What is Done is Done
Chapter 17
What is Done is Done
Isabella
The silence stretches, tightening like a noose around my neck. I sit rigid, every muscle tense, waiting for him to speak.
Then, he does.
“How much do you think your stepfather would pay for a pretty girl like you?”
The words slice through the air like a knife, sharp and cruel, and my stomach flips. The room tilts for a moment, and my breath catches in my throat. My body stiffens, but I don’t move. I can’t. How does he know about him? A cold sweat breaks out across my skin as the weight of his question settles in, heavy and full of menace.
I force myself to take a breath, but it comes out ragged. My chest tightens, and I fight the instinct to bolt, to run as far from this room as possible. But the door is locked, the windows sealed. There’s nowhere to go. I’m trapped, just like always.
“Wh-what?” The word escapes before I can stop it, weak and broken.
That’s when he moves. Slow, deliberate, like a predator taking its time, savoring the moment. He reaches into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a black file. He tosses it onto the table in front of me, and the thud feels like a death sentence.
I don’t want to look.
“Open it,” he says softly, his voice a cold command.
With trembling hands, I reach for the file, the paper feeling too heavy in my grasp. I open it, my breath hitching when I see my name in bold, capital letters. Every detail of my life spills out across the pages—my birthdate, my addresses, my friends, my work, even my favorite food. My stomach churns as I flip through, the full extent of his knowledge sinking in like poison. He knows everything . I am stuck in his web, a fly already caught, unable to escape.
I stare at the pages, but I can’t read anymore. The room is closing in on me. I feel small, like a child, like a prisoner waiting for judgment. I want to scream, but the words are lodged in my throat.
Suddenly, his fist slams onto the table, the impact rattling everything around us. The file slips from my hands. “I asked you a question,” he growls, his voice sharp, dangerous. “How much is he going to pay for you?”
I flinch at the sound, my body shrinking into the chair. The pounding of my heart drowns out everything else. I don’t meet his eyes; I can’t. If I look at him, I’ll break.
“He’s not going to pay you anything,” I whisper, barely audible.
For a moment, there’s silence. Thick, suffocating silence. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips, but it’s not amused. It’s dark, almost mocking.
“Doesn’t care, hm?” His voice drops even lower, so low it’s almost a growl. A shiver races down my spine. “That makes things more interesting, doesn’t it? A girl with no one who cares… no one who’ll miss her.”
The file is still splayed open in front of me, my life laid bare in front of him, but he’s already bored with it. His eyes flicker with something darker now, a sick amusement curling at the edge of his mouth.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but full of menace. “So, he’s not going to pay. No surprise, really.”
He tilts his head as if he’s considering something. A glint of something terrible passes through his eyes, and my stomach knots even tighter. My body screams at me to run, but I can’t move. Not with him watching me like this.
“What to do, what to do…” His voice is almost sing-song now, as if he’s toying with the idea of what comes next. “If I can’t make a profit off your family, well… there are other ways to make you useful, aren’t there?”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, and his smile twists into something vile. “Maybe I should keep you for myself.” The words roll off his tongue slowly, like he’s savoring the idea. “A girl like you could be… entertaining. And if not to me, then there’s a whole world of people who would pay very well for something as fragile and untouched as you.”
I freeze, ice flooding my veins. The air around me grows impossibly thick, suffocating. His words settle in like a poison, burning with the full weight of their meaning. I want to scream, to claw my way out of this nightmare, but my body is locked in place. My breath quickens, my chest tightens, but I stay silent.
He watches me with a cruel glint in his eyes, enjoying the fear radiating from me. “Maybe I could sell you after all,” he muses. “Not to your stepfather, of course, but to someone else. There’s always a market for a pretty, desperate girl who’s got no one left to care about her.”
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms so hard I feel the skin break, but the pain is nothing compared to the terror twisting inside me.
He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe,” he continues, his voice low and casual, as if we were discussing the weather, “I should just break you here and now. Piece by piece. I’d find out what makes you scream…and then, maybe, I’ll find someone who enjoys hearing it as much as I would.”
