Chapter 19 #2
The one person who should have been safe.
The one person who should have loved me without question.
Calling me my mother whore like it was her name.
Like she had always been one.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
But I refused to let them fall.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
Matteo stepped closer.
His boots crunched against the gravel.
He stopped just a few feet from me.
Close enough that I could see the faint curve of his smile.
“Now that your kidnapping has been... successfully executed,” he said, smooth, almost amused, “you should know why you’re here.”
His eyes glinted.
“First—because you disgraced us. As a family and as an organization.”
His voice remained smooth, almost detached.
“That day was supposed to be Violet’s wedding. We dressed her in our finest. Families flew in from Madrid, Barcelona, Seville. Everyone came to watch our daughter marry the love of her life.”
He gestured vaguely, as if recalling something distant. Something ruined.
“But what did you do?” His gaze returned to me, sharp now.
“You showed up—knowing exactly the history you shared with him. Knowing he would choose you.”
My stomach twisted.
“You stole her groom. On her wedding day. In front of all of them—while the entire Spanish society in Italy watched us be humiliated.”
“That is not—” I started, my voice weak but defiant.
He didn’t let me finish.
“Did you really think we would let that go?”
His eyes hardened, something colder settling beneath the surface.
“That we would forgive a disgrace like that?”
I clenched my jaw, fighting against the rising panic, the urge to scream, to defend myself, to tell them the truth—
That I hadn’t stolen anyone.
That I had run into that church seeking shelter.
Seeking safety.
That I hadn’t even known there was a wedding happening until I walked in and saw him—
Vincenzo.
In a suit.
Eyes wide.
Fury burning beneath the surface.
I hadn’t stolen anyone.
I hadn’t planned anything.
I had been running.
Running from Ruslan’s men.
But none of that mattered.
Because they didn’t want the truth.
They wanted a reason.
And I was it.
Words formed on my lips.
Then stopped.
Because I knew—deep down—anything I said would fall on deaf ears.
“And secondly...” Matteo gestured lazily toward Vasquez. “Your father wants you here.”
“He wants you to satisfy his needs from time to time... and if you do so without causing problems, you’ll be well taken care of.”
The words hit like ice water.
“Satisfy his needs?” My voice cracked on the last syllable.
Matteo’s smile widened.
“Your father—Vasquez—likes them young.”
“After staging his death in that plane crash everyone believed killed him, he came here—to Italy—to disappear. To make sure the people back in California truly believed he was gone.”
“And while he was here...”
A pause.
“He had his needs met. Many times. With many ladies.”
His gaze hardened slightly.
“But Vincenzo’s sister... she was his favorite.”
Silence stretched.
“Ever since Vincenzo rescued her, there’s been a void.”
His eyes settled on me.
“And now... you’ll fill it, Elena.”
My stomach lurched violently.
What the hell—
Vincenzo had been right.
My father had truly violated his sister.
“You’re saying...” I forced the words past the lump in my throat, my voice trembling. “My father would... violate me? From time to time?”
Matteo gave a lazy shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Crude way to say it, but yes. Nothing new under the sun, Elena. Fathers have been violating their own blood for centuries.”
He took two deliberate steps back.
“Take this woman to the black square,” he commanded.
Four men surged forward.
They seized my arms and hauled me upright.
My knees buckled instantly; pain exploded white-hot through my legs.
I didn’t fight.
They dragged me backward across the compound yard, boots scraping dirt, my gaze locked on my father’s face the entire time.
He watched me go—cigarette back between his lips, smoke curling like a noose.
No remorse.
No recognition.
Just cold, amused detachment.
I kept staring, willing this to be a nightmare, willing him to call out, to stop them, to show one flicker of the man he used to be.
He didn’t.
My father’s face stayed fixed in that same cold, detached mask as I was dragged away, as if nothing about what had just been said—or done—mattered to him.
Even as the distance stretched between us, I refused to look away.
