The door clicks shut and the lock turns with a sound I've already learned to hate. I haven't been here long enough to memorize the way these rooms smell—clove smoke and someone else's sweat and the cheap rose perfume they make us wear—but I'm getting there. That's the thing about this place. You learn fast or you break.

The man's hand finds my hip before I've even turned around. His fingers dig in through the thin silk of this robe, and I feel the heat of his palm like a brand. He's already pulling me toward the bed, already walking me backward like I'm a thing he's moving, not a person he's meeting.

"Come on, doll." His voice is a low growl, scraped raw by whiskey and too many cigarettes. "Let's not waste time."

I let him move me. That's the trick, isn't it? Let them think they're in charge from the first second, let them feel like they're the ones pulling the strings. I've been here three weeks and I've already learned that the men who feel powerful are the easiest to manage. The ones who need to prove something are the dangerous ones.

His name is Tony. Or Tommy. Something with a T. He told me when he came in, his hand already on the small of my back, his breath hot on my neck as Mama Rosa introduced us. I filed it away with the others—the way he holds his glass too tight, the way his eyes go flat when he drinks, the way he looks at me like I'm a steak he's already paid for.

"Get on your knees."

It's not a request. It's not even a demand. It's a statement of fact, the way you'd tell a dog to sit. And I do it, because Mama Rosa's voice is still echoing in my head from this morning, her singsong accent wrapped around words I'm supposed to take as wisdom.

*You're here to please, not to think, tesoro.*

She'd said it while she was pinning my hair up, her plump fingers deft and gentle, her henna-red bun bobbing as she talked. *The sooner you learn that, the easier this life becomes.*

I'm learning. I'm learning the way the carpet feels under my knees, the way the velvet of the bed frame digs into my shoulder, the way the chandelier light catches the dust motes floating in the air. I'm learning that the man in front of me has a belt buckle with a scratched silver finish and a button on his trousers that's come loose at the thread.

He unzips himself. The sound is loud in the quiet room, and I watch his cock spring free, already half-hard, the head flushed dark. He fists it once, twice, working himself to full stiffness while he looks down at me with that flat, proprietary gaze.

"You gonna take care of this for me, doll?"

His fingers tangle in my hair. Not rough, not yet. Just possessive. Just claiming. He guides my head forward, and I let him, because that's what I'm here for, that's what I am now. I open my mouth and take him in.

He tastes like salt and soap and something underneath that's just *him*—musk and sweat and the whiskey he's been drinking. I close my eyes and focus on the mechanics of it, the way I've been taught. Tongue flat, lips wrapped over teeth, take him deep and breathe through my nose. Mama Rosa spent three days teaching me this, her voice patient and practical, her hands guiding mine as she showed me how to touch a man like I mean it.

"That's it," he groans. "That's a good girl."

His hips start to move, thrusting into my mouth with a rhythm that's all his own. His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling just enough to sting, and I feel the ache in my jaw start to build. I've been doing this for maybe two minutes and already he's gripping me like he's afraid I'll stop.

I won't. That's the thing he doesn't know about me. I won't stop until he tells me to, because every second I spend with him is a second I'm learning something. The way he moans when I take him deeper. The way his breath catches when I curl my tongue just so. The way he says my name—*Isabella*—like it's a curse and a prayer all at once.

"Shit," he hisses. "Your mouth is fucking incredible."

I look up at him through my lashes. Honey-blond hair falling across my face, red lipstick smeared on his cock, whiskey-brown eyes watching him like he's the only man in the world. That's the performance. That's the mask I wear now. Underneath it, I'm counting the seconds, cataloging the details, building a file on Tony-or-Tommy that might matter someday.

His hand moves from my hair to my jaw, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. He pulls me off him, and I feel the loss of him in my mouth, the cool air on my spit-slick lips.

"Turn around." He's already pushing me, already moving me toward the bed. "Hands and knees."

I go. I crawl onto the mattress, the velvet rough against my palms, and I hear him behind me, the rustle of his clothes, the sound of him spitting into his palm. When his hand lands on my ass, I feel the wet smear of it, the way he's preparing himself.

"This what you're for, doll?" He's lifting the robe, pushing it up over my hips. "This what they made you for?"

I don't answer. I don't have to. He's already positioning himself, already pressing the head of his cock against me, and I feel the stretch as he pushes inside.

It's not gentle. It's not meant to be. He drives into me with a grunt, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I take it. I take all of it, because that's what I am now. That's what I was made into.

"Fuck," he groans. "Tight. So fucking tight."

He sets a rhythm, fast and punishing, and I grip the velvet beneath my hands and let him use me. My body responds the way it was built to—the way Carter's body never could have, the way this soft, curved, impossible female body was engineered to take a man and make him feel like a king.

I hate it. I hate the way it feels, the way my hips move to meet his thrusts, the way my cunt clenches around him like it's hungry. I hate that I was made for this, that the Don looked at me and saw a vessel, a gift, a thing to be used.