The room tilts again, the walls closing in. My entire body shakes, but I force myself to stay still. I won’t give him the satisfaction of breaking me. Not yet. Not while I still have something left.
As the oppressive weight of the room settles over me, an unbearable mixture of dread and desperation surges through my veins. I can’t let him see how much he’s affected me. I need to fight back, if only to preserve some shred of my own dignity.
I lift my chin defiantly, despite the cold sweat pooling at the base of my neck. My voice, though trembling, carries an edge of reckless courage. “You think you’re so powerful, don’t you?” I spit out the words with a scornful sneer, my voice quivering yet defiant. “You’re just another sadistic coward hiding behind a desk and a gun. How many people have you broken to feel like a big man?”
His eyes narrow dangerously, a flash of rage igniting in their depths. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I can almost see his anger pulsing through him, a dark storm swirling around the room. His gaze locks onto me, and I can feel the heat of his fury radiating toward me.
“Coward, am I?” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. He strides toward me, the sharp click of his shoes on the floor punctuating each step. “You dare to challenge me? To mock me? Do you think you’re special? Just another worthless girl who thinks she can talk her way out of her fate?”
I stare back at him, my chest heaving with a mix of fear and defiance. “And you’re just another monster hiding behind your power. Maybe if you actually had some courage, you’d face the people you hurt instead of taking it out on someone like me.”
His face contorts with rage, his hands clenched into fists. “You think you’re so brave?” His voice is a low, dangerous growl. “You think you’re in control just because you throw some empty words at me? I could snap you like a twig, and you’d be forgotten before you hit the ground.”
His anger seems to build, a dark energy enveloping him. He moves around the desk with swift, angry strides, his eyes gleaming with a twisted, almost sadistic amusement. “Look at you. You think you’re untouchable, that your little act of bravery means anything here? You’re nothing but a scared little girl who’s about to learn the true meaning of fear .”
With a sudden, violent motion, he slams his fist onto the desk, sending papers and objects scattering. The force of the impact makes me flinch, my eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. He leans in close, his face mere inches from mine, his breath hot and acrid against my skin. “Do you think I’m playing games with you?” he hisses. “Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke?”
I try to steady my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. “If you’re so desperate to prove how cruel you are, then go ahead. But I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not without a fight.” I’m truly terrified, staring into the depths of hell.
His expression darkens, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “A fight? Is that what you want? Fine. I’ll give you a fight.”
He steps back, his anger bubbling over into a twisted amusement.
His eyes are now cold, gleaming with a dark satisfaction as he watches my reaction. “So, go on,” he taunts, his voice sharp with sadistic pleasure. “Keep talking. Keep defying me.”
The flood of anger that has been simmering within me erupts with an almost violent intensity. My cheeks burn with a hot, livid flush, each muscle thrumming with rage. I seize the monitor from the desk. The device feels like a weight of frustration in my hands, and with a swift, unceremonious shove, I send it crashing to the ground. The loud bang reverberates through the room and a shard of glass scatter like brittle stars across the floor. My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, a storm raging inside me.
As my eyes dart around the room, they land on a second monitor - still perched on the desk. With a primal scream, I swipe it off with a brutal swipe of my arm. The device meets the floor with a shattering impact. I grab my own file and tear it apart with savage intensity. The paper rips and shreds under my hands. “You sick motherfucker!” I yell, my voice hoarse with rage. “Who the fuck are you?” My words come out in a torrent, a raw outpouring of every ounce of anger I have felt since I have been done wrong by every single person.
As I finish the sentence, and without warning, I feel a sudden, jolting shift. Before I can react, a rough, strong grip encircles me. An involuntary scream rips from my lips as I am lifted off the floor.
Diable
I have reached the end of my tether. The incessant intrusion of her presence has shattered any remnants of patience I might have had. My mind is clouded with a single, relentless focus: to rid myself of this inconvenience I have made.
