The Fire Beneath Her Cage

The echo of her footsteps lingered as Antonia stormed out of Valentino’s opulent study, her breath ragged, her pulse an unrelenting drumbeat in her ears. The bruising imprint of his fingers remained on her throat, a cruel reminder of her place within these gilded walls. His kiss still burned on her torn lips, metallic with the faint taste of blood.

She did not weep.

She would not grant him that satisfaction—not here, not ever.

The moment the door closed behind her, she pressed her back against the marble wall, her fingers trembling as they grazed her swollen lip. The air was thick with the scent of him—smoke, leather, and lust. She could still feel his heat lingering on her skin, suffocating her.

Her body shuddered, but not from fear. No, this was something far colder. A resolve, glacial and sharp, slicing through every trembling fiber of her being.

She had played the obedient doll long enough.

Antonia’s gaze darted around the long corridor, eyes tracing the towering columns and velvet curtains. She knew this mansion well by now—the guards’ routes, the servants’ schedules, even the blind spots where the surveillance cameras dared not peer.

She was not as helpless as he believed.

Her steps softened, her bare feet whispering across the marble floors as she moved deeper into the shadows of the west wing, where the staff quarters were tucked away from the grandeur of the main halls. She slipped through the servant passageway, heart pounding with every step.

There was one among them who owed her.

She found him outside the kitchens, leaning against the stone archway, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Marco. One of Valentino’s younger guards, careless with his debts and even more careless with his heart.

He straightened at the sight of her, dark eyes widening. “Miss Antonia—”

She silenced him with a single, sharp look, the kind that had been sharpened through weeks of suffering under Valentino’s iron will.

“Speak quietly,” she commanded, her voice hoarse but steady. “I need your help.”

He blinked, glancing around nervously. “Miss, if Valentino finds me—”

“He won’t,” she cut in, stepping closer, her voice lowering to a velvet threat. “Unless you give him a reason to.”

Marco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, visibly torn between fear and fascination. He had always been too easily swayed by pretty things.

She leaned in, letting the moonlight catch the shimmer of tears unshed in her eyes. “All I want is information. About my friend. About Ramona.”

Marco froze. The name seemed to hang between them, a dangerous specter neither dared to speak aloud within these walls.

“I know she was taken,” Antonia pressed, her voice softening, playing the fragile damsel if only to pull him deeper. “I know Valentino knows where she is. And I know you’ve heard things. Tell me what you know.”

Marco’s eyes darted toward the shadows, and he muttered, “You shouldn’t ask about her, Miss Antonia. That’s dangerous business.”

Antonia’s patience thinned.

“Everything about my life became dangerous the moment I walked through this door,” she hissed, her mask slipping to reveal the fury burning beneath. “Now speak.”

For a moment, she thought he might run. But then Marco’s shoulders slumped, and he exhaled a shaky breath.

“There are rumors,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the mansion. “About Sir Killian. They say he’s the one holding her.”

Antonia’s heart stopped.

Killian.

The name carried weight, dread curling in her gut like a serpent coiling tighter.

Marco’s gaze shifted, his voice growing more frantic. “Miss, you don’t understand. If she’s with him… that’s not a prison you walk away from. People go missing around him. Forever.”

Antonia’s fingers dug into the fabric of her gown, grounding herself against the wave of fear threatening to crash over her.

“Where?” she demanded. “Where is she being kept?”

Marco shook his head, panic setting in. “I don’t know that. No one knows. Only the alphas— I mean—” He caught himself, paling.

But Antonia latched onto the slip instantly.

“Alphas?” she echoed, narrowing her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

Marco blanched, visibly regretting his words. “Nothing. Just… mafia titles. You wouldn’t understand.”

She knew he was lying. But pushing him further now would only drive him deeper into fear.

Instead, she drew herself upright, schooling her face into calm. “You’ve done enough, Marco,” she murmured, her voice soft as silk. “You’ll keep this conversation between us, won’t you?”

He nodded feverishly.

She gave him a brittle smile before gliding away, leaving him trembling in her wake.

Back in the solitude of her chamber, Antonia locked the doors and collapsed onto the velvet chaise by the window, her mind spinning.

Killian had Ramona.

Valentino knew.

And worse—there was something more to all of this, something dark and inhuman lingering beneath their world of guns and power.

Her hands tightened into fists. She could not afford to wait for in due time.

If Valentino wouldn’t free her, she would free herself.

Her eyes glimmered as she gazed at the moonlit gardens below. Somewhere, beyond these iron gates, Ramona was suffering.

And Antonia had never been more certain of anything in her life:

She would burn this mansion to the ground before she let Valentino or Killian win.