Chapter 5 - The Price of Freedom“That is not an answer.”
Lena’s voice sounded quieter in the darkness than she intended, but Victor heard her. Of course he did. He seemed to hear everything in this house: footsteps in distant corridors, changes in the guards’ schedules, hesitation in the voices of men who worked for him. He certainly heard the accusation hidden beneath four simple words.
Victor remained on his side facing her. Moonlight cut across half his face, leaving the other half in shadow.
“No,” he said after a long moment. “It is not.”
“Then answer me.”
“I do not know.”
That surprised her more than any polished excuse could have.
Victor Moretti always knew. He knew where she was, who she spoke to, what security measures surrounded the villa, which men could be trusted, which ones would betray him, and exactly how much pressure to apply until someone surrendered. Uncertainty did not seem to belong to him.
Yet there it was.
“I knew what I wanted when your father came to me,” Victor continued. “A wife. An alliance of a different kind. Someone without connections to the existing families.”
“So someone easier to control.”
His mouth tightened.
“Someone whose loyalty would not already belong to another house.”
“That sounds nicer.”
“It is also true.”
Lena stared at him.
“And when you saw me?”
Victor’s gaze held hers.
“I thought you were angry.”
“I was.”
“You looked at me as though you wanted to kill me with your bare hands.”
“I considered the wineglass.”
“I know.”
Despite herself, Lena almost smiled.
Almost.
Victor continued.
“I expected fear. Tears. Bargaining. Your father had told me you were young. I assumed you would be easy to intimidate.”
“That did not work out very well for you.”
“No.”
Something resembling amusement passed through his eyes.
“You challenged me before you had been in my house for 10 minutes.”
“You were buying me.”
“I was.”
There was no defensiveness.
That was what made conversations with Victor so difficult. He did not sanitize himself for her. Whenever she accused him of cruelty, control, violence, he rarely denied it. He simply accepted the description and explained why, in his world, those qualities were useful.
“I should hate that about you,” Lena whispered.
“You do.”
“I am starting to hate that you keep admitting everything.”
That earned a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
Then his expression changed.
“I do not regret keeping your father alive.”
“Convenient.”
“I do not regret protecting you.”
“From dangers I only have because you made me your wife.”
“Not entirely. Your father’s debt already placed you in danger.”
Lena hated that he had a point.
Victor shifted onto his back.
“But do I regret the way you came here?” he asked. “Sometimes.”
Her heart gave an unexpected beat.
Victor stared toward the ceiling.
“You should have had the choice to walk through my front door instead of being dragged through it.”
“Then let me walk out.”
Silence.
Lena almost laughed.
“There it is.”
“It is not that simple.”
“It is exactly that simple.”
“No.”
Victor turned his head toward her.
“Alessandro noticed you tonight. That means other people noticed you. Before, you were an American girl nobody knew. Now you are Lena Moretti. That name protects you, but it also makes you valuable.”
“To your enemies.”
“Yes.”
“Then give me my old name back.”
“You think a divorce erases memory?”
He pushed himself upright.
“You think Alessandro would see a document ending our marriage and suddenly lose interest? He knows you mattered enough for me to marry. That fact cannot be undone.”
“Did I matter?”
The question escaped before Lena could stop it.
Victor became very still.
She immediately wished she could pull the words back.
“What I mean is—”
“I know what you mean.”
His gaze remained on her.
“Yes.”
The single word changed the air.
Lena swallowed.
Victor looked away first.
“You matter.”
“Because I am your wife.”
“That is part of it.”
“What is the other part?”
He reached for the lamp but did not turn it on.
“Go to sleep, Lena.”
She stared at him.
“You really hate answering questions.”
“I hate answering questions when the answer creates more problems than the question.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means sleep.”
He turned away from her.
Conversation over.
But Lena lay awake long after Victor’s breathing deepened, thinking about the words.
You matter.
She did not want them to matter to her.
They did anyway.
The next morning, Victor was gone before she woke.
Marco arrived at 9:00 for training and immediately noticed her distraction.
“You are slow today.”
Lena wiped sweat from her forehead.
“I slept badly.”
“That will get you hurt.”
Marco came at her again.
She had improved considerably in a few weeks. Enough that she no longer panicked every time he grabbed her wrist. Enough to twist, step inside his balance, and break the hold exactly as he had taught her.
This time she reacted too slowly.
Marco swept her leg.
Lena hit the mat.
Hard.
“Ow.”