But I don't hate the information. I don't hate the way Tony-or-Tommy is grunting above me, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I file away the way he grabs my hair again, yanking my head back, the way he growls "look at me" and I do, my neck arched, my eyes meeting his.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, that's it."

He comes with a shudder, his grip on my hair loosening, his body collapsing forward. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of him, and I stay still, stay patient, until he pulls out and rolls off me with a satisfied sigh.

The silence stretches. I hear him zipping his pants, the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric. I stay where I am, on my hands and knees, because no one's told me I can move yet.

Then I hear it. The sound of bills hitting the nightstand. The sound of a man who's done with me.

"You're alright," he says, and I don't know if it's a compliment or a dismissal. Maybe it's both.

The door opens. The door closes. And I'm alone.

I push myself up slowly, my knees aching, my jaw sore. The robe has slipped off one shoulder, and I pull it back up with fingers that are steadier than I feel. On the nightstand, there's a crumpled pile of twenties. I count them without meaning to. Two hundred. Not bad for ten minutes of work.

I take the money and tuck it into the little silk purse Mama Rosa gave me. She'll take her cut later, and I'll keep the rest. It's not enough. It'll never be enough. But it's a start.

I'm standing at the mirror, fixing my lipstick, when I hear the knock. Three quick raps, the pattern Mama Rosa uses. I open the door and find her in the hallway, her flowered housecoat bright against the dark wood, her gold hoops catching the light.

"Amore," she says, her eyes flicking to the purse in my hand. "Good. You made him happy."

"I made him come." I say it flat, and she laughs, a warm sound that doesn't reach her eyes.

"That's the same thing, tesoro. That's the same thing." She reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers gentle. "You did well. He's a regular. He'll ask for you again."

"Great." The word comes out bitter, and I see her eyes narrow. I soften it, force a smile. "I mean. Good. More money."

"More money," she agrees. She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way she watches me, the way her lips press together. "But there's something else. A new client."

My heart does something strange. A new client could be anyone. A new client could be someone worse than Tony-or-Tommy. A new client could be someone who doesn't even bother with the pretense of an introduction.

"He asked for you specifically," Mama Rosa says, and there's something in her voice I can't read. "He's... different."

"Different how?"

"Different like he's not a wise guy. Different like he has money that doesn't come from breaking kneecaps." She pauses, and I see her weighing something, deciding how much to tell me. "He's an art dealer. From Milan. He's been here three times, and he's never asked for the same girl twice."

I feel something flicker in my chest. Something that might be hope, if I still believed in that. "Why me?"

Mama Rosa shrugs, but there's a knowing glint in her warm brown eyes. "Maybe he saw you. Maybe someone told him about you. Maybe he just likes the look of a woman who's got something behind her eyes." She reaches out and pats my cheek. "He's here now. He's waiting in the green room."

The green room. The one with the good furniture, the one they use for the clients who matter. My pulse quickens, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn't hope. Hope is a dangerous thing in a place like this.

But I straighten my robe anyway. I check my lipstick in the mirror. I run my fingers through my honey-blond hair and make sure it falls just right over my shoulders.

"Go on, tesoro." Mama Rosa's voice is soft, almost kind. "Make a good impression."

I walk down the hallway, my heels clicking on the hardwood, and I feel the weight of her gaze on my back. The green room door is closed, and I pause outside it, my hand on the knob, and I take a breath.

This is just another transaction. That's what I tell myself. This is just another man who wants something from me, and I'll give it to him, and I'll take his money, and I'll file away whatever I learn.

But when I open the door, I see him—salt-and-pepper hair, sharp jaw, a tailored gray suit that costs more than I made in my first week here—and he's not looking at my body. He's looking at my face. He's looking at my eyes.

And he's smiling like he sees something there that I didn't know I was showing.

"Isabella," he says, and his voice is cultured, warm, with an accent that curls around my name like it's something precious. "I've been hoping to meet you."

The door clicks shut behind me, and I realize I'm still holding the knob. I let it go. I make myself smile, make myself move toward him, make myself the fantasy I was made into.

"The pleasure's mine," I say, and I watch his hazel eyes track my approach, and I wonder if this is the one.

I wonder if this is the man who might buy me out of this place.

He doesn't reach for me. That's the first thing I notice. Every other man in this place—Tony-or-Tommy, the ones before him—they reach. They grab, they pull, they take. But this one just stands there by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber, and he watches me cross the room like I'm a painting he's deciding whether to buy.

"You move beautifully," he says, and it's not a line. It's an observation, measured and precise, the way you'd comment on brushwork or the fall of light. "Most women here walk like they're trying to disappear. You walk like you're trying to be seen."

I stop a few feet from him, close enough to catch his cologne—something expensive, sandalwood and citrus, nothing like the cheap whiskey-and-smoke smell I've grown used to. "Maybe I'm just not sure yet if being seen is a good thing."

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes in a way that makes something in my chest tighten. "That's an honest answer. I appreciate honesty." He gestures to the velvet settee by the window, the one with the good upholstery, the one they keep for the clients who matter. "Sit with me. Talk to me."

