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FALLON
The morning light filters through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow on the empty room. It’s too quiet, unsettlingly so. My wrist feels lighter, and I glance down to find they left and didn’t handcuff me, which means they mustn’t be far. For a moment, the absence of cold metal against my skin is more jarring than its presence ever was.
Hesitantly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the silk sheets whispering across my skin as I sit up. The air is still as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.
I slide off the bed, my bare feet touching the cold floor. The chill sends a shiver up my spine, and I wrap my arms around myself. Why would they leave me unshackled? What game is this?
I approach the door cautiously, half-expecting it to be locked, but it swings open with ease. The hallway outside is deserted, the usual hushed murmurs and footsteps absent. I feel like prey tentative in the eye of a storm, every instinct screaming that this is the calm before a tempest of violence and chaos.
Tiptoeing down the corridor, the plush carpet muffling my steps, I scan for any signs of life. I pause when I reach the staircase, listening for anything that might hint at what’s coming. Nothing but the eerie stillness greets me.
I descend the stairs, my hand barely grazing the banister. At the bottom, I peer into the dining area, expecting an ambush. But it’s just as empty as the rest of the house — no guards, no captors, only the long table set for a meal that no one is there to eat.
My heart races, thudding against my ribs in a frantic drumbeat. They’ve never left me alone like this, not since the day they dragged me into their twisted world. With each step forward, the tension coils tighter within me. I’m free, yet trapped all at once, released from my chains but ensnared by the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
I move towards the kitchen, the scent of brewing coffee calling my name. It’s as if they’ve all vanished into thin air, leaving behind the ghost of their presence.
“Hello?” My voice sounds foreign in the quiet, a reminder that I am truly alone for the first time in what feels like forever. No response comes, and the gravity of the situation sinks in. I’m not just abandoned; I’m vulnerable.
In the midst of this perplexing solitude, I realize that my captivity has changed me. The Fallon who would have rejoiced at such a moment, who would have seen it as an opportunity to flee, seems like a stranger now. Instead, I stand here, wary and watchful, knowing that freedom is nothing but an illusion in some cruel game.
Moving to the kitchen, I push the door open and nearly jump out of my skin. It swings open, revealing Rocco. His frame fills the doorway, broad-shouldered and solid. The stubble on his jaw gives him a rough, unpolished edge, contrasting with the sharp cut of his suit.
“Geez, you gave me a fright,” I clutch my chest.
“Sorry, I was just coming up to wake you,” he says.
He motions for me to follow, and we walk down the hall towards the dining area. “Leone and Milo had to duck out earlier,” he says over his shoulder. “They’re on their way home. Maria made breakfast,” he tells me as we step into the dining room. He sweeps his hand through the air.
The breakfast table is an opulent spread of food that mocks my hollow appetite. But it isn’t the feast that turns my stomach; it’s Dante, Leone’s estranged brother, lounging at the head of the table like he owns it. He’s got that same dark hair and the same piercing gaze as Leone, though his is laced with a sneer rather than a smile.
“What the hell are you doing in here,” Rocco spits at him, and Dante cuts a glare his way before returning his gaze to me.
“Morning, Fallon. How was your week in captivity?” Dante’s voice drips with mock concern as he ignores Rocco.
“Go fuck yourself, Dante,” I spit back without missing a beat.
“Ah, but darling, I’d much rather fuck you.” He reaches out, his fingers aiming for my arm.
Before I can recoil, Rocco slides between us, pushing Dante’s hand away. Tension ripples through the air, a storm brewing in the quiet before the thunder.
“You dare put your hands on me,” Dante warns Rocco, a venomous smile curling his lips. “You should know your place.”
“My place is with Leone,” Rocco retorts, his stance firm. “I won’t be fooled by you again, Dante. Not after what happened last time.”
Dante’s smirk widens. “I bet that really eats you up, knowing you let her go with me that day.”
A knot forms in my stomach at the implication, confusion muddling my thoughts. Rocco’s body tenses, his jaw clenched so hard I can almost hear his teeth grind.
“Either way, my brother learned what a slut his wife was, just like he’ll figure out about his new whore,” Dante sneers.
That’s when Rocco’s fist flies, connecting with Dante’s face with a sickening thud. Dante rocks back in his chair, barely catching himself on the table, a trickle of blood running from his split lip. Immediately, Dante jumps up in his seat. The room becomes a pressure cooker, every breath laced with danger as the two men stare each other down, ready to tear into one another.
“Careful, Rocco,” Dante snarls, wiping the blood away. “You don’t want to start a war you can’t finish.”
“Neither do you,” Rocco growls, stepping forward. “And the entire city knows you would stand no chance against your brother, hide behind Daddy all you like, but we all know what you are, and Leone is just counting down the days until he puts a bullet in your head.”
The metallic click of a gun being cocked slices through the tension like a knife. My gaze snaps to Dante. His arm outstretched, the cold pistol barrel aimed straight at Rocco’s heart. The air in the room thickens, heavy with impending violence.
