3. Ariana
3
ARIANA
Where the hell is Lorenzo? I’ve been in this hole of a room for more than five hours, and there’s been no sign of him. With no windows, there’s only one exit, and two bulky bodyguards have been blocking the narrow door—in itself hard to navigate—ever since we got shoved in here to prepare for the night.
I know my strengths and limitations. Without a weapon, there’s no way I can take out two men, not without backup lined up or having a plan to get out of this fucking deathtrap warren.
There was an unexpected guard change a minute ago. I haven’t been on the job long enough to establish their routines, and now, I could kick myself. It was the perfect moment for me to get the hell out of here because this wasn’t the plan. Fuck, Lorenzo.
For all I know, it was the only opportunity to get the hell out of here.
I’ve lost all contact with my team. I keep raking my mind to understand how it happened, but it was so subtle. First, my makeup case and my clothes—both replaced with their standard-edition fare. There went all my tracking devices. I’ve never had a phone or a gun with me as I had to be in character. That was Lorenzo’s job. My partner was supposed to have my ass covered while I’m undercover in this God-forsaken ring.
Fuck.
“Ten days,” one of the new bodyguards says. “Ten fucking days since his compound got burned to the ground. That’s how long it took them to identify his body.”
I glance surreptitiously at them. Useful gossip is coming my way.
“Randazzo? They really found his body? You’ve got to be kidding me. Don Emilio Randazzo dead?” The other bodyguard is stunned. “How can they be so sure?”
What the actual fuck? Randazzo dead? He’s the most notorious Capo Crimini and head of this ring we’ve been trying to crack for years.
I swallow and blink, homing in on the two bodyguards’ muttered discussion to catch more words. I steady myself by leaning with my hip against the desk, needing to be so freaking careful not to show how this news affects me. But already, tremors run through me. Premonition tightens my already cramping gut. Is this why they moved us two extra times in the past twelve hours?
“They found his body, eighty percent charred,” the bodyguard says. “No eyes, no ears, and missing a finger. And his ring, apparently. That fucking insignia on which every capo has sworn alliance to for decades.”
“Where have you had all this intel?” the other bodyguard asks.
“My friend in the sbirri . The one that likes to talk.”
Both bodyguards chuckle, and I close my eyes with an inward scream. The Italian police talking to Mafia bodyguards. This corruption is why we’ve been so careful, so slow to go undercover, and why it’s almost impossible to get ahead. My plans for Franco Fiore—Randazzo’s henchman and my little steppingstone to the man himself—would be much further along if it weren’t for the police holding hands where they choose to with organized crime.
Fury engulfs me, and with a steel grip, I suppress my rage and frustration at being so stymied, keeping my facial expression blank and focused on the girl in front of me.
Someone got to Randazzo first.
Fuck.
Randazzo is an enigma. Long ago, he went underground and ran his operations through a three-dimensional maze of henchmen so thickly layered, with so many twists and turns, getting to the man proved impossible.
But Randazzo took everything from me, and I’d vowed I’ll get my revenge. I’ve committed the past seven years of my life to this task, preparing to take him down…only for him to go bask in Hell without ever having to look me in the eye. Because someone got to him first. How the fuck did he do it?
“Get on with it, Ana,” one bodyguard says as he steps up to me. “Shop opens in half an hour.”
This wasn’t the plan. Sweat breaks out between my breasts and down my back. The plan was to stop this sex-slave auction from happening, but nobody has raided this place yet. Where the fuck is my team? I clamp down on the anxiety eating my gut and telling me this operation has been compromised. How? We were fool-proof, unbreachable. This can’t happen. It can’t be real.
“Yes,” I say, playing my part even if my sixth sense tells me to run as self-preservation makes me fall back into character. Observe, adapt, and react only when the time is right.
Shit.
“Blink, cara ,” I instruct softly so I can blend the fake eyelashes with the girl’s real ones, trying to bring life to the hollow look in her eyes.
The girl blinks, but it’s like one of those old dolls whose eyes close as you tip their heads. She’s so young. On paper, it says she’s eighteen, but she could be fifteen for all I know. Apparently, she signed up for this herself, but guns held to your parents’ heads could make a lot of people do things they don’t want to, especially if you’re not from Italy and in a moment of misunderstanding handed over your passport.
We’re all in serious trouble here. Hyperventilating won’t get me anywhere, so best I think rationally. Or attempt to, at least. My team is missing in action, and my type don’t get out of here alive. Not with what I’ve observed three days into this operation. With my luck, I’ll end up on that auction stage, too.