I blink. "Talk to you?"

"Is that so strange?" He settles into the chair across from the settee, crossing one leg over the other, and I catch the glint of a gold watch at his wrist. "I've been to this establishment three times. I've met three lovely women. And every single one of them tried to put their mouth on me within the first five minutes." He takes a sip of his drink, his hazel eyes steady on mine. "I'm not in a hurry tonight."

I stand there for a beat too long, trying to recalibrate. This isn't the script. The script is: he wants something, I give it to him, he leaves. This man is asking me to sit down and talk, and I don't know what to do with that.

So I sit. I perch on the edge of the settee, my robe falling open just slightly at the knee, and I watch him watch me. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me something true about yourself." He says it like it's the most natural question in the world. "Something you wouldn't tell the other clients."

The question lands in my chest like a stone. Something true. I could tell him about Carter, about the man I used to be, about the day I woke up in this body with the Don's voice in my ear telling me I'd been given a gift. But that's not the kind of truth you share with a stranger in a brothel. That's the kind of truth that gets you killed.

"I hate roses," I say instead. "The cheap perfume they make us wear. It's supposed to smell like roses, but it just smells like regret."

He laughs, a low, warm sound that seems to surprise him as much as it does me. "That's a good answer. Not the one I expected." He sets his glass down on the side table and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm Luca, by the way. Luca Bianchi. Though I suspect Mama Rosa already told you that."

"She said you're an art dealer. From Milan."

"That's right. I buy and sell beautiful things." His gaze drifts over me, but it's not the hungry, devouring look I've learned to brace for. It's appreciative, the way you'd look at a masterpiece. "And I have a weakness for pieces with a story behind them."

I feel my pulse quicken. "Is that what I am? A piece?"

"Aren't we all?" He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a leather notebook, worn at the edges, the kind of thing a man carries for years. "Do you mind if I sketch you?"

The request is so unexpected that I almost laugh. "You want to draw me?"

"I want to capture something." He flips the notebook open to a blank page, and I catch a glimpse of the previous pages—quick charcoal studies of women's faces, a bare shoulder, a pair of hands. "You have a quality about you, Isabella. A wariness. A depth. I'd like to try to put it on paper."

I should say no. I should steer this back to the transaction, get him into bed, get his money, get out. But there's something about the way he's looking at me—like I'm a person, not a product—that makes me want to stay in this moment a little longer.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Draw me."

He smiles, and it transforms his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. "Thank you." He pulls a pencil from his pocket and starts to sketch, his eyes flicking between me and the page. "Tell me about your hands. They're elegant. Did you play piano?"

I look down at my hands—soft, pale, the nails painted a deep red by Mama Rosa's own hand. "No. I never learned."

"What did you do? Before this?"

The question hangs in the air, and I feel the weight of it. Before this. Before the transformation, before the brothel, before the Don decided I'd be more useful as a woman. I could tell him I was a man, that I had a different name, a different life, a different body. But that's not a truth I'm ready to share. Not yet.

"I worked for a man who didn't value me," I say, which is true in more ways than he'll ever know. "And I learned that when someone sees you as a tool, you either become the tool they want or you find a way out."

His pencil pauses. "And which are you doing?"

"I'm still figuring that out."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I feel seen in a way that's almost uncomfortable. Then he looks back at his notebook, his pencil moving in quick, sure strokes. "I think you're the kind of woman who finds a way out. You have that look about you."

"What look is that?"

"The look of someone who's already planning her escape." He says it casually, like he's commenting on the weather, but the words land in my chest like a key turning in a lock. "I find that fascinating. Most people in this place have given up. You haven't."

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. I just watch him draw, the way his hand moves across the page, the way his brow furrows in concentration. He's beautiful in a way that's easy to overlook—not flashy, not loud, but quietly confident, the kind of man who doesn't need to prove anything to anyone.

"There," he says after a few minutes, turning the notebook toward me. "What do you think?"

I lean forward and look at the sketch. It's me, but not the me I see in the mirror. This version of me has her chin lifted, her eyes sharp, her mouth curved in a smile that's more knowing than kind. It's the me I keep hidden, the one that's always calculating, always watching for the exit.

"That's not what I look like," I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intended.

"It's what you look like to me." He closes the notebook and tucks it back into his jacket. "I think you're a survivor, Isabella. And I think you're smarter than the people who put you here realize."

I feel something crack open in my chest, a fissure I've been trying to keep sealed. "Why do you care?"

"Because I collect beautiful things," he says simply. "And I can tell when something is being wasted."

He stands, and for a moment I think he's going to leave—that this was all just a strange, pointless detour, that I'll never see him again. But instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, cream-colored, embossed with a name and a number.

"If you ever want to talk again," he says, holding it out to me, "I'd like that. No strings attached. Just conversation."

I take the card, my fingers brushing his, and I feel the warmth of his skin against mine. "You're not going to—" I gesture vaguely at the bed, at the room, at the whole sordid transaction.

