Chapter 17
ELENA
I TURNED.
Fast and violent.
And drove both fists into Vincenzo’s face.
Left hook—sharp, brutal—slamming into his cheekbone with a sickening crack.
Right cross—driving straight into the bridge of his nose.
The impact jolted up my arms, pain blooming in my knuckles as cartilage gave way beneath the force of my strike.
For the first time since I’d known him—
Vincenzo staggered.
His head snapped back, eyes widening in genuine shock, as if he hadn’t expected me—of all people—to hit him like that.
To fight back.
To break his control.
Before he could recover—
I moved.
Using every ounce of strength I had left, I launched myself upward and drove my body into him with brutal force.
My foot connected with his chest.
Once.
Then again.
The first kick slammed into his sternum.
The second caught him harder—square in the ribs—as he twisted instinctively to regain balance.
Air exploded from his lungs in a sharp, strangled wheeze.
His body crashed backward into the side of the Hilux with a metallic bang, the impact reverberating through the loading bay.
The force of it dented the vehicle’s panel, the sound echoing sharply as one of the side mirrors snapped loose and clattered to the ground, spinning once before going still.
For half a second—
silence.
Then—chaos.
Boots slammed against concrete from every direction.
Voices shouted over each other.
“Secure the perimeter—!”
“Contact—!”
“Get her—!”
Men poured out of the shadows like they had been waiting for this exact moment.
From alcoves.
From behind vehicles.
From the side entrance of the medical wing.
Black tactical gear. Ear pieces.
Weapons already drawn.
Every movement calculated. Every reaction immediate.
The cameras—
I knew they were there.
Recording. Watching.
Capturing every second of what I had just done.
A ring formed around me.
Tight. Closing.
At least a dozen men.
Maybe more.
Most of them towering over me, their builds broad and imposing, their presence overwhelming in a way that made the space feel smaller with every breath I took.
Some raised compact MP5s.
Others held Berettas at low-ready.
And a few—held batons.
Ready to break bone with a single swing.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t lower my fists.
I would rather die here—on cold concrete—fighting every last one of them—than walk into that building quietly.
Than let them take me in.
Than let them cut into me while I was still breathing.
Behind me—movement.
Two men rushed to Vincenzo.
“Boss—!”
“Are you—”
He raised a hand.
Sharp. Commanding.
Instantly—they stopped.
Frozen.
Without looking at them, he pushed himself upright.
Slowly.
Like the damage I had just done was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Blood poured from his left nostril in a steady, unbroken stream, dripping onto the crisp white collar of his shirt.
It spread across the fabric, soaking into the black silk tie, staining it deep red.
A smear of blood streaked his cheek.
Another marked the lapel of his tailored jacket where he’d instinctively wiped his mouth.
Still—he adjusted his tie.
Calm.
As though he were preparing for a meeting instead of standing in the middle of violence.
He touched the side of his nose lightly.
Winced.
Just once.
Fresh blood welled between his fingers.
And then—his voice cut through the space.
“Hold her.”
That was all it took.
Six men moved at once.
Coordinated. Brutal.
The first grabbed for my arm.
I twisted instantly, slipping inside his reach and driving my elbow into his throat.
He choked—gagging—and released me.
The second swung a baton.
I ducked just in time, the weapon slicing through the air above my head.
I came up fast, driving the heel of my palm into his nose.
The crack of impact was sharp.
Blood sprayed.
But there were too many.
Hands closed around me from every side.
My arms. My waist. My shoulders.
I kicked.
Thrashed. Fought.
Screamed through clenched teeth as I tried to wrench myself free, my body twisting in their grip.
But it wasn’t enough.
They overpowered me. Dragged me down.
Hard.
To my knees.
And this time—the same knees—the same fragile, already broken point—hit the concrete with a force that shattered whatever was left of my restraint.
The gauze tore instantly.
Fabric ripping under the pressure.
Skin meeting concrete.
Raw. Unprotected.
Pain detonated through my legs in a white-hot surge, so intense it stole the air from my lungs.
My vision blurred.
Stars burst behind my eyes.
A strangled sound tore from my throat as fresh blood soaked through the ruined bandages, spreading in dark, ugly blooms across the white fabric.
My breath came in sharp, broken gasps.
Every nerve in my body screamed.
The men bearing down on my shoulders pressed harder, forcing my kneecaps into the concrete until pain shot up my legs in sharp, blinding waves.
My body bucked instinctively, twisting, straining against their grip—but it was useless.
Their hands didn’t budge.
Their weight didn’t shift.
