Chapter 24 RAFFAEL
They never tell you that pain gets boring.
When you think of pain, you mostly think of the sharp, fresh kind, the kind that shocks and stings and makes you bite through the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming.
But that shit is fleeting. What you're left with, what lasts, is the ache, the ceaseless, gnawing, all-encompassing throb that eats through the hours like mold on bread, until you can’t remember what it was like not to hurt.
I’ve pissed myself twice. I stopped being embarrassed about it after the first time, when a rat came to lap up the mess and I didn’t even bother to kick it away.
The chains around my wrists have rubbed through the skin, and every time I shift, the scabs tear open and I feel the old, familiar sting for a moment before it’s eaten by the same old boredom.
Blood drips in syrupy ropes from my elbows, gathering in a sticky pool at my feet.
Flies are starting to find me. I can’t swat them away, so I name them instead.
The fat one that keeps circling my left ear is named Boss.
The smaller, smarter one that figured out how to slip into my nostril is called Little Guy.
Sometimes I think I might actually be dead, that this is Hell, and I’m just waiting for God or the Devil to drop by and explain the rules.
But then the world shifts. Not much, a draft, maybe.
The faint, sour tang of men’s sweat and something like cleaning fluid drifts down from the stairs.
I hear boots on concrete, scraping dust in slow, deliberate paces.
They want me to hear them coming. Want me to hang here and think about what’s next, what new and creative way they’ll invent to make me bleed.
But I don’t flinch. I keep my head up even as I let my body hang slack and heavy from the manacles.
I won’t give them the satisfaction. If I’m going to die down here, I’ll do it looking them in the eyes.
The footsteps stop at the threshold, and for a second, everything goes perfectly silent, like even the rats are holding their breath.
Steps resume, and then they’re here, trailing shadows and perfume and the cloying sweetness of aftershave.
Aurelio is first, swaggering into the circle of bare bulb light like a man who’s mastered the art of other people’s misery.
He’s got a face you want to punch twice—once for each dimple—and hair that’s too perfect, like it’s been sprayed and sculpted into the shape of a threat.
He grins when he sees me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Aurelio isn’t here for the show. He’s here for the kill.
Beside him is a man built like a refrigerator, wide and squat and upholstered in expensive wool.
He moves slower than Aurelio, but with a deadly grace, like a cat that only pounces when it’s sure the mouse can’t get away.
His face is older, rounder, but the nose and jaw are the same as Aurelio’s—a family resemblance, if you consider predatory a family trait.
I've seen pictures of him; he's Silvestre, formerly the Don of the family until he retired. The big man doesn’t look at me right away. He stands with his arms folded over his chest, letting his son do the talking, the way old lions let the young ones strut until it’s time to feed.
Then I see her.
A woman gliding between them like she’s being escorted, like the room bends to her presence—dark hair, red lips, eyes that know and keep too many secrets.
Donna Margarita.
My gut goes cold.
Do they know? Did they piece together who I am, why I came here? If they have, then—fuck—Sophia.
But when her gaze lands on me, it’s not the cold triumph I expected.
For just a second, her mask slips. I catch it in the flicker of her eyes—recognition.
And beneath it… something like devastation.
It’s gone so fast, I almost wonder if I imagined it.
Her composure returns with a snap, shutters slamming closed over whatever she just let slip.
The Queen of Knives stands in front of me now—poised, flawless, untouchable, every movement measured to conceal exactly what she’s thinking.
Still, I know what I saw.
"Oh dear," Donna Margarita says, her hand flutters against her chest.
"What's wrong?" The older man asks.
"I told you it was a mistake to bring a woman here," Aurelio presses out, disgusted.
"I think there is a bad misunderstanding here," Donna Margarita clings to Aurelio's father's arm.
"What do you need, my love?"
"Him," Donna Margarita points at me, surprising me more than the other two men.
"What is he to you?" Now the older man looks less like a besotted fool and more like a mafia patriarch; his gaze cuts into her like he’s weighing her words before she even speaks them.
Donna Margarita tilts her head, studying me with a faint, knowing smile that’s pure performance. "An investment," she says at last, keeping her voice smooth as silk. "One that wandered off before I had the chance to collect my return."
Aurelio’s brow furrows. "He planned to attack my house."
