Chapter 4
ELENA
Iturned, fury blazing, ready to strike again—and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw Amy.
Goosebumps raced across my skin.
But the face in front of me was not hers.
A tall man, dressed impeccably in a suit, moved with a strange grace, almost feminine in appearance.
My mind reeled, reality crashing back in.
I spun back to the fallen man, my chest heaving, eyes still burning with rage.
“I’m Ciro,” the new man said calmly, his voice cutting through the storm of my adrenaline. “Second in command to the Capo, Vincenzo Orsini.”
Capo.
An Italian Mafia boss.
The word stumbled across my mind like a stone in my chest.
Vincenzo... the boy I had once known—small, almost fragile, with that hesitant, nervous laugh, fourteen hours trapped together in that cave—he?
The same boy who had trembled at the dark, who had begged for scraps of hope, now sat at the apex of power?
My stomach dropped.
He wasn’t a boy anymore. Not by a long shot.
Where there had once been uncertainty, fear, and a flicker of kindness, there was now steel.
The sweet, scared boy of memory had risen, transformed into a man who commanded loyalty, fear, and death—and he wore it all like a crown.
The realization hit harder than any punch I’d taken.
Ciro, however, didn’t flinch at the bloodied body sprawled on the ground—a cruel testament to my uncontrolled rage.
There was no anger in his face.
No shock. Not even the faintest flicker of surprise.
He only glanced at the man I had beaten to the edge of ruin, his body a grotesque map of blood and bruises.
And in that calm, detached glance, I saw it: he had already sized up the damage, weighed it, and moved on.
Perhaps Ciro had seen enough violence to make this look ordinary—but for me... the weight of it pressed down like stone.
My chest heaved.
My hands shook.
Guilt clawed through me with every ragged breath.
I wanted to undo it, to rewind time, to stop before I had gone too far.
I wanted him to stop—to not charge at me, not to fight me—but he wouldn’t listen.
He wouldn’t care.
Ciro moved with unnerving calm, each step precise.
He approached the body with a measured grace, almost feminine in the smoothness of his movements, yet there was a sharp, predatory edge beneath it that made my skin crawl.
He squatted down, hands hovering for a moment before probing carefully, checking the pulse of the man sprawled before him.
Every motion was clinical—yet charged with an unspoken power, the kind that could bend men to his will without a word.
I held my breath, heart hammering, unable to tear my eyes from the grotesque scene.
“Is he... dead?” I asked, my voice trembling, barely above a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to... I begged him to stop... I...”
Ciro’s gaze didn’t waver from the bloodied man.
His voice was low, controlled, carrying a quiet authority that made my chest tighten.
“He’s alive,” he said. “And for the record, this is Renzo—third in command to Vincenzo Orsini.”
Third in command?
I had just beaten the third in command of a mafia empire to a stupor?
Relief hit me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and my knees gave way.
I sank to the floor, gasping for air I couldn’t quite catch, heart hammering so violently it felt like it might burst from my chest.
He wasn’t dead.
He was alive.
I looked down at my hands—still slick with his blood—and nausea rolled through me, hot and bitter.
Every drop, every stain, felt like a scar branded onto my soul.
The weight of my actions pressed down like stone, each breath a ragged struggle.
Ciro rose with a smooth, effortless motion, the kind of control that made everything around him seem slower, smaller, weaker.
His eyes flicked briefly to my bloodied hands, then to my trembling form, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might say something—anything.
He didn’t.
A faint, almost casual gesture invited me to move.
“Stand,” he said, voice low, calm, and precise.
Each syllable carried the weight of command, “The Capo is waiting at the altar. The bride... is expected.”
I hesitated, glancing down at myself—blood-stained, trembling, exhausted.
My body felt foreign to me, coated in the aftermath of violence I had barely controlled.
Yet, slowly, I forced myself up from the floor, letting Ciro guide me, one careful step at a time.
I kept glancing back at Renzo, a question burning in my mind: shouldn’t someone be helping him? Ambulance? Medical team?
But Ciro ignored him entirely, leading me away until the distance became too great to see, leaving Renzo lying there, alone, yet alive.
We entered a separate room.
Three women were already there, moving with quiet efficiency.
They seemed young, in their early twenties, but their professionalism and focus kept them from betraying any surprise at the blood still clinging to my skin.
