Chapter 22 #2
“She was crying,” he said, voice duller now. Tired. “Begging me to spare her father’s life.”
Of course she was.
“She said Matteo confessed to her... about what he did to you while you were in his custody. Even though you just claimed you were never violated during those four weeks.
Each word landed like a blow.
A lie.
A calculated, filthy lie.
I opened my mouth—
But he wasn’t finished.
He wasn’t even really looking at me anymore.
His gaze had gone distant.
Pulled somewhere else entirely.
“I was violated too.”
The words were quiet.
So quiet I almost didn’t hear them.
But they hit harder than anything else in the room.
My breath caught.
“By your father,” he continued, still not fully present. “Many years ago.”
Something cold settled into my bones.
“Traumas like that never leave you,” he said. “Time doesn’t erase them. Nothing you build can stop them.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “They hunt you.”
His gaze returned to mine.
“I know it feels shameful, but you don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said, voice softer but still intense.
“I would’ve found the best therapist to help you heal... and to guide you in whatever decision you make about the pregnancy.”
The room felt too small.
Like the walls were pressing in.
“Vincenzo, I was never violated.”
I stepped forward, ignoring the flare of pain in my side.
Forcing him to see me.
To hear me.
“I spent those four weeks in a locked room,” I said. “Holding someone hostage.”
His brow furrowed.
Confusion cutting through the certainty.
“My father,” I said. “Vasquez.”
That got his full attention.
“He’s alive,” I continued. “He faked his death. He’s been working with the Spanish the entire time.”
Silence.
“I took my father’s gun the first night he came in to harm me and seized him. He came alone. That was his mistake.”
My voice didn’t waver.
“I used the cuffs they left in the room to chain him to the pipe—tight enough that he couldn’t move—and used him as leverage so the soldiers wouldn’t harm me.”
The memory sharpened, clear and vivid.
“Every time they brought food,” I continued, “I had the gun pressed to his temple through the serving slot. Safety off. Finger ready. I told them exactly how it would go: one wrong move, one forced entry, and his brains would be on the wall.”
“They backed off,” I said. “Fed us and left us alone.”
“Matteo needed him alive,” I said. “Whatever they had going on—it was worth more than me.”
My hands trembled slightly at my sides.
I met his gaze head-on.
Unflinching.
“Violet does nothing but lie—and it’s pathetic how easily you believe her. No one touched me in those four weeks. I’m telling you the truth.”
Vincenzo didn’t speak right away.
But something in his face... broke.
“Your father?” he repeated slowly. “You’re telling me Vasquez is alive?”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.
“I went to California myself,” he said.
“After the crash that killed him and his family, I had my men exhume the body. We didn’t rely on hearsay—we verified everything. DNA. Dental records. Bone structure. Independent confirmation.”
His voice hardened. “It was him.”
He took a slow step closer.
“His eyes locked onto mine—unyielding now.
“Your father is dead, Elena.”
For a moment, the room felt like it tilted beneath my feet.
“I don’t know what your investigation team told you,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, “but Vasquez was standing right in front of me four weeks ago. Alive. Breathing. Smiling.”
I let out a hollow breath. “Smoking like nothing ever happened. Like he hadn’t just erased himself from the world.”
I held his gaze. “I kept him hostage for four weeks.”
A faint, bitter smile touched my lips. “Maybe you should learn to investigate—or re-investigate—before jumping to rigid conclusions.”
My eyes hardened. “Or do you think I’m lying about my father being alive too?”
I smirked, even as pain tore through me.
He never believed a word I said... even though I always told the truth.
My hands curled slightly at my sides.
Vincenzo didn’t move.
But I saw the tension building again.
“My father told me I was never really his,” I continued, my voice steady but cold.
“He said the DNA test proved it. My mother had cheated. That my siblings and I were just mistakes — bastards he never wanted.”
I drew in a slow breath.
“The crash everyone thought killed him? He orchestrated the whole thing. He murdered my mother and my brother, then faked his own death and walked away without a scratch.”
Silence crashed over the room.
“Maybe now you can stop hating me so much,” I added quietly.
“Turns out I’m not a Vasquez after all.”
Vincenzo shook his head.
Once.
Decisive.
“Elena, I truly want to believe you,” he said quietly, “but your words are completely illogical. The trauma you endured is clearly clouding your mind. You might be hallucinating.”
His gaze hardened.
“You claim you saw a dead man in Matteo’s estate and held him hostage? How is that even possible? You’re mixing nightmares with reality. The Spanish would never kidnap someone and then allow them to take one of their own hostage. The story is laughable.”
He continued, voice rising with disbelief:
“You — injured, restrained, outnumbered — overpowered trained men? You took one of their most valuable assets, chained him up, and held him for a month... and they just let you?”
“And now you claim you were never violated? Yet Matteo’s own daughter is begging me to spare her father’s life because of what he supposedly did to you.”
Something hot surged behind my eyes.
Anger.
Tears burned—but I refused to let them fall.