“If I were trying to kill you, you would be dead.”
“You have a motivational speaking career waiting for you.”
Marco offered his hand.
She ignored it and stood by herself.
His scarred eyebrow lifted.
“Again.”
They worked another 40 minutes.
By the time Marco called the session, Lena’s muscles burned pleasantly and her mind had finally stopped circling Victor.
Marco handed her water.
“You handled Conte well.”
Lena looked at him.
“Victor told you?”
“Victor tells me almost everything.”
“Almost?”
Marco smiled slightly.
“Do not ask questions you do not actually want answered.”
Apparently it was a Moretti family motto.
Lena drank.
“Lucia said Alessandro was dangerous.”
“He is.”
“Because of Giuliana?”
Marco’s expression changed.
“That is part of it.”
“There is more?”
“There is always more.”
He started collecting the training pads.
“Marco.”
He stopped.
“Victor says Alessandro would use me against him.”
“He would.”
“Would he hurt me?”
Marco considered the question seriously.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Cold settled in Lena’s stomach.
“How?”
“That is not useful information.”
“It is useful to me.”
Marco exhaled.
“Conte does not always use physical violence first. He studies people. Their weaknesses. Their fears. He prefers leverage.”
“He was trying to scare me against Victor.”
“He was trying to make you curious.”
Lena frowned.
“What is the difference?”
“Fear makes people retreat. Curiosity makes them walk willingly into places they should avoid.”
That sentence stayed with her.
At lunch, Signora Russo informed Lena that Victor would not return until late evening.
For the first time, Lena felt relieved.
She needed space to think.
She took her phone into the gardens. Two guards followed at a respectful distance, close enough to intervene, far enough to pretend she had privacy.
She called her father.
Robert answered on the second ring.
“Lena?”
“Hi, Dad.”
The joy in his voice still created conflicting emotions inside her.
“How are you? Are you okay?”
“I am fine.”
The automatic answer bothered her.
Fine.
Married to a criminal. Living in a guarded villa. Training to defend herself against potential kidnappers.
Fine.
“You sound tired,” Robert said.
“I went to a party last night.”
“A party?”
“A very expensive one filled with people who probably have bodies buried somewhere.”
Silence.
“Lena.”
“What?”
“You should not say things like that on the phone.”
She laughed sharply.
“You are worried about what I say now?”
“I am worried about you.”
“No. You were worried about yourself. That is why I am here.”
The words came faster than she intended.
Robert was silent.
Lena immediately felt both satisfaction and guilt.
“I deserve that,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Dad—”
“No. You do. You deserve to be angry.”
His voice sounded older.
“I have been seeing someone.”
Lena went still.
“A woman?”
“A therapist.”
That was not what she expected.
Robert continued.
“I found an English-speaking counselor here. I started last week.”
“Why?”
Another silence.
“Because I keep waking up at night thinking about what I did to you.”
Lena stared across the gardens.
“I told myself I had no choice,” Robert said. “That if you married Moretti, at least you would be safe and I would live. I told myself you might even have a better life.”
“You sold me.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“And every session, I have to say it out loud. I sold my daughter to save myself.”
Lena hated hearing the pain.
Part of her wanted him to suffer.
Another part remembered baseball games, pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, late-night drives when she could not sleep after her mother died.
People were terrible that way.
They could love you and destroy you.
Sometimes in the same lifetime.
“Why did you really borrow the money?” Lena asked.
“I told you.”
“No. You told me it was an investment.”
“It was.”
“But why 300,000 euros from Victor Moretti? You could barely tolerate putting $20 on a football game. You did not suddenly become a gambler.”
Robert said nothing.
Lena’s instincts sharpened.
“Dad?”
“I made a mistake.”
“That is not an answer.”
Like Victor.
Everyone around her spoke in half-truths.
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad.”
“Lena, leave it alone.”
Cold prickled along her arms.
“No.”
“Please.”
“You dragged me across an ocean and handed me to the mafia. You lost the right to tell me to leave anything alone.”
Robert’s breathing changed.
Then she heard it.
A sound on his end.
A knock.
Not at Lena’s villa.
At Robert’s apartment.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Dad.”
Another knock.
Three measured strikes.
Robert whispered something.
“What?”
“I said I have to go.”
“Do not open that door.”
“Lena—”
“Dad, listen to me.”
The training, Victor’s warnings, Marco’s lessons all collided at once.
“If you are not expecting anyone, do not open it. Call Victor’s people.”
