Page 85 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

I see a wide, open entry, and I creep inside, my jaw dropping when I get a good look at my surroundings. There are bookshelves. Floor to ceiling. On every wall.

It’s absolutely incredible. And when I think about the child that I was, hungry for knowledge, and for a place that felt safe, I feel a sense of awe so strong that it brings tears to my eyes.

Any child would be lucky to have a room like this. If only the child also had a father who could love him. A father who wasn’t part of the Mafia.

I beg.

I clear my throat and try to ease the emotion that has settled in my chest as I walk toward the closest shelf to me. There must be a thousand books in here. And in spite of myself I wonder if there are any on fashion. I can’t imagine why there would be, except they seem to cover all sorts of topics. Definitive works on everything.

There are books on cooking, construction, architecture. There’s a section of novels.

I walk along the expansive length of shelving, and then I find a large, ornate book filled with old sketches from fashion houses, and I carry it over to a chair and it’s such a strange feeling, to be content and not feel like there’s something pressing weighing down on me. To not feel like I’m overburdened by my mere existence. It shouldn’t be that way in my captor’s house.

But what a weird house it is. Filled with all these books, with ornate artwork and architectural detail that reminds me more of England, not of Italy. I find that I have a lot of questions about everything. But I table them for the time being, and get lost in the artwork. I feel like I’m taking a peek into a rich and fascinating past.

Clothing, to me, says so much about society. About pushing the boundaries of that society. People have always made statements with their clothes. Women have pushed for rights with their fashion.

There is power in it. As somebody who came up from nothing, I really appreciate that. There’s that old cliché about how the clothes make the man, but I feel like it’s even more profound, even truer than people realize. Especially for people who have never tried to transcend what they were born into.

They don’t fully appreciate how by switching what you’re wearing, you can alter the way that people perceive you. I do. I’ve done it. I created costumes for myself, and I still do it. Endlessly.

I hear movement, and I look up. There he is, standing in the doorway, imposing in his black suit. And that is a very deliberate choice. Something else I’m aware of. Even this man, brutal and the sort who would probably say that he doesn’t give a thought to what he wears, absolutely does. Because it projects an image. His tattoos are an accessory. The traditional, ruthlessly tailored suit a contrast to those. It is partly those things combined that announce him as someone not to be trifled with. As a predator. It’s the contrast of those two things. They trigger a sensation in your brain. A person’s aesthetics are an integral part of them. Whether they choose to invest money in it or not. Whether they decide to care about it or not. All of those things tell you about the person. Inform what you know about them.

“Here I am enjoying my freedom,” I say, knowing that I sound perhaps a bit snarkier than I should. I’m better off trying to appeal to his humanity, not making him mad. But making him mad just feels easy.

“Good,” he says. “A great many people would find your present situation to be luxurious.”

It makes me angry that I’m actually one of those people. That this present situation is a significant upgrade for me. Especially compared to most of my life. Living with his sister was until now the most comfortable situation I’d ever been in. And it feels like a metaphor for something that I can’t quite put my finger on. His sister was part of trapping me. It wasn’t a gift. It was a luxury. Now I’m thoroughly and completely trapped, but it’s a really nice place. It just feels like a reminder that the world doesn’t offer you significant upgrades without significant sacrifice.

“I’m quite certain,” I say. I look around the room. “What is the story of this place? Because I can’t imagine that you had it built.”

“Why not?”

I can’t tell if that’s a genuine question or not, but I’m going to treat it like it is. “Because this is not your aesthetic.”

“My what?”

“You are a modern, clean-lines sort of man. There’s a severity to you that I know would translate into your housing design and decor. Something with a little bit of an edge, I’m basing that on all the tattoos.”

“How very interesting,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.

“Well, am I right?”

“Yes,” he relents. “This is a home that was owned by my mother’s family.”

“And it stayed secret?”

He inclines his head. “My mother was the daughter of a duplicitous British politician. He was taking a lot of bribes, facilitating a lot of crime in the UK. Even when my mother married my father, which was partly a dynastic union, there were secrets that her family kept hidden. When I left my father’s empire, my grandfather took an interest in me. He was not a good man. But he hated my father. And a common enemy can be an extremely useful thing.”

“I bet.” It probably speaks to my own dysfunction that I’m jealous of him. Jealous of the fact that when his mother was killed, there was someone who was on his side. That there was some kind of family legacy no matter how twisted.

There’s no one for me. My maternal grandmother was only thirteen years older than my mom, and she died of an overdose when I was nine. My paternal grandparents were, I think, entirely alienated from my dad. No sibling connections. Nothing. Systemically broken homes and drug abuse are our legacy.

His is violence. But there’s loyalty in there. I know that it’s a stupid thing to be jealous of that.

But I feel a little bit of it for sure.

“So that’s why this feels British,” I say.