Chapter 17 #3
The man’s grin widened as he stepped between my spread legs, the scalpel catching the surgical lights in sharp, cruel flashes.
My stomach dropped.
No.
No—no—no—
I thrashed violently against the restraints, every muscle in my body straining as I tried to wrench free.
The table rattled beneath me, metal legs scraping against the tile, buckles tightening with every desperate movement.
“Stay still,” he muttered, almost annoyed, as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.
His free hand pressed down on my thigh, pinning me more firmly in place.
Then—the blade touched my trousers.
Right at the inner thigh.
I felt the pressure first. Then the slow, deliberate push.
Fabric resisted for a split second—then gave way.
A soft, tearing sound followed as he dragged the scalpel through the material, carving an uneven path upward.
He worked with disturbing patience, widening the cut, shaping it into a crude opening around the most vulnerable part of me.
Each movement of his hand made my chest tighten.
Each shift of the blade sent a fresh spike of panic through me.
“No—!” I jerked harder, hips twisting violently, trying to disrupt his angle, trying to throw him off balance.
But he adjusted easily.
Like he expected me to fight. Like this was part of the game.
“Stop—!” My voice broke, shaking but fierce. “Get away from me!”
Tears burned down my temples, mixing with blood that had already begun drying on my skin.
I had heard stories like this before.
Seen what men like him did when no one stopped them.
“I’m not going to let you—”
My voice cracked, but I forced it out anyway.
“I won’t let you touch me like that.”
He chuckled under his breath, low and amused, like my resistance entertained him.
His hand shifted.
The sound of his zipper followed.
Cold dread slammed into my chest.
No.
No—
His other hand tightened on the scalpel as he worked his pants open, preparing himself with disturbing ease, like this was something he had done before—something routine.
Something he believed he was entitled to.
My breathing turned shallow.
Panic surged, wild and suffocating.
I twisted again, straining every muscle in my body—trying to move.
Trying to fight.
Then—the door exploded inward.
The sound was deafening.
Metal slammed against metal with enough force to crack the frame, the impact echoing through the room like a gunshot.
Everything froze.
The man above me jerked backward instinctively, his grip faltering.
The scalpel slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
For a split second—he stood there.
Frozen.
Exposed.
My head snapped toward the doorway.
Hope—sharp and fragile—cut through the terror.
Vincenzo stood in the entrance.
His suit was torn at one shoulder.
Blood streaked down his face, dried and fresh mixing across his skin, his broken nose still slightly swollen.
But it was his eyes—that made everything stop.
Dark. Cold.
Deadly.
There was something in them that I had never seen before.
Not just anger. Not just control.
Something far worse.
Something that promised consequences.
“Boss—” the man stammered, scrambling to recover, his hands half-raised as if that would save him.
“I was just—”
Vincenzo cut him off, moving like a flash—charging at him fast.
Like a madman, his fist clenched so tight I could hear bones cracking.
I heard it—the grinding of bone under pressure.
The first punch landed with brutal precision—right across the man’s jaw.
A sickening crack echoed as his head snapped sideways.
The second blow drove into his ribs.
Air rushed out of him in a sharp, pained gasp.
The third split his lip open, blood spraying across the white tile in a fine, violent arc.
But Vincenzo didn’t stop.
He advanced.
Drove him backward.
Each strike more controlled than the last, yet somehow more devastating.
The man slammed into the wall with a dull thud.
Vincenzo followed immediately, pinning him there with a forearm pressed across his throat.
And then—he lost control.
His composure shattered.
What followed was not discipline.
It was pure, unrestrained fury.
He drove his fist into the man’s face again.
And again.
And again.
Each impact heavier than the last.
Each blow driven by something deeper than anger.
Something personal. Something consuming.
Bone cracked. Blood splattered.
Teeth broke loose and scattered across the floor like debris.
The man’s body jerked with every hit, his hands scrambling weakly at Vincenzo’s arm, but there was no stopping him.
His face collapsed under the assault—nose flattened, cheekbone caved.
One eye swelling shut within seconds.
He sagged—but Vincenzo held him up.
Kept him there.
Blood poured from every split, turning his features into a slick, unrecognizable mask.
The man’s arms finally came up—too late, too slow.
Vincenzo’s fist slammed into his temple with a sickening impact that echoed in the room.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each blow driven with brutal, unrestrained force.
The man’s body went slack again.
His knees buckled.
Then he slid down the wall, leaving a smeared trail of red behind him as he collapsed into a lifeless heap on the floor.
For a moment—the only sound left was the echo of fists hitting flesh... fading into silence.
Vincenzo kept striking, even after the body had stopped moving.
Even after the man’s head lolled to the side, unresponsive, eyes unfocused, lifeless.
He kept striking.
Hard.
Relentless.
Driven by something that looked less like rage and more like something breaking apart inside him.
Only when his breathing grew heavier—ragged, uneven—did the motion begin to slow.
His shoulders rose and fell sharply.
Chest heaving.
Then, finally—he stopped.
Straightened.
Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the tile, forming small, dark drops that spread outward in slow, uneven patterns.
A new presence filled the doorway.
The doctor.
The same one who had run earlier.
He stood frozen in the entrance, lab coat pristine, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.
His face drained of color as his gaze flickered across the room—the broken bodies.
The blood.
Me.
Still bound. Half-exposed.
Stripped and bleeding.
His eyes widened.
Too late.
Vincenzo turned.
The movement was almost too smooth.
In one fluid motion, his hand slipped inside his jacket.
A compact pistol appeared.
Raised. Aimed.
The doctor didn’t even have time to react.
The gunshot cracked like thunder in the enclosed room.
The doctor jerked once—a neat, precise hole between his eyes.
