Chapter 8 #2
“When we go inside,” he said quietly, leaning closer so only I could hear, “don’t cry.
Don’t show weakness.” His thumb pressed gently into my palm, grounding.
“They thrive on it. They want to believe they left you shattered forever—that you’ll carry their filth in your nightmares for the rest of your life. ”
My breath hitched.
“Instead,” he went on, voice low and lethal, “look at them. Tell them they’re paying for every inhumane thing they did. Tell them they’ll die slowly—watching the fire take their empire before it takes them.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, hot and insistent. I nodded again, harder this time, forcing the emotion down where it belonged.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, pressing it into my palm. The fabric was soft, absurdly clean. I dabbed at the corners of my eyes, willing the tears back. A small, ugly sniffle escaped before I could stop it.
I wiped my nose. Took a shuddering breath.
“I think I’m ready,” I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment—searching for cracks, for hesitation, for fear that might still own me.
Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in and kissed me.
Soft. Brief. Right on the lips through the thin fabric of the niqab.
The tenderness stole my breath. It didn’t belong here—among concrete and wire and death—but it grounded me all the same.
He pulled back and took my hand again.
We walked toward the building together, hand in hand. His grip never loosened. Each step felt heavier than the last as the doors loomed larger, the smell growing stronger—damp concrete, old blood, despair baked into the walls.
My legs shook. My pulse roared.
But I kept walking.
The anteroom was stark to the point of cruelty.
Pure white walls. A white marble floor polished to a sterile sheen. White ceiling panels humming softly, their fluorescent lights buzzing just loud enough to burrow into my skull.
There was nothing else—no furniture, no decoration, no attempt to soften the space. Just clean, clinical emptiness that swallowed warmth and amplified sound.
Our footsteps echoed too loudly.
My breathing sounded wrong—ragged, uneven.
Dmitri moved ahead of me without hesitation and pushed open the second set of double doors.
The sound they made—metal grinding against metal—sent a shiver straight down my spine.
The main room beyond swallowed us whole.
It was cavernous, easily the size of a small warehouse, with a ceiling so high the lights barely reached the corners. No windows. No furniture. No chairs. Just an expanse of raw concrete floor, stained dark in places I refused to name.
Eighty-nine people sat in ragged rows on the ground.
Men. Women.
Wrists bound tightly behind their backs with thick plastic zip ties that bit into skin already bruised and swollen.
Ankles shackled to heavy iron rings bolted into the floor, chains pulled taut so they couldn’t shift more than a few inches.
Duct tape sealed every mouth—layered thick, carelessly applied, some already darkened with spit and blood.
Their eyes followed us as we entered.
Wide. Desperate. Animal with terror.
The smell hit harder here—crushing, unmistakable.
Sweat. Urine. Fear. The coppery tang of blood already spilled.
I knew this smell.
I had breathed it for a year.
My chest tightened, air refusing to move properly through my lungs.
For a moment the room tilted, memory surging up violently—dark corridors, bare stone, hands grabbing, voices laughing.
I forced myself to stay present, to anchor myself in the feel of the baton still absent from my hands, in Dmitri’s steady presence just behind me.
I scanned the faces slowly.
I didn’t rush it. I didn’t look away.
Most were strangers—hardened enforcers with dead eyes, mid-level traffickers who’d never laid hands on their merchandise but had signed orders and collected money all the same. People who’d convinced themselves they were businessmen, not monsters.
Then I saw him.
He recognized me at the same moment I recognized him.
He tried to duck his head, shoulders curling inward, gaze dropping to the floor—but it was too late.
Memory slammed into place with brutal clarity.
The husband.
The one married to the woman who had come to Lake Como that night to collect me after Dmitri made his choice. He hadn’t touched me then. He’d watched instead, eyes calculating, lips curved in faint amusement.
Later—much later—he’d had his men drag me to a private chamber deep inside the compound.
Bound.
Gagged.
Used.
Over and over.
He’d liked to talk while he did it—casual, conversational, as if we were acquaintances sharing a drink. He’d commented on the weather. On business. On how fortunate he was to have such obedient men.
He’d laughed when I cried.
My hands curled into fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. I barely felt the sting of blood breaking skin.
I stepped forward.