At least one thing stands true: comparing me with the women for sale would be like putting a donkey next to a unicorn and asking a stallion which one he’d like to fuck. All the bidders tapping into this sex-slave market think they’re Italian stallions, and for their money, they only want pretty unicorns. The prosthetics I apply protect me up to a point, but now I can’t risk even being here, never mind hiding behind fake burnt skin covering half my face.
As I apply a second mascara coat, feet shuffle, and an unnatural quiet descends over the room. A chill prickles down my spine, as if Death itself has swept in, suffocating even the soft breathing of the drugged women lined up in chairs along the wall.
Without moving, I glance up into the mirror to see who has walked in.
He meets my gaze, and shock zaps through me like an electric current. The mascara wand drops from my hand as fear cuts through me like an Arctic wind, making goosebumps pop on my arms and freezing the blood in my veins.
Franco Fiore.
God. How is it possible? This demon from hell was supposed to have been apprehended by now. I was never meant to come face to face with him during this operation—I made sure of it.
Something went wrong. Very wrong.
I swallow hard as I blink, making sure I’m not seeing a ghost.
But he’s real. So fucking real in his black suit and black shirt and black tie and black scowl, even his stained teeth seem grey against his tanned skin and the black ink of the tattoo reaching up to his chin.
He stares at me as if he came for me. How did he know?—
I cower back as he steps closer, the very Devil in disguise, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, inspecting me with those little shark eyes that see everything. The bodyguards have closed the only escape with the bulk of their bodies, blocking the narrow door.
I should have run. As soon as my sixth sense had told me to get the hell out of there, I should have bolted.
Now, it’s too late.I can’t break eye contact with Franco, hypnotized as if he’s a snake. That night flashes back in my mind, as it still does, often and without invitation. Those memories have helped me get this far, fueled my vendetta against this man, but now he’s here ?
This wasn’t the plan. It hits me that my team doesn’t know where I am anymore. I’m on my own.
“Ariana Morelli,” Franco says in greeting, his voice deep and grainy. “I preferred Emilia. It’s been a long time.”
Twelve years. Twelve long and harrowing years of looking behind my back, treading water, and diving deep to stay hidden between the reeds of this life I’ve been running from. From a world I have vowed to bring down if it’s the last thing I do. A mission I’m willing to die for.
Oh, I’m staring death in the eyes.
If he knew where to find me, what else does he know?
Everything.
He holds out his hand to me, but I’d rather be buried alive in a coffin full of rattlesnakes than touch him.
“Come, piccola ragazza , Randazzo has asked you to join him. At last.”
My breathing falters. But Randazzo is dead. Or isn’t he?
This is Franco’s subtle way of telling me I’m dead, too. With the way things have been going, this is hardly news.
“Come now, piccola ragazza . Let’s make this easy. You should be glad I came for you. Imagine what they’ll do to you once they’ve figured you out.”
I close my eyes, fear over which I have zero control, sparked by this man, rippling to every last cell in my body. Franco Fiore is the most sadistic human I’ve ever known…and he’s come for me. None of the simulations I’ve worked through had him as my tormentor. Now all the preparations I’ve gone through to go undercover seem like a joke.
This is going to be real.
As real as what is going to happen to these women tonight. As real as what happened twelve years ago.
And I’ve done nothing to stop it.
We were wasting precious time. And now…
Fuck this.
I’m not dead until I’m dead.
I’ve been trained. I can get out of here. Mind over matter. With a nod and a deep breath, I steel myself. I can still fight, but timing is everything.
Franco’s hand circles my elbow, his callouses scratching, the scent of stale cigarette smoke clinging to his flesh like sweat.
“That’s it, baby girl, follow my instructions,” he murmurs, his voice silk that seems to flow into me, coiling and twisting me into a knot of fear no training could have prepared me for. He used those words on me before, in that exact tone?—
He can’t hurt you in that way. Nothing he could do could be worse than the first time.
My mind races, taking everything in, trying to find an escape as we walk the endless corridors of this hellscape. Eventually, we scale the stairs to the ground floor and reach an exit.
Franco firms his grip on my arm as we step into the night. Our footsteps crunch on the gravel, and behind me, his bodyguards keep close. We’re at the back of the building which, from the outside, looks like a deserted farmhouse and barn, so off-grid, there’s nothing for miles. The stars are luminous, uncountable in a clear sky.
It’s now or never.
I go for his waist, wanting to position my legs to force him to go down, but Franco anticipated this and blocks me with his shoulder and an elbow in the gut with such force, I stumble. His fist connects with my jaw, whipping my head back. God. He is tall and built. He must weigh twice my body weight.
“She fights back now?” he says with a smirk I want to wipe off his face. “You should know better, little girl. Remember how it went last time?”
I remember every second of that night.
