Under His Protection: A Dark Mafia Romance

15. The Suffering

Hours bleed into eternity.The bulb in the ceiling lights buzz incessantly, like a relentless insect trapped in a glass cage. I sit huddled on the floor, my back against the white sterile wall, my bare arms wrapping around my knees, trying to ward off the chill that seeps from the very core of the building.

Cole’s words, “Alexander gets to suffer the consequences,” play on a loop in my mind, each repetition twisting the knife into my gut.

It is a twisted kind of justice, punishing a son for the sins of his father. But then again, what do I know about justice?

A reckless act shattered my own life, the car crash that took my parents, a teenage joyride fueled by Michelle’s anger. She was a wild spirit, a rebellious soul trapped in a world that didn”t understand her. A world of neglectful parents and a cold, cruel reality that had no space for someone like her.

Is it fair? To her, trapped in a cage of her own making? To me, left to grapple with the aftermath of her impulsive act? To my parents, ripped away in a blink? This world isn”t just, and it never has been. It”s a twisted game of chance, a cruel roulette wheel where the stakes are always life and death.

My gaze drifts to Alexander’s sister, curled up on the floor, her breathing shallow. The purple bruise around her eye makes my stomach clench. Her broken wrist is wrapped in a makeshift bandage of my pajamas.

We’re trapped. The realization is a cold stone settling in my stomach. He’s going to kill us. He’s going to kill Alexander.

I have to find a way out.

I scan the cell again, searching for a weakness, a crack in Cole’s meticulously constructed safe room. The door, a slab of steel, is impenetrable. The walls, cold and smooth, offer no purchase. There are no windows, ventilation grates, or way to see the outside world. Hope, a fragile butterfly, flutters its wings and dies within me.

Michelle stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips. She shifts on the floor, cradling her injured wrist, her face contorted with pain.

“Michelle,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

She opens her eyes. They are dulled with pain. “Like I’ve been run over by a bleat truck,” she mumbles, her voice a hoarse rasp. “Fuck.”

I offer her a weak smile. “Try to rest. We’ll figure something out.”

But even as I speak the words, I know they are hollow. The hours drag by, and each tick of my watch is a tiny hammer blow against my sanity.

My eyelids grow heavy, but sleep is a fleeting dream, chased away by nightmares of Cole’s cold eyes and the echo of Alexander’s cries.

I don’t know how many hours have passed when suddenly Cole stands in the doorway, his sandy hair perfectly coiffed, and his crisp white shirt looks newly ironed. His steely eyes sweep over us, taking in our disheveled appearance.

“Get them ready,” he commands. “We move tonight.”

“Move what?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer; he just offers a smirk. “You’ll see soon enough, peach.”

Two burly men, their faces expressionless, enter the cell. They grab us roughly, their hands like iron clamps, and drag us down a maze of corridors. The white walls blur as I try not to resist.

Resisting is futile. It just makes them want more.

They shove us into another room, smaller than the previous one but no less sterile. A woman with severe features and gray hair pulled back into a tight bun stands waiting. Her eyes, a piercing blue, assess us with a cold efficiency.

“Ah, the devushki,” she says, her voice thick with a Russian accent. “Come, come, we must make you presentable.”

She gestures towards a pile of clothes on a table. “Change,” she commands. “And be quick about it, da?”

“Leave, men,” she spits, shoving the men out of the room with a wave of her hand.

She turns to Michelle, her gaze lingering on her injured wrist. “Let me see that, dushka.”

Michelle winces as the woman unwraps the makeshift bandage, her fingers probing the swollen flesh with a practiced touch. “Broken, da. But not bad. I will fix.”

The woman, whose name I learn is Katerina, works quickly, cleaning Michelle’s wounds, applying a fresh bandage, and setting her wrist with a swift, almost brutal efficiency. I watch her every move, trying to gauge her, to find a crack in her icy exterior.

“You work for Cole?” I ask, my voice a hesitant probe.

Katerina glances up at me, her blue eyes sharp and unreadable. “I work for myself,” she says, her voice clipped. “I healer. I fix what is broken. Raven pays me money cash.”

“But you know what he is doing?” I press. “You know what he is planning? His work?”

She shakes her head, her expression stoic. “I do not ask questions. I am not paid to think. I am paid to heal and fix up.”

I bite back a frustrated sigh. Katerina is a wall, impenetrable, unyielding. There is no getting through to her. As she finishes tending to Michelle’s wounds, she hands me a black dress, the fabric soft and surprisingly luxurious.

“Change,” she says, her voice firm. “He will be here soon. I will make-up, you. Beautiful, devushki.”

The fear, a constant companion, tightens in my chest. He? Who is he? Cole? Or someone worse? And why do we need to dress up? Another twisted game?

I slip into the dress, the fabric a cold caress against my skin. I look at Michelle, staring at the floor, her face pale and drawn.

“What do you think he will do to us?” she says, drawing imaginary circles on the floor.

I don’t have an answer. I look at Katerina, who is packing away her medical supplies and taking out a make-up bag. Her movements are precise and efficient.

“Where are we going?” I ask. “Please, Katerina, tell me.”

She looks up at me, her expression impassive. “You know soon enough,” she says. “Be ready.”