“Here,” Dmitri said calmly from behind me.
I turned.
He held out a telescoping police baton—black, heavy, lethal. The metal gleamed under the harsh lights, spotless, like it had been waiting for this moment.
“You don’t have to use your beautiful hands on these bastards,” he said quietly. No anger. No spectacle. Just certainty.
Something hot and choking surged up my chest—rage and trauma twisting together until I could barely tell them apart. My fingers closed around the baton. It felt solid. Real.
I snapped it open.
The sharp metallic crack echoed through the cavernous room, bouncing off the walls like a gunshot.
Every bound body flinched.
I walked toward him.
He stared up at me now, eyes wild, pupils blown wide with terror. His head shook in frantic, jerking motions.
Muffled whimpers pushed past the duct tape, wet and pathetic. He strained against the zip ties until his shoulders trembled, chains rattling uselessly against the iron rings as he tried to shrink himself smaller.
There was nowhere to go.
I stopped directly in front of him.
He smelled like fear and stale sweat. Like every man who had ever stood over me and thought himself untouchable.
I raised the baton.
The first swing struck his left cheek.
The sound was wet and sickening—a crack like wood splitting under pressure. Blood bloomed instantly, soaking through the silver duct tape in a spreading crimson stain. His head snapped sideways with the force of it. I saw teeth shift—one clattering loose inside his mouth.
His body convulsed violently against the restraints. No scream—just strangled, animal noises trapped behind the gag, bubbling and broken.
I didn’t hesitate.
I hit him again.
Same cheek.
This time the skin split open completely, a ragged tear exposing bone and gum beneath. Blood and saliva poured out, dripping down his chin and onto his chest.
He collapsed sideways, writhing like something electrocuted, legs kicking uselessly against the chains, breath coming in panicked, choking bursts.
The room went deathly still.
Every bound figure watched—eyes wide, breaths shallow, terror etched into every face. They knew. They all knew.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was judgment.
I stood over him, baton slick with blood, my breathing finally steady for the first time since I’d crossed the border.
And for the first time since they’d taken me—
I felt powerful.
I turned toward Dmitri, my chest heaving, the baton heavy in my hand, slick with blood that wasn’t enough—would never be enough.
“Can I have the gun?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.
He didn’t hesitate.
“No.” He crossed the space between us with unhurried steps, calm and deliberate in a way that was far more terrifying than rage.
“You can punish them however you want. Break them. Humiliate them. Make them remember your face.” His eyes flicked briefly to the rows of bound bodies, then back to me—cold, precise. “But I want them to burn alive.”
I stiffened.
“I want them to feel the heat before it touches them,” he continued quietly.
“To smell the fire as it creeps closer. To understand—minute by minute—that there is no escape. I want them to smell their own flesh cooking before the flames finally take them.” His jaw tightened. “They don’t deserve a quick end.”
I shook my head, breath shaking. “I want this one dead. Now.”
For a moment, he studied me—really studied me. Not judging. Measuring. Then he nodded once, as if conceding a small point in a larger war.
He drew his pistol.
Silenced. Matte black. Efficient.
He didn’t aim at the man’s head.
The first shot punched clean through the man’s left foot.
The sound was dull, contained—but the reaction wasn’t.
The man’s body jerked violently, chains clanging against the floor as a shrill, muffled scream tore out of him. His eyes rolled white with shock, veins standing out on his neck as blood poured onto the concrete.
The second shot came a heartbeat later.
Right foot. Same place.
Bone shattered. Blood sprayed in a red arc, splattering the floor and the legs of the man beside him. The victim thrashed wildly now—pure, instinctive terror—every muscle straining against restraints that did not give.
Hands pinned behind his back.
Mouth sealed.
Feet destroyed.
No way to crawl. No way to run. No way to beg.
Just animal panic burning in his eyes as reality settled in.
Dmitri lowered the gun and turned it in his hand, offering it to me—grip first.
I stared at it.
Then at the man—bleeding, shaking, ruined.
My stomach twisted. My fingers refused to close around the weapon.
I couldn’t do it.
My hand trembled as I let the gun pass me by and reached again for the baton instead. The weight of it grounded me—familiar now, terrible and real.
I turned away.
And then I saw him.
The overseer. The master of our cell.