No Escape from His Gilded Cage

Eleonora's POV

A dull ache settles deep in my bones as I step into the cathedral's hushed interior. My gaze travels over the vacant pews, and I pause to straighten two hymnals carelessly shoved into their racks. To free my hands, I first place the dish of pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola on a wooden bench. Then I move forward, carefully lifting the withered flower arrangement from its stand beside the pulpit and carrying the drooping blooms toward the small kitchen.

I set the sad bouquet on the counter and immediately reach under the sink for a trash bag. With a sigh, I begin dismantling the arrangement, disposing of the dead flowers before wiping down the surfaces. This is my Tuesday ritual, a small task to spare Father Coppola the trouble-though left to himself, he'd probably let the flowers wilt until Martina brings the new ones. Once the kitchen is tidy, I retrieve the pasta and make my way to his office.

My fingers brush gently over the tender spot on my hip-the legacy of Matteo's kick last night. I refuse to let the memory poison one of my few precious mornings of peace. Instead, I let the sanctuary's deep silence soak into me. This place always brings calm, and today is no exception.

Outside his office door, I give a quick knock before entering. "Morning, Father."

He looks up from his papers, and a warm smile softens his face. "Good morning, Nora."

Our Tuesday meetings follow a familiar pattern: we discuss the upcoming floral arrangements and what I'll bake for the parishioners after Sunday Mass. The Parish covers all the costs, which means I don't have to ask Matteo for a cent. I even receive a small stipend for my efforts, which I set aside for my own personal necessities.

I take the chair across from his desk, setting the pasta dish carefully on one corner. "I hope you like it."

"Thank you. Between you and Martina, I never have to worry about meals," he says, his gratitude evident. He takes the container and moves it aside. "Now, what's on your mind for Sunday?"

"I was thinking cannoli," I say, pulling my shopping list from my bag. "It's been a while."

He waves a dismissive, trusting hand. "You're in charge of the kitchen. Whatever you decide is fine with me. How much do you need?"

I show him the list and the total. As he counts out cash from a small lockbox, I ask, "Should we use roses again for the altar?"

He makes a non-committal, grumbling sound. "Whatever you think is best."

I always run my ideas by him anyway, a gesture of respect. He hands me the money. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

"Have a good week, Father," I murmur, slipping out of the room.

These Tuesday and Sunday mornings are my sanctuary in more ways than one-the only guaranteed hours I have away from Matteo. Truthfully, he has been a living nightmare since the incident at Elysian Reverie. I tiptoe around the house, a ghost in my own home, yet his shouting greets me every evening. The blows are becoming more frequent, more calculated. The violence is escalating, a cold dread that coils in my stomach and steals my sleep.

As I begin the long walk to Martina's flower shop, my mind drifts to the Parish's cash in my handbag. It might cover a train ticket out of here. The mere thought of taking it sends a bolt of guilt through me, and my hand flies to my chest, tracing the sign of the cross. Forgive me, Father, for even thinking it.

The sun is relentless, hammering down on my head and neck. Soon, my cardigan feels like a woolen prison, sweat prickling my skin.

After finally getting to the flower shop, I follow Martina to the workroom at the back, fragrant with the scent of cut stems and damp soil. "Can we do roses for the altar this week?" I ask, striving to sound normal, to ignore the unsettling fact of Alessio Marino's unexplained attention.

"Roses are pricey," she says, snipping stems. "But I can mix in some baby's breath and daisies to stretch them."

"That would be perfect." My eyes wander over the buckets of vibrant blooms. "I made pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola today," I add, our usual unspoken system to avoid duplicate meals.

"Good to know. I'll make him some maccu later this week."

Soup? In this heat? I keep the thought off my face as she's focused on her work.

"What are you baking for Sunday?" she asks.

"Cannoli. It's been a while. Can you make sure we have enough cream?"

"Make extra," she advises. "The crowd's been growing."

"I will," I promise.

Martina's eyes fix on mine. Her brows draw together in concern. "Are you sleeping enough, Nora? You look exhausted."

A humorless laugh escapes me. "That's the second time I've heard that this week. I guess I need to try harder with my makeup."

Self-consciously, I pull my lightweight cardigan tighter around me. Despite the summer heat blazing outside, long sleeves are a necessity-a shield for the bruises on my arms. My summer dresses remain buried in the closet, jeans my only option to hide the marks on my legs.

Martina tilts her head, her face etched with a concern that goes deeper than appearances. "That's not what I meant, and I think you know it. Is everything alright?"

The direct question feels like a trap. I don't want to talk about it. I can't. I rise to my feet, nodding too quickly. "It's fine. I should get going. Need to be home before lunch."

She shakes his head slowly, seeing right through my evasion. She says, her voice low. "Whenever you're ready to talk."

I paste a thin, fragile smile on my face. "I know. Just... not now."

"I won't push you," she relents with a heavy sigh. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

Then Martina plucks a white lily from a bucket and holds it out to me. "Go on, get out of this heat."

Taking the flower, I offer a genuine, if tired, smile. "See you Sunday."

As I walk the couple of miles between the the flower shop and the grocery store, the sun beats down on my head, and soon, I feel uncomfortable from the heat.

Suddenly, a black SUV pulls up beside me, and I give the vehicle a cautious look as I pick up my pace.

When I hear a door open, I glance over my shoulder, and seeing Alessio, I come to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

The growl of an engine breaks my concentration. A black SUV glides to a stop beside me. Instinctively, I quicken my pace, casting a wary glance at the tinted windows.

A door clicks open. I freeze on the spot. Alessio.

Oh, God. Not him. Not again.

He offers no greeting. "Where are you headed?" His tone leaves no room for anything but an answer.

I point a shaky finger down the street. "The grocery store."

"Get in." It's not a suggestion. He gives a slight nod toward the open back door.

Ugh. I exhale, a sound of pure resignation, and walk to the vehicle. Apprehension twists my stomach into a hard, cold knot as I slide onto the leather seat. He climbs in right beside me, his presence overwhelming the space. I immediately shrink toward the far door, putting every possible inch between us.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and a traitorous shiver dances up my spine. Part of me is grateful for the blast of air conditioning, but the greater part screams that there is no worse place to be than trapped in a car with a leader of the Cosa Nostra.

"Too hot for walking," he mutters, almost to himself. He shoots me a sidelong glance. "Why are you dressed for winter?"

I hug my arms around my middle, pressing my body against the door. "It was cooler this morning," I lie, the words tasting bitter. Forgive me, Father.

Without a word from Alessio, Joey pulls the SUV back into traffic, heading toward Martina's. A thick, oppressive silence fills the cabin. I am hyper-aware of every shift of his weight, every breath. I can't stop the fine tremor in my hands. And despite my fear, I can't ignore his harsh, unsettling attractiveness, a fact that sends a confusing and unwelcome flutter through my core.

He makes no attempt at conversation. When Joey finds a parking spot outside the grocery store, a breath of pure relief escapes me.

I force my lips into a semblance of a grateful smile and look at him. "Thank you for the ride."

But he says to Joey,"We're taking her inside."

"What?" My wide eyes are staring at him in disbelief.

As he exits the SUV, he whispers, "It's not open for discussion."

I nearly leaps out of my skin with fear when he puts his hand on my lower back while I'm getting out of the car.

This is beyond strange. It's unnerving.

Between the escalating terror waiting for me at home and the oppressive, confusing presence of Alessio Marino, the tension winding inside me feels like a wire about to snap.