Chapter 55 Agapē
Agapē
Isla
John Clemens was not merciful. Giovanni Pietoso was a monster. My eyes had been opened—I’d lived among them, and the monsters were quiet, masked, deceitful, and kind.
I’d lived in delusion my entire life, in a perfectly curated lifestyle, while my father had been out in the world doing unspeakable things. Because no good man would befriend Giovanni Pietoso.
My father played with his life and mine. He left me to my own devices, among men who were beasts and savages.
Roman was an honest monster—he didn’t hide behind a suburban middle-class lifestyle. He was the one who gave me the truth, the one who truly loved me, the one who treated me like a goddess.
After John revealed his plan, he put it in motion right away. He no longer spoke to me; he wouldn’t answer any of my questions. He ignored me, leaving me in quiet solitude.
The door locked behind me, and I was trapped in the little barren room once more. There was a bed, curtains, and a cross on the wall. There was nothing else. Not a book, not a pen—nothing.
In the mornings, an older Italian lady would come in and bring food for the day, as well as a change of clothes.
I begged her to let me out. I pleaded, but she only shook her head and spoke Italian. I tried to push past her, but she shoved me back with inhumane strength, slamming me against the stone floor.
I didn’t try again after that.
Day after day, I was alone, spiraling in my dark thoughts. The cross was the only thing I talked to. I’d never believed in God, but I started praying, asking for God to save Roman. Asking for freedom, for an end to this nightmare.
Time became a blur; day morphed into night and into day again. I had no understanding of how long I’d been there. I was in solitary confinement for a crime I didn’t commit.
One morning, the keys jingled in the door once again, but I no longer bothered going to it. I stayed on the bed, staring into the ceiling, emotionally void of any feelings.
“Come, Isla.” Giovanni’s voice broke through my haze, and like an obedient servant, I slowly followed him out.
He unlocked a door on the level below and flicked the lights on in an empty room. There was a chandelier, a chair, and a small desk. And nothing else. Because it was all nothing here.
“Sit.” He pointed to the chair, and I did—I followed all instructions without question. But when John read out what I had to say, blood flowed through me again, filled with anger and defiance.
“No.” I almost swallowed the answer, but he heard it. “I’m not going to say that.”
John didn’t react. He repeated the text, as if he didn’t hear me the first time, but my answer didn’t change.
So he changed. Slowly, deliberately, he approached me and stopped right behind.
“Bend over,” he commanded.
My blood ran cold. I stayed rigid in the chair…but that was a mistake. Something whooshed behind me, and pain seared my upper back, blinding me.
I screamed. It seeped into every part of my body, and I jolted off the chair, falling onto my knees, unable to take a breath. Disoriented, I gasped for air, but then it sounded again.
“Stop!” I begged on my knees, the pain rendering me blind once more.
“We can do this all day, Isla. I have lots of time. Sit down and repeat after me.”
And then I saw it. He came to stand in front of me again, a short, black whip in his hand. The pain zinged harder once the understanding settled in my mind.
Tears burst down my cheeks, the bitterness overtaking all of me. I climbed back on the chair, and he read the text again, standing my phone up on the table, ready to record the video.
I’d fumble the words—he would crack the whip on my back. I’d sob between takes—he would crack the whip on my back. I’d skip what he wanted to hear—he would crack the whip on my back.
I writhed and screamed on the stone floor, begging God to end my life. There was nothing comparable to this. It burned, it stung, it pierced my skin and all my insides. My body contorted with every whip, but it didn’t dampen the pain. Didn’t dampen the agony.
I finally conceded, unable to take anymore. I said all the words that were needed.
“Let’s go.” John spoke simply and waited for me to crawl out of the room. I lifted myself up with the help of a wall and walked back to my prison cell, ready to die, but right before John left the room, the phone rang.
It was Roman. It was the love of my life. But with a dark grin, John held the phone tightly in his hand and slowly backed away and out of the room, shutting it right in my face.
Deep red gashes now adorned my back. It wasn’t raw; it was just painful enough to breathe. The skin was barely cracked, but it was the right amount of damage to leave marks.
I’d stand naked in front of the mirror for hours, crying from pain, from humiliation, from his psychological torture. Would these scars ever vanish?
But that’s not what hurt the most. The fear of losing Roman—of him trading his life for mine—overpowered all the physical pain, leaving deep scars on my heart.
