Chapter 3 - The Golden Cage
By three in the morning, I was standing in a guest suite on the third floor of the Duca estate.
It was larger than my entire flat in South Boston. A king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a fireplace crackling with birch wood, and a floor-to-ceiling bay window overlooking the snowy pine woods. On the bed lay three fresh outfits—cashmere sweaters, dark jeans, and leather boots—all in my exact size, provided by Roman’s household staff.
I stood in front of the vanity mirror, washing my face with warm water, trying to erase the ghost of the alley from my mind.
Just twelve hours ago, my biggest worry was whether my landlord would give me an extension on my eight-hundred-dollar rent. Now, I was locked inside the fortified compound of Boston’s most feared criminal syndicate, holding a secret that could tear the East Coast underworld apart.
A gentle knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
"Come in," I called out, drying my hands on a towel.
The door opened, and a young woman stepped in. She looked to be in her late twenties, wearing a sharp navy trouser suit with a silver pin on her lapel. She had dark hair tied back in a flawless bun and carried a tablet in her arm.
"Good evening, Miss Vance. I’m Sophia, Mr. Duca’s chief of personal security and logistics," she said, her tone smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of emotion. "Mr. Duca asked me to ensure you have everything you need."
"I need to know what happens now," I said directly. "Am I a prisoner here?"
Sophia offered a faint, almost pitying smile. "A prisoner is someone held against their will to prevent them from leaving. You are a guest being held here to prevent you from being killed. There is a distinction."
"Not much of one," I muttered.
"Your apartment in South Boston was broken into twenty minutes ago," Sophia said calmly, tapping her tablet screen. "Two men kicked down your door, tore your mattress apart, and left a burner phone on your kitchen counter with a direct line to Leo Moretti."
My breath caught in my throat. My tiny apartment... my books, my mother’s old silver necklace, my life... trampled.
"If you had gone home tonight, Clara, you would be dead," Sophia added, her voice softening slightly. "Mr. Duca does not owe many debts in his life. But he considers his son’s survival an absolute debt. You will be safe here. Your bills will be paid, your family—if you have any—will be protected under our perimeter umbrella."
"I don't have family," I said quietly. "My mother passed away three years ago. It’s just me."
Sophia nodded slowly. "Then you have fewer vulnerabilities than most. That is a luxury in this house."
She turned toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. Mr. Duca is holding a meeting in the lower study at four in the morning. He requested your presence."
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"My presence? Why?"
"Because Miles Vance has agreed to talk," Sophia said, her eyes darkening. "And he will only speak in front of the woman who ruined his plan."
