Chapter 5

• Sandro, however, is different. He recoils from her as if she were a contagious ailment. Striding forward with purpose, he's upon her before she can catch her breath. "Know that the only reason I'm not calling the police to drag you back is because of Jayson. You haven't the faintest idea who I am or where we're headed. If you did, you'd flee as if your life depended on it—because it does."
• Anastasia searches his eyes for the danger he claims she's in, but he appears merely to be a brooding man in his early thirties with anger issues. She's faced worse and can handle this. "Hire me as your helper. I have no money, no family to return to. No credentials. No identity that I can remember. Leave me here, and Jayson will find me. He could kill me, and no one would notice my absence. He possesses me as he does every piece of furniture in his home, and I'm exhausted from living this way."
• Sandro is silent for a moment. "You're willing to transfer ownership from one man to another? One you know absolutely nothing about?"
• Anastasia lifts her chin defiantly. "I know your name, and that's enough."
• Sandro shakes his head in disbelief. "You clearly lack any regard for your life." He seems to grow larger, standing closer until she can see the flecks in his eyes, the way the sunlight plays through his hair, casting shadows over the chiseled features of his face. "You have no idea what you're stepping into, Anastasia."
• Hearing him use her name for the first time feels liberating. It stirs memories of when she was simply Anastasia—before everything changed. Panic rises, and she feels imaginary walls closing in around her. Years may have passed, but the fear remains.
• The nightmares persist.
• The terror of knowing he'll hunt her, and if not, her stepmother will. She'll drag her back and slowly drain her spirit until nothing is left. Then, she'll let the wolves descend.
• With a sense of despair, she utters, "It can't be worse than what I've already endured. So please, take me with you."
• They say it's better to deal with the devil you know than risk an unknown angel. For Anastasia, that choice is never true.
• Her heart pounds as she anticipates a refusal, but all Sandro does is close his eyes and rub his temple in resignation, muttering, "Damn it."
• The next few minutes are filled with tension and urgency. Sandro makes frantic phone calls, his voice laced with anger—there seems to be a deep-seated dislike for Anastasia.
• It's surreal how quickly she finds herself on a private jet, surrounded by a dozen suited bodyguards who appeared the moment they reached the aircraft. Before she realizes it, they are en route to Italy.
• Anastasia's defiance during the initial months incurs her stepmother's wrath. The punishments are not physically scarring; after all, her appearance must remain flawless for the men.
• Her body is to be a perfect, unblemished canvas for them. Instead, her stepmother's cruelty leaves deep, indelible marks on her soul, engulfing her in a darkness that shatters her spirit.
• "Do not utter a word, not even if addressed."
• These are the first words Sandro has directed at her since muttering "Damn it." It is the first time he acknowledges her presence in over ten hours.
• While he has agreed to help her, conversation does not seem to be part of the arrangement. She regrets not bringing a book or something for the flight. Too tense to sleep, she had asked the cabin hostess for assistance with the display, only to be blatantly ignored. Instead, the hostess strolls over to Sandro, whispering something seductive in Italian, accompanied by a sultry smile.
• Her only solace comes from the fact that Sandro does not return the smile; he is not just brusque with her.
• The mansion they approach is reminiscent of a medieval fairytale, teeming with suited bodyguards. Anastasia spins in awe, absorbing the grandeur that exudes old money and ancestral wealth.
• The sleek architectural lines, towering spires, and a sweeping driveway bordered by manicured gardens contribute to the opulence. Atop the stone steps stands an imposing entrance, flanked by two gargoyle statues.
• As Sandro leads the procession, his tall figure commands respect, eclipsing most of his security detail. Anastasia struggles to keep pace, urged forward by a large man gently nudging her with the barrel of his rifle.
• Sandro moves with an elegance that suggests ownership, as everyone around him scrambles to clear a path, their fear echoing his air of authority and dominance.
• Anastasia has long held the belief that the more powerful a man is, the more blood stains his hands. She is left questioning where Sandro fits within this worldview.
• Just a day prior, he had been her neighbor, reluctantly stepping in to rescue her. Now, he strides through his territory like an Italian prince, his keen eyes scanning for his next move. The very air appears to yield to his presence.
• Her gaze is drawn to a tattoo at the nape of his neck—it suits him perfectly, much like the indifferent expression on his face, radiating an undeniable power beneath the surface.
• How she had failed to notice this about him remains a mystery. It feels as though she has not merely entered a lion's den, but a dragon's lair.
• They ascend a flight of steps, and Anastasia's thighs burn from the exertion as she is forced to take three at a time to keep pace with the strides of the guards.
• Peering through their bodies, she notices a large gathering of guests at the entrance—about twenty people—each dressed as if attending a lavish yet respectable event.
• Her gaze falls to her unmanicured toes, embarrassed by the awful brown flip-flops that Sandro had hastily acquired for her at the last moment. She feels a flicker of gratitude; at least he had thought to cover her feet.
• Suddenly, the group comes to a halt and falls into a formation that leaves her and Sandro standing at the center. He moves away from her, striding toward a woman approaching from the entrance, clad in a black blouse and a floor-length skirt.
• Anastasia's mind races, torn between the decision to follow him or remain behind. Ultimately, she chooses to follow, feeling an invisible tether binding her to him. She may not know him well, but she recognizes the instinct to stick close if it means safety.
• As the woman draws nearer, her features come into sharper focus. She appears to be in her sixties, with a full head of black and gray hair. Her thin, red lips are set in a stern frown, and her black eyes pierce through with a chilling intensity.
• The pearls around her neck shift with every confident step she takes, and Anastasia holds her breath as the woman stops in front of Sandro, whose shoulders seem to tense.
• For obvious reasons, Anastasia keeps her distance, standing five feet behind. The two stare at each other for what feels like an eternity before the
• woman breaks into a smile, reaching up to grasp Sandro's cheeks.