Chapter 6 - The Gilded Cage
The blue suite on the third floor was larger than my entire apartment building in Brooklyn.
It had high plaster ceilings decorated with painted angels, a king-sized bed covered in dark blue velvet linens, a fireplace carved from white Italian marble, and three French doors that opened onto a private balcony overlooking the cliffside gardens.
The doors were locked from the outside.
For three days, I lived in that room like a ghost in a museum.
A silent maid brought me meals on silver trays—poached salmon, roasted vegetables, fresh fruit that looked like it had been hand-selected from an orchard—and left without speaking a word. The bathroom was stocked with expensive French soaps, silk robes, and plush towels, but every time I looked in the gold-framed mirror, all I saw was the girl with blood under her fingernails hanging over a three-hundred-foot drop.
On the fourth night, the storm returned.
Rain lashed against the heavy glass panes of the balcony doors, the wind howling through the granite crevices of Black Point like a dying animal.
At midnight, the lock on the suite door clicked.
Dante walked in.
He had discarded his suit coat, wearing only a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, dark hair and several old, pale scars along his left wrist. He was no longer using his cane, though he walked with a slight, deliberate limp that he was clearly fighting to suppress.
In his right hand, he carried a crystal decanter filled with dark amber bourbon and two lowball glasses.
"You haven't touched the clothes I had sent up," Dante noted, walking over to the marble fireplace and setting the decanter on the mantel.
I sat on the velvet sofa near the bed, wrapped in the silk robe, my legs pulled tightly against my chest. "I don't want your clothes."
"They are not my clothes," Dante said, pouring two fingers of bourbon into one of the glasses. "They were purchased for you. From Bergdorf's. They match your size."
"I don't care," I spat, staring at the flames dancing behind the iron grate. "I want my jeans. I want my canvas shoes. I want my life back."
Dante picked up the glass, took a slow sip, and leaned his back against the mantelpiece, watching me through the amber liquid.
"Your life back," he repeated softly. "Let's talk about your life, Cara."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small stack of paper, tossing them onto the coffee table in front of me.
I looked down.
They were receipts. Paid-in-full statements from North Shore General Hospital. A certified letter from my landlord confirming that my apartment lease had been terminated without penalty and my security deposit had been refunded in full. A receipt from the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles showing that my student loans had been cleared by a private educational grant.
"What is this?" I whispered, my fingers trembling as I picked up the debt clearance statement.
"You owe no one, Cara," Dante said quietly. "Your accounts are clean. Your record is clear. You have twenty-five thousand dollars sitting in a new checking account at Chase Bank under your name."
I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why?"
"Because I pay my debts," Dante replied, his grey eyes fixing onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "You saved my life. I do not owe money to waitresses."
"Then let me go," I pleaded, standing up from the sofa, the silk robe pooling around my bare feet. "If the debt is paid, let me leave!"
Dante walked slowly across the rug until he was standing directly in front of me.
He reached out, taking the paper from my hands, his thumb brushing against my wrist.
"I can clear your bank accounts, Cara," he whispered, his voice dark, resonant, filling the quiet room like smoke. "I can pay off your landlord. I can erase your debt. But I cannot erase what you saw on Blackwood Mountain."
He stepped closer, his body heat radiating through his thin white shirt.
"Marcone’s men were at your apartment yesterday," Dante said softly. "They broke through the back door at two in the morning. They searched your closet. They checked your computer."
May you like
My breath hitched in my throat. "What?"
"If you walk out those gates tomorrow," Dante continued, his face inches from mine, "you won't make it three miles. You think you want freedom, Cara. But right now, freedom is just a word for where my enemies are waiting to cut your throat."
