No Escape from His Gilded Cage

Eleonora's POV

"Go to your room." My stepbrother Matteo appears in the kitchen doorway, a dress in his hand. He voice is laced with a false, casual air. "Put on this gown."

I set down the plate I was drying, wiping my hands on my apron. "Why?" The question is almost reflexive. Our outings are limited.

"Taking you to meet someone. Antonio Conti. An... influential friend."

Antonio Conti. The name sends a chill down my spine. An old man, fabulously wealthy by all accounts, with peculiar tastes and a certain... incapacity rumored to have resulted from an "accident" years ago. His interests have since turned to other forms of companionship-expensive, polished, and utterly subservient ornaments to display his wealth and power in social settings.

"I'm not going," I say, my voice firmer than I expect. "I don't feel well."

He finally looks up. There is no anger in his eyes, only a cold, calculating assessment, like a pawnbroker valuing a piece of collateral. "Eleonora," he says slowly, taking a step closer. "You know I have investments in the market. But that money is for the 'future.' Mr. Conti's 'friendship' solves the 'present.'" He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. "It's just drinks, conversation. He's a 'gentleman.' You sit, you smile, you nod, you pour his wine occasionally. Easier than scrubbing plates here, right?"

He makes it sound so trivial, like a mundane tea party. But the light in his eyes betrays him-it is the relief of a debtor finding a scapegoat just as Antonio Conti's collector knocks. He isn't desperate; he is simply unwilling to dip into his own capital. My presence is his lowest-cost solution for the moment.

Humiliation burns like bile in my throat.

"Matteo," I try, "we're family..."

"Enough! I'm the head of the family! Just do as I say." he cuts me off, raising his hand to hit but then put it down. I know that's because he didn't my injuries to get in his way. "Listen, Nora. Put on the dress, a little makeup. We leave in twenty minutes. Don't make me repeat myself."

He turns and leaves. Thirty minutes later, I sit in his car wearing the sapphire blue silk dress I have never liked. A thick silence fills the space between us.

The interior smells only of leather and Matteo's cologne. I turn my head to watch the streetlights blur past the window, my fingers unconsciously tightening around the smooth silk of the skirt. The image from earlier in the bedroom mirror surfaces again-fading yellow-green bruises, like shameful stamps, scattered around my ribs and the inner parts of my arms. Under the stream of hot water, I finally break, burying my face in my wet palms, letting silent tears mix with the steam.

Seven years. Ever since Papa and my stepmother Paola died in that car crash and Matteo took over Papa's role in the Cosa Nostra, everything has changed. The stepbrother who was once kind seems swollen