"Not tonight." He smiles, and there's something almost gentle in it. "Tonight I just wanted to meet you. The rest can wait."

He walks to the door, and I watch him go, my hand closed around the card like it's something precious. He pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me.

"Isabella."

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said. You're not a piece. You're a person." He opens the door. "I hope someone in this place remembers that."

The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone in the green room, the smell of sandalwood and citrus still hanging in the air. I look down at the card in my hand—Luca Bianchi, Galleria d'Arte, Milano—and I feel something I haven't felt in weeks.

Hope.

I tuck the card into my silk purse, next to the crumpled twenties from Tony-or-Tommy. It's not money. It's not freedom. But it's a thread, a crack in the wall, a sign that maybe—just maybe—there's a way out of this place after all.

I'm still standing there, my hand pressed to the card through the silk, when the door opens again. Mama Rosa pokes her head in, her gold hoops catching the light.

"Tesoro? He's already gone?"

"He left," I say, and I can hear the strange note in my own voice. "He didn't want anything."

Mama Rosa's eyebrows rise. "He paid for the full hour. He must have wanted something."

I think about the sketch, the way he looked at me, the card now burning a hole in my purse. "Maybe he just wanted to talk."

Mama Rosa studies me for a long moment, her warm brown eyes sharp and knowing. Then she nods, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corner of her lips. "That one's different, amore. I told you. Maybe he's the one who'll take you out of here."

She says it lightly, like it's a joke, like it's the kind of thing you say to a girl to keep her hoping. But I hear the real question underneath it, the one she's too smart to ask out loud: And what will you do when he does?

I don't have an answer. Not yet. But I've got a card with a name on it, and a sketch that shows me who I could be, and a thread of hope that's stronger than anything I've felt since I woke up in this body.

It's not enough. It'll never be enough. But it's a start.

I watch Mama Rosa's face for a long moment, the way the hallway light catches the lines around her eyes. She's still standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and I can feel the weight of what she's not saying pressing against the air between us.

"He's been here three times," I say, keeping my voice level. "You said that. Three times, three different girls." I step toward her, and I see her fingers tighten on the doorframe. "What happened with the others?"

Mama Rosa's smile doesn't waver, but something shifts behind her warm brown eyes. She reaches up and tucks a strand of henna-red hair back into her bun, a gesture I've learned means she's buying time.

"What do you mean, tesoro?"

"I mean, did he talk to them like he talked to me? Did he draw their pictures too?" I keep my voice soft, curious, the voice I've learned to use when I want information without making someone defensive. "Did he give them cards?"

The silence stretches. I can hear the jazz from downstairs, muffled by the thick walls, and somewhere down the hall a door opens and closes. Mama Rosa's hand drops from the frame, and she smooths the front of her flowered housecoat with a practiced gesture.

"He's a gentleman," she says finally. "That's what he is. He treats the girls like people. That's why I let him keep coming back."

"That's not what I asked."

Her eyes narrow, just slightly, and I see the calculation behind them. She's deciding how much to tell me, weighing whether the truth will make me more manageable or less. I've seen that look before, on the Don's face, on Sal's face, on every man who's ever looked at me and seen something they wanted to control.

"The first one was Maria," she says, and her voice drops, losing some of its singsong quality. "Pretty girl, dark hair, big eyes. She was new then, like you. He spent the whole hour talking to her. She came out looking confused, like she didn't know what had happened."

"And?"

"And he left her a nice tip. More than the usual." Mama Rosa's fingers find the hem of her housecoat, plucking at a loose thread. "She thought she'd done something wrong. Thought he was disappointed in her. I had to explain that some men just want company."

I file that away. The way she's talking, the way she's choosing her words with such care—there's something she's not saying. Something she's circling around like a dog eyeing a bone it's not sure it's allowed to chew.

"What about the second one?"

Mama Rosa sighs, a long exhale that seems to come from somewhere deep in her chest. "Claudia. Blonde, like you. A little older, a little more experienced. He asked her about her family, her childhood, her favorite book." She shakes her head, and there's something almost wistful in the gesture. "She came out crying. Said no one had ever asked her those things before."

I feel something twist in my chest, a strange ache I don't want to name. "Did he give her a card too?"

"He gave her something." Mama Rosa's voice is careful now, measured. "I don't know what. She didn't show me."

"But he came back." I'm pressing now, and I can feel the edge in my own voice. "He came back and he asked for someone different. He didn't ask for Maria again, or Claudia. He asked for me."

Mama Rosa's eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see something flicker in them—respect, maybe, or wariness. "That's right."

"Why?"

She's quiet for a long moment. The thread she's been plucking finally comes free, and she wraps it around her finger, once, twice, three times. "Maybe he's looking for something specific. Something he hasn't found yet."

"Something like what?"

"I don't know, tesoro." But the way she says it, I know she's lying. She knows something. She's just not ready to share it with me yet.