I kept staring.
Burning the image into my mind.
Holding onto the last clear view of him, as though if I stared long enough, hard enough, he would change his mind.
Move.
Do something.
Anything.
Prove that this was some cruel illusion—something born from blood loss, shock, or a mind that had finally snapped under pressure.
My breath hitched.
My hands trembled where they hung uselessly at my sides.
No.
No, this couldn’t be real.
I forced my focus inward, desperate for anything to ground me.
My fingers moved instinctively.
I dug my nails into the inside of my arm—hard.
Pain exploded instantly.
A strangled breath slipped from my lips.
I did it again.
Harder.
The sting deepened, blooming across my skin, anchoring me painfully to the present.
This was real.
Too real.
It hurt.
My own father—alive.
After all these years.
After everything I had believed.
He had stood there. Looked at me. And treated me like I was nothing.
An object.
Something to be used.
Matteo’s words echoed in my mind.
He wants you to satisfy his needs from time to time...
My stomach twisted violently.
My own father wants to violate me.
After years of believing he was rotting in the ground... my skull’s pounding too hard to wrap my mind around it.
To even believe he had been alive all this time—secretly living here in Italy while I suffered...
While I lived like I had no family.
No one to call home.
No one to cry to.
I was drowning in it.
And all along, he had been alive.
Watching.
Hating me from a distance.
The realization settled deep into my bones, cold and suffocating.
I didn’t realize I had stopped breathing until air finally rushed back into my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.
The four men dragged me across the compound without a word.
Their boots scraped against dirt and stone, the sound grinding into my ears with every step.
My feet barely touched the ground.
They carried me more than I walked.
Like something that didn’t need to be handled carefully.
Like something that didn’t matter if it broke.
I didn’t resist.
My head swam.
The world tilted slightly with each step, but I forced myself to stay awake.
To stay conscious.
To see.
Because I refused to disappear into darkness while they did this to me.
They pushed me forward.
Shoved me toward a heavy steel door.
It groaned open with a low, grinding protest.
And then—
I was inside.
The door slammed shut behind me.
A sharp metallic clang echoed through the space.
Followed by a lock.
I stood there for several long seconds.
Barely moving. Barely breathing.
Letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
It was large.
Concrete walls painted a dull, institutional gray stretched around me, closing in without actually moving.
No windows. No escape.
Just walls.
A single narrow bed sat against one side, the mattress thin and worn, its surface stained and sagging.
No sheets.
Just a place to lie down.
And suffer.
Two metal folding chairs stood nearby, their legs slightly uneven, as though they had been used and discarded over and over again.
A couch sat along one wall—short, sagging, clearly salvaged from somewhere else—its fabric worn thin, seams fraying.
Next to it, a three-seater sofa in faded brown leather, cracked with age, one arm slightly collapsed inward.
And in the far corner—my breath caught.
A toilet.
Open. Exposed.
No walls. No partition.
Just a bare seat bolted to the floor, beside a showerhead fixed directly into the concrete wall.
No curtain. No privacy. No dignity.
A rusted drain sat beneath it, the only thing separating water from flooding the room.
That was it.
No table. No mirror. No clock.
Nothing.
My chest tightened painfully as the truth sank in.
This wasn’t just a room.
It was a cage.
A place designed not just to confine me—but to break me.
To strip me of privacy and identity.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
This was where they planned to keep me.
Where they planned to use me.
Where I would wait.
For whatever came next.
My legs trembled beneath me.
I took a slow, unsteady step forward, then another, moving deeper into the room as if testing whether it was real.
Whether I was real.
My fingers brushed against the wall.
After the fucking bloodbath at the academy... after those endless, brutal fights with Vincenzo’s men — punching, kicking, clawing just to stay alive, only to end up with more cuts and bruises than I could count...
That short bastard who tried to force his way between my legs.
I was beyond exhausted.