I was trapped.
Pinned. Rendered still.
Vincenzo approached.
Slow.
Each step deliberate, unhurried, as if time itself bent around him.
As if he knew there was nowhere I could go.
He stopped directly in front of me.
Then lowered himself into a crouch.
Too close.
I could smell him before I could fully process him—blood, sharp and metallic, layered with cedar and something darker.
The scent wrapped around me, invasive, suffocating, familiar in the worst possible way.
His fingers lifted to my face.
I flinched immediately.
But this time—his touch wasn’t rough.
His fingers caught my chin with a strange kind of restraint, tilting my face upward as though I were something fragile instead of something he was about to destroy.
My breath hitched.
His thumb brushed across my lower lip.
Deliberate.
Almost... thoughtful.
I jerked my head violently, trying to pull away.
I snapped at his fingers, trying to bite, to fight, to do anything that would make him release me.
The men holding me didn’t loosen their grip.
Not even a fraction.
“Please...”
The word tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Broken.
Raw. Unrecognizable.
“You have all the power,” I said, voice quivering, almost breaking.
“Please... don’t do this.”
My chest rose and fell too fast.
“I’m begging you, Vincenzo... I can’t—please.”
For a moment—something subtle shifted in his gaze.
Something that almost looked like it might break him.
But it didn’t.
He leaned forward.
My breath caught.
His lips pressed gently to my forehead.
Soft. Lingering.
Reverent in a way that made no sense.
My entire body froze.
Every nerve went still.
“I’ll make the world remember your sacrifice,” he murmured against my skin.
“Every year, Violet and I will stand at your grave, lay flowers, and remember you.”
The words sank into me like something heavy.
“That much, I promise.”
Then—he pulled back.
Straightened.
As if nothing had just happened.
As if he hadn’t just kissed me like that.
As if I hadn’t just begged him not to kill me.
“Take her to the lab.”
His voice shifted instantly—back to that cold, commanding tone.
“Bind her hands and feet. Make sure she cannot move... or resist... when the surgery begins.”
He stepped back. Creating distance.
Ending everything.
The six men moved immediately.
Rough. Impatient.
Hands gripping my arms as they hauled me up, my body dragging awkwardly between them as my feet struggled to keep up with their pace.
My shoes scraped against the concrete, catching, slipping, scraping again.
Pain pulsed through my knees with every step.
“Vincenzo!” I screamed, my voice shattering almost immediately.
“Look at me—please! Don’t do this—Vincenzo, remember... the cave, the promises you made to protect me... please—have mercy! I am not my father... please—”
My voice cracked into something desperate.
“Please!”
Again.
And again.
But he didn’t turn.
Didn’t look.
Didn’t acknowledge me.
They dragged me toward the building.
Inside.
The first staircase hit like a wave of pain.
My heels caught on every step, my legs weak and uncoordinated as they forced me upward.
My shins slammed against the marble risers, each impact sending jolts of pain through my bones.
I twisted violently in their grip.
Kicked. Fought.
Anything.
One of them cursed sharply when my foot connected with his knee, the sound of impact echoing in the enclosed stairwell.
“Hold her tighter!”
A second later—
my shoulder was slammed into the wall with brutal force.
White-hot pain exploded across my side.
I tasted blood.
Copper flooded my mouth as my ribs screamed in protest, fresh bruises blooming instantly beneath my skin.
I gasped—but they didn’t stop.
Second staircase.
I hooked my leg around the banister, desperate, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
For a split second—
I held.
Then—they yanked harder.
The force tore my grip loose.
Fabric at my knee ripped open again with a sharp, ugly sound.
Blood smeared along the steps behind us in dark, wet streaks.
Third staircase.
The air changed.
Sharp. Sterile. Cold.
Antiseptic flooded my senses, overwhelming everything else. It burned in my nose, clung to my throat.
Medical. Clinical.
The kind of place where things didn’t get better.
They just got taken apart.
Rows of syringes.
Clear vials.
Folded surgical drapes.
A crash cart stood abandoned in one alcove, its defibrillator paddles gleaming under the lights.
Somewhere in the distance—a monitor beeped.
Uninterrupted.
Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anyone.
They pushed through double swinging doors marked LABORATORIO 3 in bold red letters.
Inside—everything felt colder.
Sharper.
The surgical lights were already on, suspended overhead on articulated arms like mechanical eyes waiting to observe.
Monitors blinked softly.
Instrument trays sat arranged with unnatural precision, metal tools aligned in perfect rows.
And in the center—a steel table.
Wide. Cold.
Waiting.