I think about the sketch he drew, the way he looked at me like I was a masterpiece instead of a whore. I think about the card in my purse, the weight of it against my hip. And I think about what Mama Rosa just told me—that he's done this before, that I'm not the first girl he's drawn, that I might not be the last.

"He left each one with a drawing," I say, and I watch her face for a reaction. "And a card. You're not the first."

Mama Rosa's hand freezes on the hem of her housecoat. For a long moment, she doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe. Then she looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes I haven't seen before—something sharp and knowing and almost sad.

"You're smarter than you look, amore," she says quietly. "That's going to get you in trouble one day."

She reaches out and pats my cheek, her palm warm against my skin. Then she turns and walks down the hall, her flowered housecoat rustling against the dark wood, her gold hoops catching the light.

I stand in the doorway of the green room, watching her go, and I feel the card burning a hole in my silk purse.

I'm not the first. That's what she's telling me. I'm not the first girl he's drawn, not the first one he's given a card, not the first one he's made feel like a person instead of a product.

But maybe I can be the last.

I close the door to the green room and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the wood. The room still smells like him—sandalwood and citrus, expensive and clean. I pull the card out of my purse and look at it again, tracing the embossed letters with my thumb.

Luca Bianchi. Galleria d'Arte, Milano.

There's a phone number underneath, and I memorize it without meaning to, the numbers etching themselves into my brain like a brand. I could call him. I could find a phone somewhere in this place and call him, and he'd answer, and we'd talk, and maybe—

Maybe what?

I don't know. That's the terrifying thing. I don't know what I want from him, what I'm hoping he'll be. A ticket out of here? A savior? A man who'll buy me and take me somewhere safe, somewhere I can start over?

Or just a man who'll look at me like I'm a person, one more time, before I forget what that feels like.

I tuck the card back into my purse and push off the door. My knees still ache from Tony-or-Tommy, my jaw still sore, and I can feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, the bruise he left when he grabbed me too hard. But I push all of that down, the way I've learned to, and I walk back down the hall toward my room.

The hallway is quiet now, the doors closed, the muffled sounds of other transactions happening behind them. I pass a girl I recognize—a redhead whose name I haven't learned yet—and she gives me a tired nod, her eyes empty. I nod back, and we keep walking, two women in the same gilded cage, pretending we don't see each other's chains.

My room is at the end of the hall, small and neat, with a narrow bed and a vanity and a window that looks out over the alley. I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

The room is quiet. The room is always quiet. That's the thing about this place—the silence presses in on you, thick and heavy, until you learn to fill it with your own thoughts just to survive.

I cross to the vanity and sit down, looking at myself in the mirror. The woman who looks back at me is a stranger, still, even after three weeks. Honey-blond hair, whiskey-brown eyes, full lips painted red. The face of a woman who's been made for men's pleasure, engineered and shaped and perfected until there's nothing left of the man I used to be.

But there's something in the eyes. Something that wasn't put there by the Don's magic or Mama Rosa's training or the hands of every man who's used me since I got here. Something that's still Carter, still fighting, still planning.

I reach into my purse and pull out the card again. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the possibility of it.

I could call him.

I could find a phone, call the number, and hear his voice again. I could tell him I want to talk, no strings attached, just conversation. I could ask him about the other girls, about Maria and Claudia, about what he's looking for.

Or I could just sit here, in this quiet room, with this card in my hand, and wonder what might have been.

I'm still holding it when I hear the knock on my door. Three quick raps, the pattern I've learned to recognize.

Mama Rosa.

I tuck the card back into my purse and cross to the door, opening it to find her standing in the hallway, her face carefully neutral.

"There's someone here to see you," she says, and there's something in her voice I can't read. "A client."

My stomach clenches. "Who?"

"A regular. He asked for you specifically." She pauses, and I see her weighing something. "He's a friend of the Don's."

The words land in my chest like a stone. A friend of the Don's. That could mean anyone—a capo, a soldier, a man with blood on his hands and money in his pocket. But the way Mama Rosa says it, the careful neutrality of her voice, tells me this isn't a good thing.

"What does he want?"

"What they all want, tesoro." She reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers gentle. "You. Just you."

I look past her, down the hallway, toward the stairs that lead to the parlour. I can hear voices, low and muffled, and the clink of glasses. Somewhere down there is a man who's paid for my time, a man who's a friend of the man who made me into this.

I think about the card in my purse. I think about Luca's hazel eyes, the way he looked at me like I was a person. I think about the sketch he drew, the version of me that's still fighting.

And I square my shoulders, and I lift my chin, and I follow Mama Rosa down the hall.

Because that's what I do now. That's what I am. I'm a thing to be used, a vessel for men's pleasure, a whore beneath the chandeliers.

But I'm also still planning. Still watching. Still waiting for the moment when I can slip the leash and run.

And if Luca Bianchi is the man who can help me do that, I'll find a way to make him see me again. I'll find a way to make him want me, not just as a sketch, not just as a conversation, but as something worth buying.

I'll make myself the most valuable thing in this place.

And then I'll make him take me out of it.

