haunted in her expression. “You already are.”

I want to scream, to tear the dress to pieces, but I’m frozen. Like if I move, I’ll somehow be accepting this nightmare.

“Why are you helping him?” I ask.

Her lips twitch. A bitter smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m a coward.”

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

Because even she doesn’t believe there’s a way out.

She lifts the dress off the rack and brings it toward me. I don’t reach for it. I just stare at it.

“I’m supposed to dress you,” she says.

My stomach twists.

She just lost her husband.

And now she’s expected to dress me. For a wedding.

Zeke didn’t even let her grieve. Didn’t give her space to fall apart.

Instead, he turned her into a prop.

That’s what he does.

Takes people. Uses them.

And if this is how he treats someone he’s known for years…

What the hell does that mean for me?