I can barely see through the enveloping blackness of my thoughts, a darkness that mirrors the oppressive gloom of the basement I’m headed towards. The weight of her, though physically light, feels burdensome. I grip her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body pressing against my shoulder, juxtaposed against the cold determination driving me forward. My strides are long and filled with purpose, each one driven by a need to escape what she is stirring within me.
As I approach the steel door, I hesitate, just for a moment. It doesn’t last, I open the door with force. The floor is a harsh expanse of cracked, gray concrete, stained with the remnants of countless other disturbances—footprints, spills, and smudges that tell stories of their own. The walls are similarly unyielding, their concrete surfaces pocked and chipped, casting deep shadows that seem to swallow the light. These walls, though solid, seem to absorb every sound, creating an almost suffocating silence that presses in from all sides.
The lighting in the basement is sparse, with flickering fluorescent bulbs mounted high on the ceiling. Their dim, uneven light casts erratic shadows that dance across the floor and walls, creating an unsettling, almost hypnotic effect. The bulbs buzz faintly, their flickering casting a jittery, disorienting aura over the entire space.
I only come here when there’s a mess that needs to be cleaned up, and its sterile environment is meticulously designed to facilitate that process. The basement’s functionality is evident in every detail, designed to make the cleanup of evidence as seamless and thorough as possible. The perfect crime scene.
The sound of her screams fills the air, raw and desperate. It cuts through me like a knife, but I don’t flinch. There’s no room for mercy here. Not with her. Not now.
I drop her onto the cold tiles, the sound of her body hitting them sharp in the silence. The tiles are slick with history, drenched in the memories of those who’ve been here before her. It’s not my first time in this place. I don’t think it’s hers, either. Not the way she’s shaking. Strange.
I don’t have time for her fear to settle, not when I’m in a hurry. My hands are quick, securing her wrists together with cold metal cuffs before she can scramble away. She doesn’t know yet, but she’s already caught.
She struggles. I can hear the tremor in her breath, the frantic sound of her feet scraping against the floor as I lift her into the air. She’s dangling now, helpless, her toes barely brushing the tiles, and it’s exactly what I want. Her body is a tangled mess of fear and defiance, but I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.
I step back into the shadows, watching her panic, letting her feel the weight of her situation. She won’t escape. Not from me.
Her eyes scan the room like she’s looking for a way out, but there’s nothing for her here. Just weapons, tools, and reminders of what happens when you think you can run. The cuffs bite into her skin, and I feel a flicker of something—guilt? No. That’s not for me.
She’s still struggling, trying to balance herself on her toes, her breath sharp, her body shaking with the realization of her helplessness. But I don’t care. I can’t care. It’s the only way I can make her understand.
I prepare the gun with meticulous precision, each movement deliberate and controlled. The holster, heavy and cold, rests on the workbench as I methodically detach the gun from it. The metal feels solid in my hands, its weight a stark reminder of the gravity of what’s to come.
I reach for the silencer, an unassuming piece of metal that promises to turn the weapon into a tool of quiet efficiency. With practiced ease, I attach it to the barrel, the click of it fitting into place echoing in the otherwise still room. The silencer’s purpose is clear: to ensure that the act remains unnoticed, a spectral removal of a problem without drawing attention. The silence of its installation mirrors the dispassionate resolve I have adopted—no need for spectacle, no need for noise.
My emotions are shut off like a switch, leaving me in a state of clinical detachment. The world outside fades into a backdrop of inky blackness, an indistinct void that matches the emptiness of my focus. This is not about personal satisfaction or revenge; it’s simply a job that needs to be done. Unlike many of my counterparts who revel in the messiness of their work, I prefer to handle such matters with precision and professionalism, leaving the dirt to others while I maintain my clean, calculated facade.
I slide the gloves onto my hands with practiced ease. The gloves are thin yet durable, designed to ensure that no trace of my identity—no fingerprints, no fibers—will be left behind. They fit snugly, each movement rendered with meticulous care to avoid any slip or misstep. The gloves are a final barrier between me and the scene, a crucial element in maintaining the controlled environment I demand.