She shakes her head with an almost indulgent laugh.
"He might have, caro, he’s a weapon. One I’ve been keeping an eye on for some time.
A man with… particular talents. The kind that could serve our interests if they’re aimed at the right targets.
" Her eyes slide to Silvestre; the heat in her voice is deliberate.
"You know how rare it is to find a blade you can throw and trust it to hit exactly where you want. "
Silvestre’s suspicion softens, if only slightly. "And you’re saying he’s yours to throw?"
"I’m saying," Margarita replies, the corner of her mouth curling, "that it would be wasteful to break something with such… precision." She lets the word linger like a caress. "Give him to me. I’ll either make him useful, or I’ll make sure he’s disposed of in a way that benefits us all."
It’s a perfect lie, plausible enough to explain her interest without revealing anything real, vague enough to keep Aurelio guessing, and flattering enough to keep Silvestre engaged.
But I know better. Behind that veil of calculated charm, she’s moving pieces I can’t see.
And whatever game she’s playing, I’ve just been made one of the pawns.
Margarita’s tone softens into silk. "I’ve never asked you for anything, amore mio."
Aurelio’s jaw tightens, the muscle at the side tick. "He tried to attack my home," he growls, each word bitten off like it tastes foul in his mouth.
Her smile never wavers. "Then I’ll find out why. I promise."
Silvestre’s gaze moves between them. Aurelio is seething. He's probably already guessing that he's lost to Margarita's vision of calm seduction. Then, like a king granting favor to his queen, Silvestre turns to her with a lazy, satisfied grin. "He’s yours, my love."
The temperature in the room shifts. Aurelio’s fury is no longer contained; it radiates in a low, dangerous hum, but he doesn’t contradict his father.
Margarita tilts her head, as if his anger is nothing more than an inconvenient draft. "Grazie, caro," she purrs, brushing her hand lightly along Silvestre’s arm before looking at me again.
And in that moment, I know two things: Aurelio wants me dead, and Donna Margarita just bought my life, not to save it, but to use it. Whatever the hell for.
Stunned, I stare after the Valverde men and Margarita as they leave, the echo of the heavy door sealing behind them sounding like the final thud of a crypt closing.
The guards move in, the chains drop from the ceiling with a metallic groan, and I hit the ground harder than I should have.
My knees threaten to buckle, but two of them catch my arms. I make it a mission to be dead weight—every step heavier, every movement clumsier—just enough to make them think I’m weaker than I am.
Let them underestimate me. Let them believe I’m too broken to be dangerous.
They march me down a narrow corridor into a tiled room where the air smells of disinfectant and damp concrete.
They point towards a shower stall, and I limp my way over.
The spray of the water stings, but it washes away sweat, piss, and blood, and that's all that matters right now.
I keep it cold to revive my system. I need to be alert if I want to find a way out.
A towel waits for me when I step out, and then, without a word, my wardens hand me clean pants and a shirt made from soft, high-quality fabric, but nothing that could hide a weapon. My ribs ache with every twist and stretch, but I make no sound.
They bring food next. Real food. Fresh bread, meat, fruit. I eat slowly, deliberately, drinking enough water to wash away the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Every gesture says compliance, but every cell in my body is mapping the exits.
Then, without ceremony, I’m escorted outside.
A black SUV waits, its tinted windows reflecting the sun like a mirror.
The ride is silent—guards flank me on both sides, their hands never stray far from their weapons—until we reach a tarmac, where a private jet idles with its stairs down, door open like a mouth waiting to swallow me.
And there she is.
Donna Margarita, seated in a cream leather chair, legs crossed, perfectly composed. The picture of elegance and control. Not a hair out of place, not a line of emotion on her face. But her eyes… her eyes are busy. Assessing me the way a jeweler examines a stone, measuring flaws or weighing value.
I stop in the doorway, meeting her gaze without flinching. Wearily, we take each other’s measure. After a moment, she gestures to the seat across from her. "Sit, caro."
I do. Slowly. Never looking away from her.
Between us, the hum of the engines grows louder, and the plane begins to roll. I lean back in my seat, weighing my options, measuring distance, angles, timing. Looking around, I realize it’s just the two of us in the cabin. No guards. No witnesses.