The parlour is thick with smoke and the low hum of conversation when I reach the bottom of the stairs. Men in suits, women in silk, the chandeliers casting their golden light over everything. I scan the room, looking for the Don's friend, and I find him in the corner, a heavyset man with a thick neck and a shaved head, his eyes already on me.

He's not Luca. He's not even close.

But he's paid for my time, and I'm here to please, not to think.

I paste a smile on my face and walk toward him, my hips swaying, my heels clicking on the hardwood, and I tell myself this is just another transaction. Just another man who wants something from me.

But underneath the smile, underneath the practiced seduction, I'm still holding onto that card in my purse. Still holding onto the hope that somewhere out there, in a gallery in Milan, there's a man who sees me as a person.

And I'll survive this. I'll survive all of them.

Until he comes back.

His name is Tommy. I learn that much when he takes my hand in his meaty grip and tells me to call him Tommy, not Tony, and I feel the small relief of a correction I didn't have to make. He's a friend of the Don's the way a dog is a friend of the butcher—useful, loyal, and entirely replaceable. His palm is damp against mine, and when he pulls me toward the stairs, I catch the smell of whiskey and the faint sour note of sweat already beading on his collar.

"The green room," he says, and it's not a question. It's a command dressed up in the illusion of choice, the same way every man in this place thinks he's being generous when he's really just taking.

I lead him up the stairs, my heels clicking against the wood, my hips swaying with the practiced rhythm Mama Rosa drilled into me during my first week. I can feel his eyes on my ass, can feel the weight of his gaze like a hand, and I keep my face smooth and pleasant because that's what I am now. That's what I do.

The green room is exactly as I left it—the velvet cushions, the low lamp, the faint scent of sandalwood and citrus that's already fading, replaced by the smell of him. He closes the door behind us and I hear the lock turn, and for a moment I'm back in the alley behind the brothel, the one where Sal told me what would happen if I tried to run.

"You're prettier up close," Tommy says, and I feel his hand on my waist, pulling me toward him. His breath is hot on my neck, and I can feel the thick press of his belly against my hip, the weight of him, the reality of him. "The Don said you were something special. He wasn't wrong."

I smile, and it feels like a mask, like the face I put on when I'm trying to survive. "The Don's been generous to me."

"Generous." He laughs, a wet, phlegmy sound. "That's one way to put it." His hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me wince. "You know what he did to you? What you are?"

I know. I know exactly what I am. I'm a thing he made, a vessel, a whore in silk and heels, a body with a price tag. But I don't say that. I just smile and let him touch me, let him believe he's the first man to ever hold me like this, let him think he's special.

"I know what I am," I say, and my voice comes out steady, even though my stomach is churning. "I'm yours, for the hour."

He likes that. I can see it in the way his eyes darken, the way his grip tightens on my hip. "That's right," he says, pulling me closer. "That's exactly right."

His mouth finds my neck, wet and hungry, and I tilt my head back and let him, my hands finding his shoulders, my body doing what it's been trained to do. He smells like whiskey and sweat and the cheap cologne he probably thinks makes him irresistible, and I breathe through my mouth and count the seconds until it's over.

His hands are rough, grabbing at the silk of my dress, pulling at the straps. I hear something tear and I don't care, because it's just fabric, just another thing that can be replaced. He pushes me back onto the velvet cushions, his weight crushing me, and I feel the familiar numbness settle over me, the part of me that watches from a distance while the rest of me goes through the motions.

And in my head, I'm not here. I'm in a gallery in Milan, standing in front of a painting, and Luca Bianchi is beside me, his hazel eyes warm and curious, asking me what I see.

His mouth is on my throat, wet and insistent, his thick fingers working at the clasp of my bra with the fumbling impatience of a man who's used to taking what he wants without ceremony. The velvet cushions press into my back, and I can feel the heat of him, the bulk of him, the weight of his belly against my hip as he grinds against me. He's already hard—I can feel it, the thick press of him through his trousers—and he's not bothering to hide it, not bothering to pretend this is anything other than what it is.

I let my hands slide up his arms, over the thick muscle, feeling the tension in his shoulders. He's strong, stronger than he looks, and I know better than to fight him. That's not what this is. This is survival. This is the price of staying alive in a world where men like Tommy think they own women like me.

"Tommy," I whisper, my voice low and breathy, the way I've learned to make it. His name in my mouth like honey, like a promise. "Tommy, wait."

He pauses, his mouth still against my skin, his breath hot and ragged. "What?"

"I just want to know something." I keep my voice soft, curious, the voice of a woman who's interested in him, not the voice of a woman who's calculating. "The Don. He's been good to me, you know? Setting me up here, giving me a place. But I never quite understood why he went to all that trouble." I let my fingers trail down his chest, feeling the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Why does he care what happens to me?"

Tommy pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and hooded, a flicker of something—wariness, maybe—crossing his face. "The Don does what he wants," he says, his voice flat. "You don't question it."

