Chapter 3 - Golden Cages and Unspoken RulesThe guest room on the third floor of the Rossi estate was larger than my entire apartment.
It was decorated in soft creams, warm woods, and plush velvet fabrics. Double doors opened onto a private balcony overlooking a manicured garden filled with white roses and marble fountains. In the adjoining bathroom, a clawfoot tub sat beside a vanity stocked with expensive creams, perfumes, and silk robes.
For the first two days, I barely left the room.
I slept for fourteen hours straight the first night, a deep, dreamless sleep born of pure physical exhaustion. When I woke up, fresh meals were brought up on silver trays by a soft-spoken housekeeper named Maria, who smiled warmly and refused to let me clear my own dishes.
By the third afternoon, the quiet was driving me crazy.
I had spent two years running, hiding, looking over my shoulder, and surviving on adrenaline. Being treated like a fragile porcelain doll in a gilded castle felt unnatural. I needed to move. I needed to feel useful.
I put on a pair of dark jeans and a comfortable cream sweater that had been placed in the closet—all brand-new, tagged, and in my exact size—and slipped out of the room.
The mansion was quiet. The polished marble floors echoed softly beneath my shoes as I walked down the grand staircase. I wandered through a soaring library filled with floor-to-ceiling books, past formal dining rooms, and toward the back of the house, where I caught the rich, intoxicating scent of roasting garlic and simmers of tomato sauce.
I followed my nose into a massive, restaurant-grade kitchen.
Maria was standing at the central island, surrounded by chopping boards, fresh herbs, and crates of San Marzano tomatoes. She was furiously peeling garlic while a giant copper pot bubbled away on the commercial stove.
“Maria?” I called out softly.
She turned around, startled, before her face softened into a motherly smile. “Ah, Miss Elena! What are you doing out of bed? Do you need something? I was just preparing Mr. Rossi’s dinner.”
“Please, just call me Elena,” I said, walking over to the island. “And no, I don't need anything. I was just… going crazy in that room. Can I help you with something?”
Maria looked horrified, waving her garlic knife in the air. “Oh, no, no! Mr. Rossi would skin me alive if he saw you working in the kitchen! You are a guest!”
“Maria, I’ve worked in restaurants since I was eighteen,” I said, picking up a paring knife from the wooden block and grabbing a handful of garlic cloves. “If I sit in that room staring at the walls for one more hour, I’m going to lose my mind. Please. Let me help.”
Maria looked at me, taking in the determined look in my eyes, and sighed softly. “You are stubborn, just like him.” She motioned to the tomatoes. “Fine. Dice those, but if Lev walks in here, you tell him I tried to stop you.”
For the next two hours, the kitchen became my sanctuary. Cooking was something I knew. It was precise, rhythmic, and grounding. I chopped tomatoes, chiffonaded fresh basil, and helped Maria knead dough for fresh pasta. We talked about her grandchildren, her years working for the Rossi family, and the history of the house.
“Mr. Rossi’s father built this place,” Maria explained, dusting flour off her hands. “It was a dark house for a long time, Elena. Old Mr. Rossi was a hard man. Cold. But Mateo… Mateo is different. He is dangerous, yes, but he has a heart. He protects his people.”
“He’s a mob boss, Maria,” I said gently, sliding chopped onions into a hot pan of olive oil.
“He is a man who keeps the monsters away,” Maria corrected firmly. “In this life, child, someone has to be the biggest monster in the valley so the rest of us can live in peace.”
Before I could answer, a deep voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.
“It smells remarkable in here.”
I jumped, turning around quickly. Mateo was standing in the doorway, framed by the dark oak molding. He had taken off his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, corded muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo that crept up his right wrist.
Maria instantly straightened up. “Mr. Rossi! I tried to tell her—”
“It’s fine, Maria,” Mateo said, holding up a hand. He walked slowly into the kitchen, his eyes fixed on me. He looked at the flour smudged across my cheek, the wooden spoon in my hand, and the color that had returned to my face.
“You look less like a ghost today, Elena,” he said quietly.
“I feel less like one,” I replied, wiping my hands on an apron Maria had given me. “I made the sauce. I hope you don't mind.”
Mateo walked up to the stove, picked up a spoon, dipped it into the bubbling red sauce, and tasted it. He chewed thoughtfully for a second while I held my breath, suddenly nervous about the opinion of a mafia kingpin.
He looked at me, a rare, genuine smile lighting up his dark eyes. “It’s better than Maria’s.”
May you like
“Hey!” Maria squawked in mock indignation, though she was smiling.
“Set two places in the small dining room, Maria,” Mateo instructed, turning back toward the hall. He looked at me over his shoulder. “Join me for dinner, Elena. It’s time we talked about what comes next.”
