11. Eva
EVA
The camera hums quietly behind him, recording every second of this.
My father will see it eventually.
Or someone close enough to him will.
That’s the point.
Martin folds his hands loosely behind his back.
“The Trusted Saints,” he says, “have spent years pretending they’re something respectable.”
His voice remains calm and controlled.
It feels like we’re just talking business over dinner.
“They negotiate territory, then violate agreements the second it benefits them,” He continues. “They steal product. Undercut deals. Murder rivals while smiling publicly about loyalty and community.”
His gaze drifts toward me again.
“And the disrespect,” he says softly. “That part seems intentional.”
I force myself to hold his stare even as my fingers twitch uselessly against the ropes.
“I’m not part of the Saints.”
Martin gives a quiet scoff.
“The Saints sell an illusion,” he says. “Good citizens. Protectors. Men supposedly invested in improving their communities.”
His eyes sharpen slightly.
“Meanwhile, they flood those same communities with drugs, guns, violence, and fear.”
He pauses.
“And who perpetuates this lie? You, Eva Sorenson. You and your fake public relations company helped polish that lie. It’s gone on for too long.”
“My company isn’t fake,” I snap. “You can say whatever you want about my father or the Saints, but I built that business myself.”
“With dirty money,” he says.
I have no idea how he knows any of this.
He turns to the camera, but points back at me. “Eva Sorenson will remain in Iron Eagles’ custody until her father decides she is valuable enough to negotiate for.”
“You’re not going to release me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “That Frankenstein you’ve got running around already made that clear. He said he plans to kill me.”
Martin’s expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker.
“He does not run this organization,” he says evenly. “I do.”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.
“As of this moment, you live because I allow it,” he continues. “You will continue to live and breathe at my discretion.”
His gaze settles on me, sharp and assessing. “When your corrupt, untrustworthy organization agrees to my terms, you’ll be released.”
He waits for a moment.
“In what condition,” he adds quietly, “is entirely up to you.”
“Up to me,” I repeat. The words almost feel absurd in my mouth.
What a joke.
Because nothing about this is up to me.
Martin resumes pacing slowly, careful to remain within the camera’s frame.
“There was a time,” he says, “when the Iron Eagles and the Trusted Saints maintained a functional coexistence.”
He stops for a moment.
“Not trust,” he continues. “Certainly not respect. But balance. And that balance no longer exists.”
I keep my face blank, even though my pulse has picked up.
“Chicago has become crowded,” Martin says. “Too many organizations fighting over increasingly limited territory. Shrinking margins. Fragile alliances.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“And the Campisi organization keeps all of us desperate enough to turn on each other for scraps. That desperation creates mistakes.”
His eyes flick back to mine. “And when bad actors decide to take more than their share, everything collapses.”
I don’t react.
“Did you know,” he asks almost conversationally, “That acts of theft and violence against the Eagles by the Saints have more than doubled in the last two years?”
I didn’t.
It’s interesting, but I keep my expression as neutral as possible.
Martin watches me for a moment longer, like he’s waiting for something to crack.
When it doesn’t, he moves.
Closer.
Too close.
Every instinct in my body tightens instantly.
His hand lifts slowly, brushing against my cheek before sliding down my jaw.
Disgust flashes through me so hard it feels electric.
I jerk violently against the restraints, the ropes biting into my wrists.
“Touch me again, and I swear to God?—”
“What?”
The question lands softly.
Like he’s genuinely curious about what I think I could do, even though I’m tied helpless to the table.
Because he already knows the answer.
There’s nothing I can do to him in this room.
And we both know it.
A quiet chuckle leaves him as he finally releases my face.
Relief barely registers before his hand hooks beneath the hem of the oversized Chicago Reapers shirt.
He lifts it slowly, exposing my stomach, his fingertips tracing a deliberate path across my skin.
A low sound rips out of me as I snarl at him, fighting uselessly against the ropes.
“Don’t.”
Martin ignores me completely.
He steps back toward the metal tray, studying the neatly arranged instruments with quiet concentration.
Like a man selecting the right tool for a delicate job.
“I had a hard time deciding how to defile you,” he says at last.
“You’re extraordinarily beautiful, Eva.”
His gaze drifts over me again, colder than lust. Appraising.
“The skin. The hair. The symmetry.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “A Botticelli painting brought to life.”
My stomach twists.
“It would be a shame not to leave something behind.”
He says it with a kind of reverence.
It’s as if he’s actually talking about art instead of pain.
Every muscle in my body locks tight.
Fear presses hard against my ribs now, sharp enough to make breathing difficult.
“There are more permanent options available to me,” he continues calmly. “Things that would remain long after this situation ends.”
I keep my teeth gritted, shooting daggers at him with my eyes, hating this disgusting man more by the minute.
He leans in, looking me straight in the eyes.
“Fear changes people,” he says softly.
“Pain does too.”
His gaze drifts over me slowly.
“I wonder what you’ll become before this ends.”
