The Empire of Sin

ure. A branding. In two syllables, he had stripped me of my life, my history, me entirely, and draped me in t

step back away from him, away from the portrait that mocked me

th his expression unchanged. No anger; no irritation. He looked at me with the detached patience of a doctor observing a hysterical patient, waiting for the fit to pass. That

e and gave a slight nod to the shadow at the far wall. This drew detached from the wall-the other one of his stone-faced guards. "This man-" Angelo- "will show yo

before. "This way," he grunted. His voice was gravel. Every muscle in my body screamed to stay put, to fight, but the look in the guard's eyes told me it was useless. Dante Moretti had given an order.

door at the very end. Angelo opened it and stood aside. My room. My cage. I stepped inside, and h

g-sized bed with a cloud of white pillows and a dark grey duvet. A walk-in closet stood open, revealing rows of new clothes-dresses, cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, all in muted, elegant colours. Noth

k black dresser. I walked toward it as if in a trance, my bare feet cold against the marble

a ghost staring back at me, wearing my own terrified expression. I raised a trembling hand to my face and traced my cheekbone with my fingertips. Was this my face? Or could I just

o this monstrous obsession. He hadn't sold me for a loan to a gangster to clear a gambling slate. He sold me, willingly, into a madman's delusion; int

to shed. With frantic, clumsy fingers, I fumbled with the zipper at the back, tearing at the silk. I wriggled out of it, shoving it away from me like it was contaminated. I was left shivering in

e heavy gray duvet off, and wrapped it around my body. Huddled on the floor, swathed in a plain blanket, I stared at my reflection in the brooding glass of the window. A smal