Chapter 21 #2
“He thought I was already broken. He believed being kidnapped and locked in a room would make fear burrow so deep into me that I’d become compliant within hours.”
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
“Not only was I not scared — I refused to submit.”
I shifted slightly against the mattress.
“It’s true he would have touched me in the wrong way,” I admitted, my voice steady. “But he made the mistake of coming in unguarded. The moment he stepped fully into the room and tried to force himself on me, I moved.”
“I slid the heavy internal bolt shut — the kind that locks from the inside only. Then I turned on him and beat him until he stopped moving.”
Renzo leaned forward a fraction, eyes fixed on me.
I paused, letting the moment settle.
“The bastard dropped instantly. Didn’t even have time to scream.”
A faint, grim satisfaction colored my voice.
“After that, it was simple. I took the cuffs they’d left on the bed for me and chained him to the radiator pipe in the corner. Tight enough he could only twitch.”
Renzo winced instinctively.
“Didn’t he have a gun?” he asked, voice turning rough.
“Disarming armed men is one of my skills,” I said flatly. “I took it from him before he knew what hit him.”
“That was how I kept my father as my hostage,” I went on, voice low. “He became my shield. No one was allowed to attack me whenever food arrived.”
“Each time the guards brought a meal, I’d drag him to the door, gun pressed tight to his temple. They understood perfectly: one step out of line, one attempt to break in...”
My lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile.
“Vasquez dies on the spot.”
Renzo let out a low whistle, but there was no humor in it—just disbelief.
“I’m trying to believe this isn’t some Hollywood scene,” Renzo murmured, voice uneasy. “The Spanish are savage... pure evil. You can’t just play them like that.”
“Normal civilians can’t do what I did,” I replied, my tone flat. “I used what the CIA taught me. It sounds like a movie script, I know — but every word is true.”
“Matteo needed my father alive too badly to risk it. He couldn’t afford to let me kill Vasquez, so he wouldn’t let his men force the door.
Whatever deal the two of them had running.
.. it was far bigger than me. I saw it in their eyes before they locked me in.
Killing Vasquez would have cost Matteo everything — losing me was nothing in comparison. ”
Renzo dragged a hand down his face slowly, like he was trying to process the full picture.
“You held him like that for four weeks?” he asked.
I nodded.
I kept the gun on him almost the entire time,” I continued. “I slept in short fragments, never fully asleep. Every creak, every sound — I was already standing. Any movement, and my eyes were scanning the room. He was my leverage. I couldn’t allow even one mistake.”
Renzo stared at me for a long moment, something like awe mixed with concern flickering in his expression.
“That’s...” Renzo shook his head, stunned. “That’s not just nerves. That’s pure craziness.”
“It’s called desperate instinct to survive,” I replied simply.
He exhaled sharply.
“If this is really true, then you’re bolder and braver than most of us could ever dream of being. Holding your own father hostage while you’re the kidnapped one? That’s on a completely different level.”
I smirked triumphantly and adjusted my position on the bed.
After a beat, I shifted the focus away from myself.
“So what happened to Matteo? Did Vincenzo make him pay for kidnapping me?
A slow, dark satisfaction crept across Renzo’s face.
“Oh, he certainly dealt with Matteo,” Renzo said, leaning back, as if settling into a story.
“First thing he did... he made sure Matteo would never walk on those legs again. They were cut off—precisely, all the way to the waist.”
A shiver ran down my spine, but I couldn’t stop the grim satisfaction curling in my chest.
“He didn’t stop there,” Renzo went on. “While Matteo was still reeling, trying to survive after both of his legs were snatched, Vincenzo torched his two biggest warehouses and his three private ports — irreplaceable assets. He burned everything to ash.”
“No witnesses. No evidence. No trail. He vanished without a trace, refusing to give the Spanish any reason to escalate into open war.”
He added quietly,
“On the surface, it looks like pure bad luck. Internal failure. Or perhaps sabotage from a rival that no one can prove is even real.”
The room went quiet again.
“Vincenzo could’ve finished Matteo, and no one would have stopped him. The only reason he only took Matteo’s legs instead of ending his life outright,” Renzo added, his voice lowering, “is because of Violet.”
I looked at him.
“Because of her,” I said.
Renzo nodded once.
“Even if Violet never learns that Vincenzo killed her father... losing him alone would shatter her. Vincenzo knows how delicate Matteo and Violet’s bond was, and for her sake, he let Matteo live.”
He exhaled softly. “For all his ruthlessness... he would never hurt Violet.
My mood plummeted the moment her name slipped into the air.
Violet.
It didn’t matter how casually it was said, how neutral the context—her name always landed the same way.
Heavy. Inevitable.
Like something I could never outrun.
Violet.
The invisible axis every decision in Vincenzo’s life seemed to turn on.
Swallowing the pain, I asked, “Where’s Vincenzo been?” I tried to keep my voice steady, though it came out softer than intended. “I haven’t seen him around today.”
As I asked about him, the revelation that I carried his child settled in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
I knew I would have to tell him when I saw him.
“He’s been buried in meetings,” he said finally. “Cleaning up the Matteo situation. Tightening things. Making sure nothing comes back to bite us.”
His tone was casual, but I caught the edge beneath it.
This wasn’t just cleanup.
This was containment.
“But,” he added, glancing back at me, “he’ll be here by evening.”
The words landed softly.
I nodded, my throat tightening in a way I couldn’t quite control.
Since the rescue, Vincenzo had come every single day.
Like clockwork.
Not for long.
Three minutes, maybe less.
Always at the same time—usually when the nurses were already in the room.
While they changed dressings, checked vitals, adjusted IV lines.
Clinical moments.
Moments where conversation wasn’t expected.