“I do not want—”
The line went dead.
Lena stared at the screen.
Her blood turned cold.
She called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
She turned toward the nearest guard.
“Call Victor.”
The man blinked.
“Signora?”
“My father may be in danger. Call my husband now.”
The guard’s entire posture changed.
He reached for his radio.
Within 2 minutes, Marco appeared from the villa at a run.
“What happened?”
Lena explained.
Marco was already making calls.
Italian flew too quickly for her to follow.
“Marco.”
He held up a hand.
More calls.
Then he looked at her.
“Your father has security nearby.”
“Nearby?”
“Victor has had men watching him since he moved.”
Lena should have been angry about the surveillance.
She had never been more grateful.
“They are entering the building.”
“Who was knocking?”
“We do not know.”
“What if Alessandro—”
“Do not jump ahead.”
His phone rang.
Marco answered.
Lena watched his face.
Something hardened.
“What?”
He ended the call.
“Your father is alive.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
“And?”
“Two men were outside his apartment.”
“Who?”
“They ran when our people arrived.”
“Our?”
The word came naturally.
She hated that.
“Did they catch them?”
“One.”
“What did he want?”
“We are finding out.”
Marco was already walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To Victor.”
“I am coming.”
“No.”
Lena followed.
“Marco.”
“No.”
“He is my father.”
“That does not change the security situation.”
“It changes mine.”
Marco stopped.
Lena stood directly in front of him.
“My whole life everyone keeps making decisions because they think they know what is best for me. My father. Victor. You. I am done standing in a bedroom waiting for someone to tell me whether my own father is alive.”
Marco studied her.
Then something in his expression softened.
“You sound like Lucia.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“It was not intended as one.”
“Still taking it.”
He exhaled.
“Fine. Stay beside me.”
They drove into Rome in an armored SUV with two vehicles surrounding them.
Lena had not been outside the villa since the party.
Rome passed beyond tinted windows, full of normal people doing normal things.
Students carrying backpacks.
Couples drinking coffee.
Tourists taking photographs.
For one painful second, Lena remembered who she had been a month ago.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
His expression changed.
“Victor is meeting us.”
“Where?”
“A warehouse.”
Lena looked at him.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It should.”
Forty minutes later, they entered an industrial district near the edge of the city.
Victor stood outside a low concrete building.
His face when he saw Lena was terrifying.
“What is she doing here?”
Marco answered in Italian.
Victor’s eyes moved to Lena.
“I told him I was coming.”
“And Marco somehow forgot how orders work.”
“Do not punish him for listening to me.”
“I will punish whoever I choose.”
“Victor.”
Something in her voice stopped him.
“My father.”
His anger cooled.
“Alive.”
“I know. Who came for him?”
“We do not know yet.”
He reached for her.
Lena expected him to guide her back to the vehicle.
Instead his hand touched her face, brief and unexpectedly gentle.
“You were afraid.”
“Obviously.”
Something shifted in Victor’s eyes.
Then he stepped back.
“You stay with Marco.”
“Victor—”
“That is not negotiable.”
For once, Lena did not argue.
Victor entered the warehouse.
The door closed behind him.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then 30.
Lena paced.
“What is happening?”
Marco leaned against the SUV.
“You do not want to know.”
“I am getting very tired of people telling me that.”
“Some ignorance is protection.”
“Victor says knowledge is power.”
“Victor says many things.”
After almost an hour, the warehouse door opened.
Victor emerged.
There was blood on his cuff.
Lena stared at it.
Not his.
She knew immediately.
Victor walked toward them.
“Alessandro?”
she asked.
“No.”
“Who?”
Victor looked at Marco.
“Give us a moment.”
Marco moved away.
Victor’s expression was grim.
“The man belongs to someone named Salvatore Bianchi.”
Lena searched her memory.
“I have never heard that name.”
“You were not supposed to.”
“What does he want?”
“Information.”
“About you?”
Victor’s eyes remained on hers.
“No.”
A terrible certainty formed.
“About my father.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Victor said nothing.
Lena felt the world tilt.
“Victor.”
“There was no investment scheme.”
Her breath stopped.
“What?”
“Your father lied to you.”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“The 300,000 euros were not borrowed to invest.”
“What were they for?”
Victor looked toward the warehouse.
Then back at her.
“He paid someone to disappear.”
Lena stared at him.
“Who?”
May you like
Victor’s answer came quietly.
“Your mother.”
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