"I'm not questioning it," I say, and I let my hand slide lower, resting on his belt. "I'm just curious. He must see something in me. Something valuable." I lean up, my lips brushing his ear. "What is it, Tommy? What does he want with me?"

For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. His body goes still, his eyes hardening, and I can feel the shift in the air between us. But then he laughs, a low, rumbling sound, and his hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone.

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" he says, and there's something almost admiring in his voice. "The Don likes smart ones. Likes to see what they'll do when they're cornered."

Cornered. The word lands in my chest like a stone. That's what I am, isn't it? A cornered animal, waiting for the trap to spring.

"Is that what I am?" I ask, and I keep my voice light, teasing. "Cornered?"

"Aren't you?" His thumb traces down my jaw, over my throat, coming to rest in the hollow at the base of my neck. I can feel his pulse through his fingertips, or maybe it's mine, racing. "You're a beautiful woman in a house full of men who want to fuck you. You think you've got options?"

I don't answer. I can't. Because he's right, and we both know it.

His hand drops to the front of my dress, his fingers finding the tear he made earlier, pulling at the silk until it gives way. The cool air hits my skin, and I feel the familiar numbness settling over me, the part of me that watches from a distance while the rest of me goes through the motions.

"You're going to be good for me, aren't you?" Tommy says, his voice low and rough. "You're going to do what I say, and you're not going to ask any more questions about the Don."

I nod, because that's what I do now. That's what I am.

But underneath the nod, underneath the practiced submission, I'm still watching. Still calculating. Still trying to figure out what the Don wants with me, and how I can use it to my advantage.

His mouth finds my throat again, and I tilt my head back, letting him, my body doing what it's been trained to do. His hands are rough on my skin, grabbing at my breasts, squeezing hard enough to make me wince. I breathe through my mouth and count the seconds until it's over.

But this time, something's different. This time, I'm not just enduring. I'm listening. I'm paying attention to every word he says, every slip, every hint of what the Don might have planned. Because if Tommy knows something, I need to know it too.

And I need to find a way to use it.

"The Don," I say again, my voice soft, my fingers tracing circles on his chest. "He mentioned something about a plan. Something about me." I let the words hang in the air, vague enough to be a guess, specific enough to sound like I know more than I do. "He said I might be useful for something bigger."

Tommy goes still again, his mouth frozen against my skin. For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and I can feel the tension coiling in his body like a spring.

"What did he tell you?" His voice is different now. Harder. Colder.

"Just that I might be useful." I keep my voice innocent, curious. "He didn't say how."

Tommy pulls back, and this time there's no warmth in his eyes, no hint of the man who was just grinding against me. He looks at me like I'm a piece on a chessboard, like he's trying to figure out what move I'm making.

"The Don doesn't tell anyone his plans," he says, his voice flat. "Not even me. And if he did tell you something, you'd be smart to forget it."

He reaches down and grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His grip is hard enough to hurt, and I can feel the bruise forming under his fingers.

"You hear me, Isabella? You don't mention the Don. You don't ask about the Don. You don't even think about the Don. You're here to spread your legs and keep your mouth shut. That's it."

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. "I understand."

"Good." He releases my chin and pushes me back onto the cushions, his weight settling over me again. "Now be a good girl and take your dress off."

I don't argue. I don't hesitate. I just reach behind my back and unzip the torn dress, letting it fall away from my shoulders, baring my breasts to the lamplight. Tommy's eyes darken as he looks at me, and I can see the hunger in them, the same hunger I've seen in every man who's ever looked at me like this.

"Jesus," he breathes. "You really are something."

His hands find my breasts again, but this time he's gentler, almost reverent. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I feel them harden despite myself, my body betraying me the way it always does. I close my eyes and let him touch me, let him believe he's the first man to ever make me feel this way, let him think he's special.

But Tommy's hands are on me, Tommy's breath is hot on my skin, and Tommy is the one who's going to fuck me tonight. Not Luca. Not the man I'm hoping will save me. Tommy, the Don's friend, the man who just told me to never mention the Don again.

I open my eyes and look at him, and I paste a smile on my face, the smile I've learned to wear like armor.

"Come on, Tommy," I say, my voice low and inviting. "Show me what you've got."

He grins, a flash of yellowed teeth, and then his mouth is on mine, wet and hungry, and I let him take what he wants. Because that's what I do now. That's what I am.

A whore beneath the chandeliers.

And if the Don has a plan for me, I need to find out what it is.

Because if I'm going to survive this, I need to know exactly what I'm worth.

Tommy's hands are all over me now, grabbing at my hips, my thighs, pulling at the lace of my underwear. I feel his fingers find the wet heat between my legs, and he lets out a low groan, his mouth leaving mine to trail down my throat, my chest, taking my nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.

I gasp, not from pleasure but from surprise, and he takes it as encouragement, his fingers pressing deeper, finding the spot that makes my body respond even when my mind is somewhere else. I feel the familiar ache building, the heat pooling in my belly, and I hate myself for it. I hate that my body can feel pleasure even when I don't want it. I hate that I've been trained so well that I can't help but respond.