“Well, since nothing I say is believable to you,” I snapped, my voice shaking with barely contained fury, “how about we run a fucking DNA test? Then you can see the truth with your own eyes.”
I moved closer, holding my ground.
“When the results come back, I expect an apology. For calling me a liar... and for doubting every word I’ve ever said.”
My chest rose and fell unevenly.
I turned sharply, unable to bear the suffocating silence any longer.
Before the tears could spill and betray me completely, I walked toward the door.
The distance felt endless, every step heavier than the last, as if the floor itself was pulling me back.
“I’ll arrange the DNA test for tomorrow,” he said quietly. “And if you’re right... I’ll take responsibility.”
I stopped with my hand on the door handle, refusing to face him.
“Responsibility?”
My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady.
“Will you take responsibility for every moment of suffering you inflicted on me... all because you thought I was Vasquez’s daughter? Because you believed your hatred and punishments were justified?”
“When the truth hits—that I’m not his child, that everything you did was based on lies—will you face what you’ve done?”
“I never carried his blood. I am not his daughter. And he’s still alive... ready to be found.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and unbearable.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost broken.
“Elena... I already regret every bit of pain and suffering I caused you. More than you could ever imagine. I don’t expect your forgiveness. Hell... I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself.”
A painful smirk twisted my lips.
Without another word, I pushed the door open.
The moment it clicked shut behind me, the dam broke.
Hot tears flooded down my cheeks, blurring the corridor into streaks of light and shadow.
I didn’t care who saw me.
I didn’t care about dignity, pride, or appearances anymore.
All I wanted was to get away from him.
“Elena!”
Renzo’s voice echoed from the far end of the hall.
Sharp. Concerned.
“Elena—wait—”
My body moved faster than my thoughts, half-running, half-stumbling down the corridor, past the portraits, past the cold walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in.
I barely made it to my room.
The door slammed behind me with a force that rattled the frame.
And then—
My strength gave out.
I slid down the wood slowly, my back scraping against it until I hit the floor.
The moment I did—
The sobs tore free.
Raw. Broken.
The kind that ripped through your chest and made every breath hurt.
I pressed a hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Because the one thing I needed—
The one person who was supposed to believe me—
Didn’t.
And somehow—
That hurt more than everything else combined.
Violet—always Violet—fed him a lie, and he took it without question.
No hesitation.
No demand for proof.
No scrutiny—nothing like what he put me through.
Instead, he shattered his phone in a fit of rage, tearing apart the truth I had just handed him... like it was worthless.
Like I was.
He believed my words were those of a madwoman—like I was losing my mind.
God, it hurt.
I pressed my palms against my still-flat stomach, my fingers trembling against the warmth beneath my skin.
There was something fragile there. Something real.
Something that had already been dismissed... before it even had a chance to exist in his world.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
My voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”
The apology was for the tiny life that had already been questioned.
Doubted. Rejected.
I squeezed my eyes shut as a fresh wave of emotion surged through me, sharp and overwhelming.
A part of me—quiet, desperate, almost childlike—wished this wasn’t real.
That I wasn’t pregnant at all.
That I had been smarter.
More careful.
That I had taken the morning-after pill that first night, before everything spiraled into this mess.
But it had been my first time.
I hadn’t known what to do.
Hadn’t thought beyond the moment.
And now—
Now there was no undoing it.
I stayed there, curled against the floor, letting the grief settle into my bones until even breathing felt like something I had to fight for.
Time blurred.
Not in hours. Not in minutes.
Just... in weight.
Dragging.
My hands trembled as I wiped my face with the sleeve of my oversized shirt.
The fabric was damp now, clinging slightly to my skin, but I didn’t care.
I pushed myself up slowly, using the door for support until I was standing.
Barely.
Each movement felt deliberate, like my body had to be convinced to keep going.
I walked to the bed.
Paused.
Then climbed onto it, the mattress dipping slightly beneath my weight.
I turned onto my side and pulled the pillow into my chest, wrapping my arms around it tightly—as if it could hold me together in a way nothing else could.
A fragile substitute for something I didn’t have.
Something I needed.
Something that had just been questioned.
Tomorrow.
The word settled in my mind like a promise.
Or a challenge.
He’d do the test.
Fine.
Let him.
Let him bring in whatever doctors, whatever machines, whatever cold, clinical process he needed to confirm the truth.
Let him see the result with his own eyes.
Let him read it in numbers and charts and biological proof that the child was his.
Let him face the reality that couldn’t be argued with.
Let him realize—
That Violet had lied.
Again.
And let him sit with it.
Let him sit with the fact that he had chosen her word over mine.
The thought sent a strange, sharp flicker through my chest.
Not just anger.
Not just hurt.
Something closer to determination.
I curled tighter around the pillow, cheek pressing into the soft, slightly damp fabric, as if grounding myself in something tangible.
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.
And when it did—
I wanted to see his face.
Not just hear his conclusion.
Not just receive his apology.
I wanted to witness the exact moment his belief in her—
His unwavering loyalty to her—
Finally fractured.
Even if only for a second.
Because that moment?
That would be mine.
And it would be enough.