Chapter 5 A Favor From The Enemy

The next morning, the sky outside her window had turned a dull, colorless white, like even the sun had grown tired of shining on this house.

Emily rose before the knock came. She didn't want Bianca waking her. She didn't want to be found vulnerable again-blanket-wrapped in a corner like some fragile thing. If the mansion was a stage, she needed to walk into every scene already rehearsed.

The grey dress she chose was more structured than the last. She added a belt, black, and tied her hair into a neater knot. Not because she wanted to look good. Because she wanted to look composed. Untouchable.

At exactly eight, Bianca appeared at the door without knocking. She stepped aside silently, letting Emily pass. They said nothing as they descended the marble staircase.

This morning, the dining room was empty.

Marco wasn't there.

Instead, a different man waited at the table.

Tall. Lean. Late thirties. Dark suit, deep red tie. His hair was slicked back, and his hands were folded neatly on the table, like he belonged there.

He looked up.

And smiled.

"Mrs. Bianchi," he said smoothly. "A pleasure."

Emily paused, scanning the room. No Marco. No guards.

Bianca stood stiffly in the doorway. Her expression was carved from stone.

"Who are you?" Emily asked quietly.

"A friend," he replied. "Or an enemy. That part's up to you."

Bianca stepped forward. "This is Mr. Alessandro Moretti. He came at Mr. Bianchi's invitation. Business."

Emily froze.

Moretti.

She knew the name. Everyone did. Rival to Marco. Wealthy. Dangerous. Elegant in the way only a serpent could be.

"You're not part of his business," Bianca said curtly. "You should eat quickly and leave."

Emily turned to Bianca, expression calm. "He's already here. So I'll eat."

She sat across from Alessandro.

Bianca stiffened. But she didn't move. She stayed by the wall.

Breakfast was already served: a croissant, poached egg, and grapefruit slices. Alessandro had a cup of espresso he hadn't touched.

He leaned in slightly.

"I expected someone smaller. More frightened."

Emily took a sip of tea. "You expected wrong."

"That, I'm beginning to see."

She didn't ask why he was here. If Marco wanted her to know, he would have told her. If Moretti wanted to use her, he'd do it whether she asked or not.

"Tell me something," he said. "Are you happy here?"

She gave him a long, slow look. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

That made him laugh. Quietly. Genuinely.

"No," he said. "I think you're the most interesting thing Marco's ever caged."

Bianca moved behind her. Emily felt the woman's stare like a needle between her shoulder blades.

"You shouldn't speak to her," Bianca said sharply. "She has no say in Marco's affairs."

Alessandro didn't turn. "Everyone has a say. It's just a matter of how loudly they whisper it."

Emily pushed her plate slightly forward. She wasn't hungry anymore.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

Alessandro tilted his head. "I want nothing."

He stood. Adjusted his cufflinks. His eyes flicked to Bianca.

"But if you ever want something... something Marco refuses to give..." He reached into his jacket and placed a slim, black card on the table. No name. Just a silver phone number.

"I don't want anything from you," Emily said.

He smiled again. "Not yet."

He left.

Bianca moved to take the card, but Emily beat her to it.

She slipped it into her sleeve.

Not because she trusted him.

But because she didn't trust anyone.

---

Later that afternoon, Marco appeared without warning. Emily was in the study, staring out the narrow window.

He shut the door behind him.

"You met Moretti."

She turned. "You invited him."

"I didn't expect you to speak with him."

"You didn't say I couldn't."

A pause.

He walked to the desk. Picked up the pen. Twirled it slowly.

"He left you something."

Emily shrugged. "Did he?"

Marco watched her. His gaze was colder today. Not angry. Just distant.

"He'll test you," Marco said. "The way I did."

"So I'm a test."

"You were. Now you're a variable."

He placed the pen down.

"You'll be monitored more closely now. And you won't leave this house without me."

She stepped closer, her voice steady. "Are you protecting me, or controlling me?"

Marco looked down at her. The edge of something darker flickered behind his eyes.

"What's the difference?"

---

That night, Emily lay in bed.

Not the chaise. Not the corner. The bed.

She stared at the ceiling, card tucked beneath her pillow.

A favor from an enemy.

A sentence from her captor.

And a question she could no longer ignore:

What if the only way to survive Marco Bianchi...

...was to betray him first?