"You like that?" Tommy mutters against my skin, his fingers working between my legs. "You like my fingers inside you?"

I don't answer. I can't. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something I'll regret. Something that will get me killed.

So I just nod, and I moan, and I let him believe he's giving me pleasure, let him believe he's the best I've ever had.

But Luca isn't here. Luca is in Milan, sketching girls in a leather notebook, giving them cards with his name and his gallery address. Luca is the man who might be able to save me, but he's not here, and Tommy is.

Tommy is here, and Tommy is on top of me, and Tommy is pulling his cock out of his trousers, thick and flushed and ready.

"You want this, don't you?" he says his voice rough. "You want me to fuck you."

I look at him, at the sweat beading on his forehead, at the hunger in his eyes, and I know what he wants to hear. So I say it.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me."

He grins, and then he's pushing my legs apart, positioning himself between them, and I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I close my eyes and think of Luca, of his soft hands, of the way he looked at me like I was a person, and I let Tommy push inside me.

The stretch is familiar, the fullness, the way my body accommodates him like it was made for this. Because it was. Because that's what I am now. A vessel. A thing to be used.

Tommy groans as he sinks into me, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters. "So fucking tight."

He starts to move, a rhythm that's rough and demanding, and I let him, my body doing what it's been trained to do. I moan, I gasp, I arch my back, and I let him believe he's giving me pleasure, let him believe he's the best I've ever had.

But Luca isn't here. Luca is in Milan, and I'm here, in this velvet room, with Tommy on top of me and the taste of his sweat on my tongue.

And I'm still planning. Still watching. Still waiting for the moment when I can slip the leash and run.

Tommy's thrusts are getting faster, harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I can feel the pressure building, the familiar tension in his body, and I know he's close. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and I whisper his name in his ear.

"Tommy. Tommy."

He groans, his body shuddering, and then he's coming, his cock pulsing inside me, his weight crushing me against the cushions. I hold him, let him ride it out, let him believe he's given me something, taken something, claimed me the way he thinks he has.

And when he finally pulls out, when he rolls off me and lies on his back, breathing hard, I don't move. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his cum leaking out of me, feeling the familiar numbness settling over me.

"That was good," Tommy says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're good."

I don't answer. I just lie there, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling, and I think about the Don. About what he wants with me. About what Tommy knows.

And I think about Luca. About the card in my purse. About the man who might be able to save me.

Tommy sits up, reaching for his trousers. "I'll be back," he says. "The Don's got some things he wants me to handle, but I'll be back."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes, something I can't read. "You be good, Isabella. You hear me? You be good, and maybe the Don will take care of you."

Take care of me. Like he took care of me by turning me into this. Like he took care of me by sending me here.

I smile, and I nod, and I watch him dress and leave, closing the door behind him.

And when I'm alone, when the silence settles over the room, I reach for my purse and pull out the card. Luca's card. Cream-colored, elegant, with his name and his gallery address in Milan.

I hold it in my hand, feel the weight of it, the promise of it. And I think about the Don. About his plans. About what Tommy said.

About what I'm worth.

I don't know what the Don wants with me. I don't know what Tommy knows. But I know one thing: I'm not going to be just another whore beneath the chandeliers. I'm not going to be a cornered animal waiting for the trap to spring.

I'm going to find a way out. I'm going to make myself the most valuable thing in this place.

And I'm going to make Luca Bianchi take me out of it.

I tuck the card back into my purse and stand up, my legs shaky, my body aching. I find my dress on the floor, torn and ruined, and I let it fall back over my shoulders, not bothering to fix it. I walk to the door, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and I open it, stepping out into the hallway.

The house is quiet now. The music has stopped, the voices faded. Somewhere below, I can hear the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation, but it's distant, muffled, like it's happening in another world.

I walk down the hall, past the other doors, past the rooms where other girls are doing what I just did, and I find the bathroom at the end of the corridor. I lock the door behind me and stand in front of the mirror, looking at the woman staring back at me.

Honey-blond hair, tangled and wild. Whiskey-brown eyes, dark and calculating. Red lipstick, smeared and ruined. The mark of Tommy's mouth on my throat, the bruise forming on my jaw where he grabbed me.

I look like a whore. I look like exactly what I am.

But underneath the surface, underneath the ruined makeup and the torn dress, there's still a fighter. There's still a survivor. There's still the man I used to be, the man who would never let himself be cornered, the man who would fight his way out of anything.

And I'm not going to let the Don, or Tommy, or anyone else forget that.

I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face, washing away the evidence of what just happened. I fix my hair, reapply my lipstick, and square my shoulders.

Then I walk back out into the hallway, and I go downstairs, back into the parlour, back into the world of men and money and power.

And I smile, and I laugh at the right jokes, and I let them look at me like I'm a thing to be used.

Because that's what I am now. That's what I do.

But I'm also still planning. Still watching. Still waiting.

And when the moment comes, I'll be ready.

I'll be ready to slip the leash and run.