The whimpering sounds of a pleading girl reach my ears as I walk behind her. The noise is almost incongruous against the cold efficiency of the room. Her voice trembles with desperation, a stark contrast to the unfeeling calm with which I proceed. Each whimper, each plea, is a reminder of the gravity of the situation but does little to alter my resolve. I move closer, my footsteps are measured and deliberate, each sound absorbed by the sterile surroundings.
As I approach, the dim light from the basement’s harsh bulbs casts long shadows that dance across the walls, amplifying the sense of dread that hangs thick in the air. The stark contrast between the clean, controlled environment and the raw, human emotion of the girl underscores the finality of what’s to come.
Isabella
I have never known anything more quietly loud than anxiety. The hairs on my neck freeze as I can feel his presence behind me. He is toying with me, circling me like I am a prey. My arms start to slowly feel numb as they hang into the air. After anger and pain comes acceptance. A heavy feeling enters my heart as I hear him take the safety off. The sound lingers in the hollow room. And sometimes, the sadness I feel gets so deep in my heart, that I can’t feel anything else anymore. I have not lived yet. I have not done so many things I wanted to do, things I dreamt of. I have never experienced love, not for anyone else but neither for myself. I have not seen the northern lights. I have not adopted a dog or bought a house of my own. I did not get a chance to make things right with my mother and I did not get a chance to become a mother. I hope my last breath is a sigh of relief.
The oppressive silence of the basement drives me insane. As he approaches me, the sound of the silencer being readied sends a chill through my bones. “I hope you can shoot straight,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips as a fragile attempt for mercy—his mercy. I try to sound somewhat brave, but fail miserably when my voice comes out shaky, “A painless death would be a kindness.” I can feel him mock me while I stare at the floor. Asking for kindness in a place like this, designed for anything but kindness.
The way he watches me makes my skin crawl. “You should be grateful,” he says, and I can picture his harsh face. “I could have used a knife, after all. Much messier, much more personal.”
His words somehow twist like a knife at my heart, he is taunting me, making me suffer. He leans in closer, his presence looming over me. And in that moment the only thing that comes to mind is one last pathetic move for some sort of empathy, “I’m sorry.”
His breath is warm against my skin, “Apologies? It seems a bit late for that now, don’t you think, Isabella?” I slowly move my gaze up, looking at him. My lips are trembling from the unbearable cold and his harsh gaze. He arches an eyebrow, a sadistic smile curving his lips. His expression is cold, almost gleeful. But somewhere in his gaze he is reliving something, a moment, his expression turns into a thinking one. “You say that a lot.”
I do, I do say that a lot. Everything always feels like my fault.
It might be me losing my sense of surroundings, but his tone isn’t as smooth as it was before. It wavers slightly. His warmth disappears as he takes a step back, his hands now grip the gun with a tightness that betrays his uncertainty. He looks at me, I look up at him and our eyes meet. Suddenly I see it—the mask of his sadistic persona slips slightly. Yet, he hasn’t lowered the gun.
The realization of my impending fate makes the tears come freely. A soft sob escapes my lips, and I feel hot tears spilling down my cheeks, mingling with the cold of the basement. I struggle against the chains, my voice breaking as I now beg for a reprieve. “Please, I’m so sorry,” I say, the words a desperate plea. “I won’t tell a single soul. I don’t even know you. Please, spare me.” The last words are a whisper, not even knowing if he heard them.
My dignity is on the floor, I am begging for my life.
“Please! I know nothing about you, I swear. I will never say anything to anyone. I will never speak of it! I-” My words are choked by sobs and desperation. I search his eyes for any glint of empathy— humanity .
Diable
Load, aim, and fire. A simple action, an action I have carried out countless times. Alexei will not bother me with this issue, and I can move back to Moscow, it’s an easy decision. Her desperate pleas cut through the silence of the basement. And for a moment I am disorientated by her deep aching sadness. It’s a feeling I have never felt before, or at least not in a long time. Her tears spill freely, raw and unfiltered.