John didn’t come for me after that. He left me in the room for days? Weeks? Months? I didn’t know.
I’d stay on the bed, on my stomach, half naked, staring into the corner of the wall. The Italian lady would come in, drop off food and clothes, and apply some kind of ointment on my back.
Day and night.
Day and night.
Day and night.
It was all the same. No more videos, no more calls to Roman, no more visits from John. Just an empty room.
John wanted only one thing—to torture me. To break me down, empty my soul, and destroy my willpower. And he was succeeding.
But one bright morning I opened my eyes to see breakfast and my own clothes and shoes neatly waiting for me on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Slowly and quietly, I ate and pulled on my clothes, patiently waiting for what the day would bring. My stomach flipped, and my heart thudded in my throat, but I ignored it all. Because I was now meek and obedient, ready to do whatever was needed for Roman to be safe.
If John wanted to whip me again, I was ready for it. If I had to make a thousand more videos, I was ready for it. If John was planning to transport me somewhere else—I was ready for it. Ready for anything to keep Roman safe.
And John arrived. I sat on the edge of the bed, in my own jeans and soft cashmere sweater, ready to hear the next instructions.
“Turn around.”
I did. But I was not prepared for handcuffs. Panic surged down to my toes, but John upped the ante and wrapped something tight and dark around my eyes, rendering me blind.
Oh fuck. That fire that raged inside me when I’d first arrived—it spread through me again. I jerked in his grasp, but he held on tight, pushing me forward. Down the small stairs, down the hall, down the big stairs just like before, and finally, cold, fresh air hit the skin on my cheeks.
It pierced me like a thousand knives, but John dragged me forward on uneven gravel, then on soft earth. Careless, like I was a thing, not a human being, he shoved me inside a car and shut the door.
Blind and bound, I sat in the backseat of the moving car, waiting for the unknown, my chest swirling with dread and fear.
But when the car stopped and the door opened, John was suddenly gentler. Carefully, tenderly, he tugged on my arm and helped me climb out.
Barely able to breathe, I stopped when John wanted me to and waited.
There were footsteps around me for a few seconds, and then silence again.
No voices, no indication of where I was or who was there.
Finally, the handcuffs came off, and John’s repulsive voice sounded right in my ear.
"I’m giving you this, Isla…because I respected your father. "
The blindfold slid off, and I squinted, adjusting my eyes to the light. But then I saw someone behind John—Sergei standing in front of a car.
And that’s when my heart died. I’d never been so happy to see Sergei in my life, and at the same time, I knew exactly what that meant. John raised his eyebrows and jutted his chin out, indicating for me to turn. I whipped around, and the grief washed over me like a wave.
There stood Roman, with a sad smile on his face, his hands behind his back.
No! No, no, no, no!
"No, baby, please don't tell me you did it, please don't tell me you came!" My tears suffocated me, and I lunged toward him, wrapping my arms around his torso. But he couldn’t hug me back; he was handcuffed.
"My Angel." His voice was deep and familiar, spreading warmth through all of me. "I'm so happy I got to see you…one last time." His sweet whisper soothed me while I sobbed into his chest. "Don't cry, baby, don't cry,” he pleaded, his own tears running down his cheeks.
"Roman! This is not how this was supposed to end!" I accused him, not knowing what else to do. John got his way, shattering my heart into a million pieces.
I’m going to take his life. John was going to kill him, and I was going to suffer for the rest of my life!
"Moya devochka..." Roman whispered into me. "Remember what you said about my last name?” I looked up into his deep blue eyes, filled with tears and love. “That's what I feel for you, baby. I feel that kind of love. I love you more than life, I told you that."
His gentle voice. His tender touch. His heavenly love. It would be all ripped away from me.
No, no, no, no! This was all wrong! This was all rotten! This was not supposed to happen!
"You need to go, okay?” Roman nodded confidently, gulping down his tears. “And you need to promise me that you will smile again."
Before I could respond, before I could understand, three huge men grabbed his arms and pulled him back and away.
No.
No!
The adrenaline rushed through me, and I understood that this was it. They would take him, and I would never see him again! Petrified, I lunged for him, only to be pulled back by none other than John.
"I love you, Isla.” Roman stumbled back in their grasp, his eyes never leaving mine. “Never forget that. I love you.”