His bodyguards watch idly as I try to take on the man who still haunts me. I go for him, screaming my rage, but he backhand slaps me hard and grabs me by the hair as he kicks my legs from underneath me. I hit the gravel, and then he is on top of me, his body pressing me into the ground in the same position from so many moons ago.
“Oh, Ariana, isn’t this a fond memory?” he whispers close to my ear as he grinds my face into the sand.
His weight squeezes the air out of my lungs, and my stubborn arrogance around everything that happened with Franco Fiore years ago turns into dust.
“Fuck you.” I bite out.
He only laughs as he shifts to tie my arms and legs. With brutal force, he turns me on my back. He caresses my cheek, running a thumb over the prosthetic.
“You’re a clever little one, Ariana, but not clever enough.” He finds the edge of the prosthetic, works it loose for a stretch, and rips it off in one go.
“Fuck!” I yelp as pain sears my skin.
“Open wide,” he says as he squeezes my jaw. My skin burns, and even if I could bite those fingers, he’s too fast. He shoves the prosthetic into my mouth as a gag. “Tasty shit, isn’t it?”
It’s all chemical and oily with a weird placating scent that comes with cosmetics. I’d take it any day over the number of other things he could shove into my mouth. Soon, I’m dropped into a car’s trunk, and we’re on the dirt road, my body bouncing along with each bump and pothole.
When we slip onto smoother tar and the car speeds up, I lose all sense of space and time. Eventually, the car stops, and the engine switches off. Right on cue, my pulse races and pounds in my temple. This could be it.
Franco will have his fun with me first. He’ll push to see how much I can take before he kills me. I steel myself, praying my mind will hold its ground. Mind over matter. Mind over body. Whatever happens next, don’t lose your mind.
When the trunk opens, a henchman pulls a bag over my face. He grunts as he cradles me in his arms and huffs as he carries me through a garage, the smell of motor oil and lubricant heavy in the air beyond the man’s stale stink of old cigarettes. Metal bangs on metal, and then we’re descending some stairs. Endless stairs. The air becomes moldy, like wet cement and stone.
I’m dropped onto something that bounces with creaky springs. It reeks of piss.
Someone rips the bag off my head, and a torchlight blinds me.
“You know, Ariana, at some point, you were my only hope.” Franco stands in front of me where I’m sitting on a dirty mattress, raised off the floor by an old steel bed frame. The torchlight haloes his body, making him look like the Angel of Death. “Now, Randazzo is dead, and I’ve stepped into his position as Capo Crimini as if it were held for me by the gods.”
The gods. As if.
But if Randazzo is really dead, and Franco just took over his operations, then we’re fucked. He’s not even the man’s legitimate successor. Not that it matters to him. Franco is unhinged. Always has been.
I glance around frantically. Nobody is going to find me here.
“You’ve gone from being my only hope to being as useful as shit in a bucket.” He sighs. “So, while I sort everything out and establish myself as Don, you’re going to stay here where you can’t come and fuck things up for me. We’re going to count the days, cara , and maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll find a use for you in the bigger scheme of things.”
In the bigger scheme of things means only one thing—sex trafficking. Where he’d wanted me in the first place and what he told me he was preparing me for.
He snaps his fingers, and his henchmen come forward, grip me by the arms and legs, and force me on my back.
“She’s a frigid little thing, but she won’t lie still. Tie her to the bed frame. Both sides.”
Raped, by this man. Again. I can’t. He might have had me once, but I vowed no man will ever have me like that again.
But this is worse. This is going to be a gang rape, and then what? Franco’s meticulous precision and his love for ritualistic barbarism make me want to beg already.
Quiet tears slide down my temples and into my hair as I’m spread-eagled on the bed. It hits me that none of the prep work or training they do could prepare you for this.
Franco puts a medical carrying case on the mattress. He starts to dig. I close my eyes as fingers fiddle with my jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling at the zip. Soon, someone tugs them down, but not far enough to violate me.
I open my eyes only to spot the glint of metal in the light.
Franco runs his fingertip along my panties, and I know the exact moment he sees Randazzo’s tattooed seal, because he laughs.
“You lot are fucking idiots. Even from here—” he stands tall as he shakes his hand holding the scalpel, “—I can see this isn’t Mara’s work. Dumb fucks, all of you.”
He puts the scalpel on my stomach, and I shudder at the metal’s cold tip and warm handle burning my skin. Now he’s lighting a cigarette, staring at me, deep in thought.
“Cut or burn?” he asks after a few deep drags.
His meaning sinks in, and I cower.
“Meh, I’m working on my brand. The scalpel it is.” He tosses the half-smoked cigarette to the floor and grinds it with his heel then picks up the scalpel again. “Now hold still, cara . A line a day until I figure out what to do with you.”