He would stand there—impeccable as always, untouched by the chaos surrounding him.
Hands in his pockets or clasped behind his back.
Eyes on me, but never too long.
Never too deep.
“Are they treating you properly?”
“Is the pain manageable?”
“Let me know if anything changes.”
Clipped. Controlled. Efficient.
Then he would leave.
No lingering.
No softness.
No questions that mattered.
But he came.
Every day.
And somehow, that had become enough for me to hold onto.
Renzo pushed himself to his feet, the couch creaking faintly in protest.
He stretched once, then looked down at me with something warmer than before—something almost... genuine.
“I’m glad, Elena,” he said. “Really glad you didn’t go through the worst of what the Spanish usually do to their enemies.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound scraping against my throat.
“Didn’t think you’d be glad about anything that concerns me,” I replied, voice edged with ice. “Especially since you’ve hated me from the very beginning.”
Renzo huffed softly, not quite denying it.
“I didn’t hate you,” he said after a beat. Then, with a small shrug, “Okay—maybe I did. A little.”
That earned the faintest twitch of my lips.
“But things change,” he went on. “People change. Situations change.”
His gaze flickered over me, taking in the exhaustion I couldn’t fully hide.
“But I got to know you better,” Renzo continued, shaking his head slowly.
“And I realized how wrong I’ve been about you all this time. I apologized for my actions on the ridge — you remember that, right?”
I held his gaze.
“I don’t remember accepting your apology.”
He smiled faintly and moved toward the door, fingers curling around the handle.
“My next assignment starts in a week, so I’ll be gone for a while,” he said, glancing back.
“But until then... if you need anything — company, a distraction, someone to talk to, or just a body in the room when your mind won’t quiet down...”
His expression softened with quiet understanding.
“Call me. I’ll be there. Okay?”
A small flicker of relief warmed me.
“Sure,” I whispered.
I watched him leave.
The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound that seemed louder than it should have been.
And just like that—
The room felt colder.
Quieter.
My mood dipped again, heavier this time, sinking into something I couldn’t quite shake off.
Vincenzo would be here by evening.
The thought settled in my chest, solid and unavoidable.
I had to tell him.
This wasn’t something I could keep.
He needed to know—fast. I needed to see his reaction immediately.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my abdomen, fingers resting there lightly.
I swallowed hard.
His possible reaction to the news of my pregnancy played out in my mind in flashes—and none of them were good.
Rage.
Cold dismissal.
A quiet order spoken in that same controlled tone he used for everything else.
End it.
The word echoed, even though he hadn’t said it yet.
But he might.
And I had to be ready for that.
I lay back slowly, careful of my ribs, letting my body sink into the mattress while my feet still touched the floor.
Half-propped.
Suspended between rest and tension.
My eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I started counting.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Heartbeats.
Anything to keep my mind from spiraling too far ahead.
Time blurred the way it always did when you were waiting for something you couldn’t avoid.
At some point, the light shifted.
The gold faded into softer hues, shadows stretching longer across the room.
The quiet deepened.
Then—
A knock.
Soft. Controlled. Real.
My heart jumped before I could stop it.
“Elena,” Renzo’s voice came through the door, slightly muffled by the wood. “Vincenzo’s around. He’s in his study.”
Everything inside me went still.
“Got it,” I called back, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Thank you, Renzo.”
“You’re welcome.”
I heard his footsteps retreating down the hall, each one fading until there was nothing left but silence again.
It’s time.
The words settled heavily in my chest.
I pushed myself upright slowly, bracing one hand against the mattress.
Pain flared along my ribs but I pushed through it, teeth clenching briefly until it dulled into something manageable.
Still, I moved.
At the vanity, I paused.
The girl staring back at me didn’t look like someone about to have a life-altering conversation.
She looked like a ghost.
Skin too pale.
Dark circles bruising the space beneath my eyes.
Hair dull, lifeless around my shoulders.
For a moment, I just stared.
Then I reached for the powder.
Light strokes.
Enough to soften the worst of it, not erase it.
I didn’t have the energy to pretend to be whole—but I could at least look... less broken.
A quick spritz of perfume at my neck, my wrists.
Something subtle.
Something that didn’t scream desperation.
Something that said I still had control—even if it was a lie.
I exhaled once, steadying myself.
Then I stepped out into the corridor.
The walk felt longer than it should have.
Every step echoed.
Past the guest wing’s sitting room, where books sat untouched on polished shelves, spines uncracked, as if no one had ever truly lived here.
Through the arched gallery.
Down the wide marble staircase.
Across the main foyer.
My heels clicked against the polished stone, the sound too loud in the vast space, bouncing off high ceilings and cold walls.
Past the dining hall doors.
I didn’t look inside—but I remembered.
Standing there.
Serving.
Invisible.
Watching him and Violet from a distance that felt like a different lifetime.
My jaw tightened.
I kept moving.
Finally—
The study.
The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, a thin line of warm lamplight spilling into the dim corridor like an invitation... or a warning.
I slowed.
Inside, I could hear the faint rustle of paper.
The soft clink of glass meeting wood. The quiet rhythm of someone completely in control of their world.
Of everything.
Including me.
I drew in a breath.
Held it.
Let it out slowly.
Then I knocked.
A pause.
“I’ll send for you when I’m hungry, Chiara,” Vincenzo’s voice came from inside—low, distracted, edged with authority that didn’t need to be raised to be obeyed.
Something in my chest sank further.
“It’s Elena,” I said.
Softer.
Not as steady as I wanted it to be.
Silence followed.
Long enough to stretch.
Long enough for doubt to creep in.
Then—
“Come in.”
No hesitation this time. No softness either.
Just permission.
I pushed the door open wider.
And stepped inside.