I could barely keep my eyes open during lectures, my brain screaming one thing only: get back to Vincenzo’s estate, collapse face-first into that guest room bed, and let the painkillers knock me out.
Let my battered body heal somehow.
Who the hell would’ve guessed I’d end up here?
Kidnapped.
My body still black and blue, still leaking blood, pain ripping through me in fresh waves that refused to die down.
I looked down at myself.
What was left of me, anyway.
My uniform hung in torn, filthy strips, barely clinging to my body.
Blood had crusted over nearly every exposed inch—my forehead, my arms, my knees, my thighs—dark and stiff in some places, still tacky in others.
My knees—already ravaged from the mountain punishment—were swollen and raw.
Every small movement sent a fresh pulse of pain racing through my legs.
I couldn’t sit.
Not on the chairs. Not on anything soft.
The thought of fabric pressing against open wounds made my skin crawl.
So instead, I moved carefully—slowly—lowering myself onto the cold concrete floor.
The moment I touched it, a shiver ran through my body.
I stretched my legs out in front of me, straightening them as much as my trembling body would allow.
Then I leaned back, bracing myself against the leg of the nearest chair, letting it support what little strength I had left.
My breathing was shallow.
Each inhale scraped against my ribs.
I swallowed hard.
My throat was dry.
“Vincenzo...” The whisper slipped out before I could stop it.
Barely audible. Fragile.
“Please... find me.”
My fingers moved instinctively, slipping into my pocket.
The phone.
Still there.
I pulled it out slowly, cradling it in both hands like it was something sacred—something fragile enough to shatter if I held it too tightly.
The screen was cracked.
Spiderweb fractures spreading across the glass like a wound.
The battery—dead.
No signal. No hope.
No way out.
But I couldn’t let it go.
It was the last thread connecting me to something outside this place.
I held it close anyway.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.
Time blurred.
My body sagged against the chair leg, my head resting back as my eyelids grew heavier with every passing second.
My mind spun—images, memories, pain all bleeding together into something I couldn’t separate anymore.
And eventually—exhaustion won.
I didn’t mean to sleep.
Didn’t want to.
But the body betrays you when it’s pushed too far.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
I WOKE TO HOT, RANCID breath on my face.
My eyes snapped open instantly.
A man’s face hovered inches from mine—close enough that I could see the pores in his skin, the slight sheen of sweat, the faint stubble along his jaw.
My entire body jolted.
“—!”
A scream tore out of me, raw and instinctive, as I shoved him hard with both hands.
He staggered back.
Caught off balance.
I scrambled upright, my legs trembling violently beneath me as I tried to stand.
Pain detonated instantly through my knees.
I gasped, catching myself on the arm of the chair as my body swayed dangerously.
My vision blurred for a second.
Then cleared.
And I saw him.
Vasquez.
My father.
Standing a few steps away now, watching me with a cold, unreadable expression.
But his eyes—those hazel eyes—they burned.
Not with concern. Not with recognition.
But with something darker.
Anger. Something twisted.
He held a cigarette between his fingers, unlit, turning it idly as if he were deciding whether to smoke it or use it for something else.
His shirt smelled faintly of stale smoke and whiskey, the scent drifting toward me with every step he took.
“What the fuck were you doing?” My voice came out sharp—cracked but filled with something I hadn’t expected.
Fear.
And something close to rage.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slow and deliberate, as though my touch had somehow dirtied him.
“Checking if you were still breathing,” he said flatly.
His voice carried no warmth.
No emotion.
“Wouldn’t want you dying before we get started.”
My stomach lurched violently.
“Started?”
The word echoed in my mind, twisting into something worse the longer I thought about it.
He stepped closer.
I instinctively moved back—but there was nowhere to go.
My spine hit the wall behind me.
No escape. No space.
“You heard Matteo,” he said, his voice dropping lower—almost conversational, as though we were discussing something trivial.
“You’re here to make up for lost time.”