His body stiffened mid-step. Then collapsed forward.
Dead before he hit the floor.
The silence that followed was heavier than the gunshot.
I flinched hard against the restraints, a choked sound catching in my throat.
My heart slammed against my ribs, every nerve in my body screaming at what I had just witnessed.
Another body.
Another life—taken in seconds.
Vincenzo didn’t even look at the man again.
He strode to the door in three long steps, slammed it shut, and twisted the lock with a sharp, decisive motion.
The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a deep, final clunk.
He crossed the room and knelt beside me, reaching down to his ankle.
In a single, smooth motion, he drew a dagger from its sheath.
The blade was black-handled.
Wicked.
Sharp enough to catch the light and reflect it in a cold, unforgiving line.
He brought it to the first restraint.
Carefully.
Almost... gently.
The blade pressed into the leather strap at my ankle, slicing through it with controlled precision.
One by one.
Ankles. Thighs. Chest. Wrist.
Each cut was deliberate.
As if he were afraid that one wrong movement—one careless slip—would hurt me further.
The final strap fell away with a soft thud.
For a moment—I didn’t move.
My body didn’t obey me.
My limbs felt foreign.
Heavy. Unresponsive.
Every inch of me screamed in pain.
My knees throbbed.
My ribs ached with every shallow breath.
My face burned, swollen and crusted with dried blood.
My shoulders felt raw from the struggle.
Everything hurt.
Everything.
Slowly—painfully—I pushed myself upright.
The sheet beneath me was soaked in multiple places, dark red spreading unevenly across the fabric.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry and tight.
My hands trembled as I pulled the torn edges of my boyshorts together, trying to cover the damage as best I could.
My fingers shook as I held the fabric in place, forcing myself to curl my legs beneath me.
To reclaim even a fraction of control.
Vincenzo sat down on the edge of the table.
Back to me.
His shoulders were rigid.
Unnaturally so.
His hands clenched at his sides, then loosened... then clenched again.
Over and over.
His entire frame trembled with a kind of restrained tension I had never seen in him before.
Fine.
Barely visible.
But unmistakable.
I swallowed blood and saliva, my voice coming out hoarse, broken.
“You were going to let them cut out my heart for her,” I said, my voice trembling but steady enough to strike.
“Why loosen me up? Why kill the man who was about to take advantage of me?”
My breath trembled.
“You despise me so much... watching would have pleased you, yes?”
He exhaled.
Long. Broken.
Like something inside him had finally cracked.
“You don’t deserve this,” he muttered.
Not to me.
To himself.
“You don’t deserve any of the pain I’ve put you through, Elena.”
His hands tightened into fists again.
“Everything I’ve done to you...” His voice roughened, barely holding together. “You don’t deserve it.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, almost to himself—
“I feel I’ve crossed a line I can’t come back from.”
He swallowed hard.
The sound was audible in the silence between us, sharp in a room that still smelled of blood, antiseptic, and gunpowder.
When he spoke, his voice came out cracked—stripped of its usual control.
“You asked me in the car how my night had been—without you by my side. The honest truth? It was a lonely hell.”
“Full of nightmares. Of what your father did to me. Of the blood. The screams. The way he laughed while he destroyed me.”
A bitter exhale escaped him.
“Torture,” he muttered. “Pain.”
“I missed you—your presence, your warmth, your breathing beside me—were the only things keeping me sane.”
His hand dragged down his face again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if he were trying to physically ground himself.
“You’re not your father,” he whispered.
The admission sounded like something he’d fought to say.
Like something that cost him.
“Why can’t I just see that?” he murmured to himself, as if wrestling with a part of him he could not control.
I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling myself inward as much as the restraints of my own body allowed.
Cold seeped into my bones.
Not just from the room—but from everything.
The weight of everything that had just happened.
Every movement hurt.
Every breath scraped against my ribs.
Vincenzo stood, pushing himself away from the table with a sharp motion, like he couldn’t stand still any longer.
He walked around to my side, his footsteps measured but tense, each one echoing faintly in the room.
He stopped in front of me and looked—really looked—at the blood matting my hair, the swelling along my jaw.
The bruises darkening across my skin.
The torn fabric.
The way I held myself—curled inward, protecting what little I could.
Something shifted in his expression.
“I can never truly earn your forgiveness,” he said softly.
“I’ve done too much... too much to break you.”
Almost like he was speaking to himself.
Almost like he couldn’t fully believe it.
“Violet saved me once—literally put her body between me and a bullet when I was sixteen.”
His jaw tightened.
“I remember screaming for help, crouched by her barely conscious body in the alley. That kind of sacrifice... it stays with you.”
The words settled in the space between us.
Heavy.
His voice roughened again.
“I do not want her to die, yes. But there is absolutely no reason you should be sacrificed for her.”
His eyes flickered, a darker shadow passing through them.
“Do you love her?”
The question cut through him.
I saw it.
The exact moment it landed.
His eyes snapped to mine—sharp, startled, like I had struck something deep and unguarded.
For a moment, he looked... caught.
Vulnerable in a way I had never seen in him before.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Nothing came out.
The silence stretched.
Finally—quietly—
“I... I don’t know how to love. I can’t. I’m incapable of it—of loving anyone.”
The words fell into the room like something fragile.
Like something he wasn’t used to admitting.
His jaw tightened, as if forcing himself to continue.
“But I know how to protect. How to repay. How to make sure the people who matter don’t suffer.”
His gaze dropped briefly, as if the weight of his own words pressed down on him.
“That’s what I’ve been doing for Violet.”
I didn’t look away.
Even though my eyes burned and my body screamed for rest, for escape, for anything but this—
I held his gaze like a challenge.
Like a question he couldn’t escape.
“Do you love me?”