Chapter 2 #5
One of them glanced down and adjusted her gloves casually.
“It’s a stillborn,” she said flatly.
As if announcing the weather.
As if it were routine.
Stillborn.
The word detonated inside my chest. It lodged there like shrapnel.
I couldn’t scream.
My voice had already been taken months before.
But the pain ripped upward anyway—raw, primal, tearing through me until I thought my ribs might crack from the force of it.
I turned my head desperately.
Trying to see. Trying to confirm.
They were wrapping the tiny body in a stained towel.
Blue lips. Motionless limbs. No cry. No breath. Just silence.
My baby. My child.
Gone before it ever had a chance to live.
Tears streamed down my face.
I sobbed without sound. My wrists were still cuffed to the rails.
I strained against the restraints as if I could force them to hand the baby back to me.
Harlan leaned closer.
Close enough that I could smell coffee and cheap cologne on his breath.
“Told you it wouldn’t make it,” he whispered.
His mouth curved into a slow, triumphant smirk.
“Should’ve listened.”
He enjoyed it.
He enjoyed watching my hope collapse.
They took the body away before I could even touch it.
Before I could kiss its forehead. Before I could memorize its features.
I lay there for hours afterward.
Bleeding. Empty. Useless.
Staring at the ceiling while my body shook from shock and loss.
Part of me wanted to die in that room.
Part of me wished the bleeding would just continue until everything inside me went dark.
But I didn’t die.
I survived.
And that survival felt like punishment.
That wound never closed.
It festered.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that tiny face.
Perfect except for the stillness.
Perfect except for the absence of breath.
I had carried that child through eight months of hell.
Starvation that left me so weak I could barely stand.
Beatings that cracked ribs and bruised organs.
Thirst that made my tongue swell and my lips split.
Punishments designed to break me psychologically and physically.
They had tried to destroy the baby by destroying me.
And still—
I had tried to protect it.
I had failed.
Therapy in New York might stitch together the surface damage.
Doctors could treat the infections still burning low in my pelvis.
They could repair tissue.
Monitor my body.
Stabilize the physical aftermath.
But this?
This grief? This guilt?
No session. No medication. No comforting words whispered by professionals.
None of it could reach deep enough to erase what happened.
Some wounds don’t heal. They scar over.
Thick. Ugly. Permanent.
And you learn to live around the constant ache because there is no alternative.
The jet continued its smooth ascent.
The hum of the engines vibrated through my bones.
If I removed the hearing aid right now, thick silence would swallow the world around me.
Back in prison, silence had meant vulnerability.
It had meant not hearing footsteps approaching.
Not hearing guards unlocking doors.
Not hearing threats whispered behind my back.
Before prison, my hearing had never been completely gone.
I had always caught fragments.
Laughter.
Arguments.
Music playing softly in the house.
I had been able to force words out—even if they came out hoarse or broken.
Even if people had to lean closer to understand me.
Now?
My voice was a ghost.
My hearing unreliable.
My body permanently altered.
And sometimes that reality hits harder than the memories.
The jet leveled off smoothly after cruising through the dark sky.
The subtle shift in pressure pressed gently against my ears, a faint reminder that we were moving farther and farther away from California—and from everything that had tried to destroy me.
Someone—Luca, I think—approached quietly and draped a soft blanket over my body.
The fabric smelled faintly clean, like it had been packed fresh for this flight.
I didn’t open my eyes.
I just adjusted slightly, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulders and letting the steady vibration of the engines sink into my bones.
The sound wasn’t loud.
It was consistent.
Rhythmic. Almost soothing.
My body, exhausted beyond reason, responded to that stability by slowly slipping toward uneasy sleep.
Hours later, the descent began.
I felt it before I understood it—the gentle tilt downward, the change in engine pitch, the subtle shift in gravity pulling my body forward slightly in the seat.
Through the small oval window, the darkness outside began to dissolve into faint streaks of light.
Then the wheels touched.
A soft bump. A smooth glide.
We had landed.
Somewhere on Long Island. A private strip.
The cabin lights brightened gradually, not abruptly, giving my eyes time to adjust.
Dario and Ethan were already at my side.