His fingers push below the waistband of my joggers, but he doesn’t touch me below that. In fact, he sighs, pulls his hand away, and stands up straight.
“No,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “There are better ways to use this.”
Cold dread floods through me.
He reaches toward the tray.
Metal flashes beneath the harsh overhead light.
Scalpel.
I barely have time to inhale before pain slices sharply across my stomach.
My body jerks violently against the restraints.
A strangled sound claws up my throat, but I hold it back.
No.
Absolutely not.
Fuck him.
Fuck this sadistic piece of shit.
I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing me break.
Tears burn behind my eyes.
I choke them back anyway.
Warm blood leaks from the wound down my side. Martin watches, rapt, something feverish burning in his eyes.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
I want to gag. “You sick piece of shit.”
His eyes flick back to mine.
“Tell me what you know about your father’s operations.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Nothing.”
Another cut.
Deeper this time.
White-hot pain tears through me so suddenly that my vision blurs at the edges.
“The Saints stole from us. They stole a cache of military-grade weapons and were ordered to sell them to a Russian client. Why?”
Sweat prickles instantly across my body despite the freezing room.
“I don’t know,” I manage through clenched teeth.
Martin studies me carefully.
“Don’t lie to me.”
The scalpel presses lightly against my stomach again, just enough to remind me how easily he can hurt me.
I grind my teeth hard enough to make my jaw ache.
“I’m not lying,” I spit. “My father doesn’t include me in that shit. I’m not part of operations.”
He makes a disappointed noise, but his face shows no disappointment.
He gets off on this game.
He wants to keep playing.
His gaze drifts lower as he lifts my shirt, exposing more skin to the freezing air.
Revulsion twists violently through me when his hands close over my breasts.
His touch is cruel.
It feels possessive.
His fingers tighten just enough to hurt.
Then he steps back, breathing slowly through his nose like he’s restraining himself from something worse.
“Try again.”
“I don’t know anything,” I say more forcefully, even as my chest rises too fast and my body starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Where are the shipments routed?”
“I wasn’t?—”
The cut comes before I can finish.
Agony tears through me, hotter than before, and this time, a raw, unfiltered sound tears out of me.
I hate it.
I hate that I broke in front of him.
“Who handles distribution?” he asks, like I should know all this.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
Another cut.
My hands strain uselessly against the ropes, fingers digging in as though I can tear them apart with sheer will.
“Who do they answer to?”
“I said I don’t know!”
My voice breaks on the last word.
Martin studies me for a long moment.
Like he already knows time is on his side.
Then the interrogation changes.
Not all at once.
He does it slowly.
Every move is deliberate.
The questions keep coming, but the pain no longer feels clean or separate.
After a while, my body can’t break it down anymore.
Everything blurs together—the burn of fresh cuts, the sting of impact, fingers digging into me hard enough to leave bruises, and the sick certainty that it's not over yet.
I lose track of time first.
Then breathing becomes harder.
Martin never raises his voice.
Never loses control.
That’s the worst part of all.
He hurts me with the same calm focus someone might use to balance their checkbook.
At some point, I spit in his face.
The saliva lands against his cheek.
For one hopeful second, I think maybe I finally got a reaction out of him.
But Martin just wipes it away slowly.
Smiles faintly.
And keeps going.
Fear changes after a while.
It stops feeling so sharp or loud.
It settles deeper than that, becoming exhaustion.
It dawns on me that this man is in absolutely no hurry.
Eventually, the shaking starts uncontrollably.
Not even from pain anymore.
It’s from anticipation now.
Every second between injuries becomes its own kind of torture.
“Last chance,” Martin says eventually.
My chest heaves.
Everything hurts.
My stomach burns.
My head throbs.
My wrists feel flayed raw against the restraints.
“I don’t know anything,” I finally whisper.
For the first time, I hear how small my voice sounds.
This time, it isn’t defiance.
It’s the truth.
Eventually, something changes in Martin’s expression.
Hunger twists through it.
Nausea surges through me when his hand drifts to the front of his pants as he watches me bleed across the table.
“You’re fucking sick,” I whisper.
He smiles at that.
Like he enjoys hearing it.
I turn my head away with the little strength I have left.
I refuse to look at him.
But I can still feel the violation.
The humiliation.
The degradation.
Then he spurts his satisfaction onto the wounds he created on my stomach. It burns, and I lose it.
“Fuck you!” I choke out, thrashing against the restraints.
The burn makes me twist, my stomach tightening as nausea climbs my throat.
“You’re fucking broken,” I spit, my voice breaking but still sharp. “You think this makes you powerful? You’re nothing but a pathetic, twisted?—”
The slap cuts me off, snapping my head to the side, rattling my teeth, and blurring my vision.
The second slap lands even harder.
The room tilts.
Everything becomes too much to process. My body gives up before my mind, slipping away and shutting down piece by piece.
The last thing I’m aware of is his voice, continuing the message for the camera, emotionless.
And just before everything goes dark, one thought breaks through: this isn’t the worst thing he’s going to do to me.
And then everything disappears.