Ciro’s voice broke the silence:
“Ladies, get her cleaned up and dressed. Fast.”
He didn’t wait for a response, walking to the door and closing it behind me.
I let my eyes roam over the three women assigned to dress me, their hands gesturing toward me, silently urging me closer.
I hesitated.
My stomach growled, a hollow, persistent reminder that I hadn’t eaten anything solid in three days—just water, barely enough to keep me moving.
The emptiness gnawed at me, but beneath it was something sharper: a searing pain in my left side, a burning ache that twisted and knotted with every breath.
My ulcer flared like fire, stabbing deeper with each movement, and I bit back a groan, tasting blood and bile at the back of my throat.
For a moment, I wanted to throw myself at the women, demand food first, anything to dull the pain clawing through me—but I couldn’t.
Would they even listen?
I had already lingered too long.
Vincenzo was waiting at the altar. And I... wasn’t even dressed.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to step forward, each movement a negotiation between exhaustion, hunger, and the burning, relentless pain in my side.
My hands shook.
My vision blurred at the edges.
The three women moved around me with practiced precision, guiding every step, their hands gentle but firm.
When I hesitated at the bathroom doorway, my body tense, one of them reached for my arm.
“It’s alright,” she said softly, voice soothing. “We’ll be careful. Just let us help.”
I swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and let them take over.
They undressed me with care, working silently but attentively, mindful of my shivering as warm water poured over my bruised, aching body.
My muscles tensed under the bath, not just from cold, but from the foreign intimacy of being cared for—humiliating and alien after years of running, surviving, never allowing myself to pause.
When the bath ended, they wrapped me in a soft towel and guided me toward the dressing area, supporting me as if I were fragile, lifting me over each step, over each hesitation.
My gaze landed on a pile of apples on the table.
Without a word, one of the women picked one up and offered it to me.
I snatched it greedily, biting down like a starving animal.
The juice ran down my chin.
The women exchanged startled glances, but didn’t interfere.
I grabbed two more in quick succession, feeling the searing ulcer pain finally ease as the food met my stomach, the relief almost dizzying.
With that small comfort settling in my belly, they brought the wedding gown over.
The dress was immense, heavy, impossibly layered, and yet they handled it with the utmost care.
They helped me step into it, fastening the underlayers first, smoothing the silk over my skin, tying each ribbon and bow with meticulous patience.
Every motion was deliberate, repeated, ensuring nothing was askew, while I tried to remain still, overwhelmed by the strange, alien ritual.
Finally, they positioned me in front of the mirror.
I didn’t need words—their hands straightened the folds, brushed stray strands of hair, applied the last touches of makeup.
I looked up, and the reflection was surreal: a perfect bride, draped in silk and lace, every detail immaculate.
And yet the eyes staring back at me were mine: hollow, haunted, carrying the weight of every brutal memory of the past five years.
Trauma and beauty collided in that impossible reflection.
They stepped back, satisfied.
Silent, patient, almost reverent in the care they had taken, they allowed me a moment to breathe.
“It’s time.” The eldest of the three women stepped forward, hand lifted in a gentle but firm gesture toward the door.
Her tone was neutral, yet there was something beneath it—an unspoken weight:
A bride awaited in the hall, poised, ready.
And yet... there was the strange, unsettling sense that somehow, in this moment, another woman was about to step into her place.
I nodded, letting them guide me.
Step by careful step, I followed, my heart hammering, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear, disbelief, and resignation.
I had never felt this kind of nervousness in years—not even during the nights I had spent running for my life through dark alleyways, dodging bullets, or hiding from men who wanted me dead.
This was different.
It was heavier, a weight pressing on my chest that made every heartbeat feel like a drum of warning.
I didn’t know if it was because I was suddenly being made a bride, forced into a role I had never asked for, unprepared in every possible way.
Or if it was the knowledge that the original bride—the woman whose perfect day I had just stolen—was still in the hall, waiting, watching, poised to reclaim what I had no right to take.
Every step toward the main hall felt like walking a tightrope stretched over a pit of vipers.
Was I really being wedded, or was this a twisted form of execution, a spectacle designed to humiliate me, to send a message to anyone who might think to cross Vincenzo Orsini or his empire?
My pulse hammered so hard I was sure the three women behind me could hear it, each beat a deafening drum in my chest.