A young girl - begging for her life. The sobs that escape her lips are too loud to ignore. Slowly her pleas merge into a single, frantic cry. Her eyes search mine with a plea so earnest it momentarily unsettles me. I feel a flicker of something unfamiliar - a sense of hesitation. I can almost feel the warmth of her breath mixing with the cold, a visceral reminder of the life I am about to extinguish. The gun in my hand feels heavier now. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I lower the gun. The motion is deliberate, as if each fraction of movement is an act of will against the hard, unyielding resolve I am. As I lower the weapon, I watch her. There it is again, hope . The same fucking look in her beautiful eyes. Black slowly fades back to color. She squints her eyes, her lip trembles. And suddenly the monster in me falls silent, for the second time.
She doesn’t know anything about me yet, apart from my face. I can’t keep her, not in secret, not in the eye. My guilt bleeds out until it’s floundering in its blood on the ground. I should have never taken her. I gather a bag, money, phone, and clothes. Tucking the gun back in its holster, I keep my gloves on. Turning towards her, grabbing her chin harshly into my fingers. Her eyes shoot open.
Isabella
My neck hurts from being forced to look up and meet eyes. I sob as his harsh grip tightens. His dark eyes caress my face once more. “You don’t know me, you have never seen me. You escaped, and the entire time you were blindfolded. You don’t know what I look like, you don’t know what happened. You remember nothing. Is that clear?” I stare at him in shock. Is he letting me go? The thought is almost too surreal to grasp.
I nod immediately, tears falling from my eyes, “Yes.”
His eyes narrow, and a cold, sinister smile spreads across his face. “If I find out you’ve so much as whispered a word of this encounter to anyone,” he says, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “I will find you. I will hunt you down and make you suffer in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. You think this is a nightmare? I haven’t even begun to show you what true terror is. I’ll make sure you live through the most excruciating agony, every waking moment a reminder of the fear you thought you escaped.”
He leans in closer, his breath hot and acrid against my face. “Your pretty little life is nothing compared to the darkness I can unleash. Remember, your silence isn’t just a request—it’s your only chance at survival. Break it, and I promise you’ll wish you had stayed locked in that room forever.”
I believe him. Every word.
He reaches above me, and the cold, harsh click of the cuffs being released sends a shiver of pain through my wrists. I groan, my breath coming in ragged gasps, lodged so high in my throat that it feels like I might suffocate. He tosses my shoes, the ones I wore for my night shift, onto the floor beside me. I fumble to put them on as I sit there, each movement a struggle against the numbing pain and fear.
Without a word, he gathers a coat and drapes it over my trembling shoulders. The weight of the fabric is both a comfort and a reminder of the situation I’m in. A backpack follows, and he slings it onto my back with a rough efficiency that speaks of his detached cruelty. With a sudden, almost mechanical motion, he lifts me off the ground and zips up my jacket, his fingers brushing against my skin with a chilling finality.
Everything is happening in a blur. My legs, weak and unsteady, struggle to keep pace with his long strides as he drags me up the stairs by my arm. The urgency in his movements is palpable, as if a split second’s delay might cause him to change his mind. We reach the top of the staircase and continue through a dimly lit hallway, my heart pounding in sync with my stumbling steps.
We stop in front of a heavy black wooden door. He unlocks it with a code, the metallic clink of the lock echoing in the silence. As the door creaks open, a gust of cold wind hits me, stinging my face with the bite of fresh, frigid air. The smell of the outside world is almost intoxicating, a sharp contrast to the stale, oppressive atmosphere I’ve been trapped in.
He releases my arm, and I glance up, meeting his eyes. The dark moonlight casts an eerie glow on his green irises, revealing a cruel, unyielding resolve. My heart races, caught between the sudden rush of freedom and the overwhelming fear of his threat.
“Run,” he commands, his deep Russian accent slicing through the chill of the night. “Do not let me find you, ever.”
His words are a dark promise, laden with the certainty that if I fail to heed his warning, there will be no second chances. I hesitate for a heartbeat, my mind racing with the gravity of his threat. Slowly, I begin to back away from him, my legs trembling as I descend the small stairs of the porch.
“ Begi , Izabella!” he growls, his voice a harsh, commanding echo in the cold night air.