5 - Absent

Alina

The 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 serve your meal in your quarters.

I frowned, trying to hide the sudden discomfort I felt. As much as I was relieved not to have to face those piercing eyes during dinner, part of me also... hoped. Hoped to see him again. Damn it.

— Busy? With what? — I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

The housekeeper gave a brief smile, without lifting her eyes.

— Business. There is always business.

Business. The word sounded darker than it should. I imagined silent meetings, guns laid on wooden tables, voices in other languages. Dante's world seemed to revolve around power and control. And now, I was just another piece on that board.

— Will he be back late? — I asked, and hated the slightly anxious tone of my own voice.

— I don’t know, miss. But he instructed me to remind you that you’re free to walk through the rooms with unlocked doors. If you need anything, I’ll be around.

I nodded slowly.

She walked away, leaving me alone with the delicious smell and the growing emptiness.

I ate slowly. Dinner was refined: filet mignon in red wine sauce, gratin potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and a glass of full-bodied wine. Far too sophisticated for someone in captivity. A disconcerting luxury. A perverse attempt to turn prison into privilege.

After finishing, I settled back into the armchair. The book lay open where I had left it, but the words now danced on the page, unable to hold my attention.

Where was he, really? His absence filled the room with questions. Dante Morelli was a man who dominated the space around him. And now that he wasn’t here, his absence felt louder than his presence.

I tried not to think about it. But thinking of him was inevitable. The way he spoke softly near my ear, how he teased me, how his eyes always seemed to undress me with a predator’s patience. There was something about him I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t just threat. It was something darker, deeper. Something that, perversely, held me as much as the walls of that mansion.

I stood up, aimless. I wandered around the room, brushing my fingers over the furniture, feeling the curtain’s fabric, the coldness of the doorknob. I put on a light silk robe, tied the sash firmly, until the restlessness overcame resignation and I left the room.

I needed a phone.

I needed to know if — despite everything — my mother was okay.

I waited a few minutes before stepping out. The doors weren’t locked, as the housekeeper had said. I descended the stairs slowly, ears alert to any sound of footsteps. The house was bathed in silence, except for the occasional crackling of fireplaces in other rooms.

First, I went to the office.

The door was ajar. I entered carefully. The room was darker than the rest of the house, with tall bookshelves and dark wooden furniture. A mahogany desk stood in the center, with an amber lamp and papers organized in leather folders.

I searched the surface as carefully as possible, leaving no trace. I opened drawers. Papers. Magazines. Guns. But no phone. No landline, no cell.

I went to the next room. Nothing but the white piano and instruments arranged like art pieces.

The kitchen. Also quiet. I found a few staff members washing dishes, but when they saw me, they lowered their eyes and said nothing. I avoided drawing attention, just glanced around — counter, shelves, near the wall phone that kitchens like this usually have.

But there was only silence and utensils.

I went back upstairs, down the hallway in the back. Some doors were locked, but one of them was slightly open. It was a smaller room, probably used as an administrative office. There was a computer.

My eyes lit up.

I rushed to it, tried to turn it on, but it was password-protected.

I looked around. No phone. No chargers. No digital traces.

It was as if Dante had ripped out any bridge to the outside world.

I returned to the bedroom with the metallic taste of frustration in my mouth. I threw myself onto the bed, breathless. My heart pounded, and it wasn’t from fear. It was from rage. From helplessness.

He thought of everything.

He locked me in a mansion with no bars, but under surveillance. Surrounded me with luxury and beauty, but gave me no means to scream. He gave me clothes, books, a piano… But not freedom.

I closed my eyes, and in the darkness of my mind, I imagined the sound of a phone ringing. On the other end, my mother asking where I was. Or even that idiot Adam…

But the silence was absolute.

And Dante, once again, won without even being present.