They moved in unison like they had rehearsed it.
“Easy,” Dario murmured as he carefully slipped his arm behind my back.
Ethan positioned himself on my other side.
They lifted me gently.
My legs barely responded at first.
When my feet touched the floor, my knees threatened to collapse.
Dario immediately tightened his grip.
He didn’t let me fall.
He adjusted his hold so most of my weight rested against him, guiding me toward the exit.
The stairs were lowered.
Cold air rushed into the cabin, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and ocean salt.
Dario stepped out first.
Ethan followed.
They helped me descend slowly, one step at a time.
I focused on breathing.
On placing one foot down.
Then the next.
By the time we reached the bottom, my muscles were trembling violently.
Waiting for us on the tarmac was a formation of men.
At least fifty.
Maybe more.
They stood in rigid attention, black tactical gear fitted tightly against their frames.
Rifles rested low but ready.
Earpieces blinked faint blue lights.
Eyes scanned constantly—rooftops, parked vehicles, treelines beyond the perimeter.
They weren’t casually guarding.
They were securing. Protecting.
The way they stood made it clear: This wasn’t a welcome party. It was a defensive blockade.
We were treated like high-value targets.
Or perhaps like royalty under threat.
A long black Escalade rolled forward from a secured position near the runway.
Its windows were tinted so dark they reflected nothing.
Ethan opened the rear door.
I expected a regular seat.
Instead, the interior had been customized.
The bench seat opposite folded down into a wide flat surface—almost like a built-in daybed.
Soft gray suede lined the platform.
Plush pillows were arranged carefully. A folded cashmere throw lay at one end.
Someone had prepared this specifically for me.
My body reacted instinctively to the comfort.
I climbed in slowly and lowered myself onto the flat surface.
The moment my back touched the suede, my muscles relaxed slightly.
I turned onto my side and curled my knees toward my chest.
Making myself small.
Protecting my abdomen without thinking.
The leather underneath felt cool against my fevered skin.
It was grounding.
Ethan slid into the front passenger seat beside the driver.
He left the entire rear section to me.
Through the open partition separating the front and back, he glanced over his shoulder to check on me.
His eyes lingered.
Observing. Measuring. Ensuring.
“Elena,” Dario said from outside before closing the door.
He leaned slightly into the open space so I could see him clearly.
“Our car is right behind this one. We’re staying in formation.”
His gaze softened. “We’re not letting you out of sight.”
The words were protective.
I nodded once.
It took effort. But it was enough.
The door shut.
The Escalade pulled away smoothly from the tarmac.
The engine hummed quietly as the vehicle glided onto the access road leading away from the airfield.
Behind us, I saw through the tinted rear window that the second SUV followed closely.
Luca was at the wheel. Marco and Nico sat in the back.
They kept distance minimal.
Formation tight. No gaps. No blind spots. No opportunity for an ambush.
The convoy merged onto a wider road.
Streetlights began appearing in the distance.
Then buildings. Then movement.
New York.
The city was waking up.
Skyscrapers pierced the horizon like silent sentinels.
Traffic lights blinked. Early commuters walked along sidewalks. Cafés opened. Delivery trucks idled.
The world moved on as if nothing catastrophic had happened to me.
As if my life had not shattered.
I pressed my forehead gently against the cool glass of the window.
The sensation grounded me.
Outside, lights blurred into streaks as we continued driving deeper into the city.
Pain pulsed steadily through my body.
My wrist throbbed where the knife had cut my skin.
My thighs burned. My pelvis ached from injuries that had never fully healed.
My chest felt tight—not from physical injury but from memory pressing against it.
Trauma sat heavy behind my ribs like wet concrete that refused to dry.
Every breath reminded me of what had happened.
Of what had been taken. Of what could never be returned.
But despite everything—
I was alive.
The realization didn’t come with celebration.
It came quietly. Almost cautiously.
Alive. And far from him.
Far from the marble mansion.
Far from the man who vowed to protect me — only to become the one who destroyed me.
Far from the prison.
For the first time in months, that simple fact felt powerful.
And as exhaustion slowly pulled at my consciousness again, I allowed myself one fragile thought before sleep took over: