Chapter Thirty-Four
Lily
My mind is in thick fog, my limbs heavy as lead. The first thing I notice is the ache in my head, then the dryness in my mouth. I blink, my vision swimming in the dull, gray light.
“Lee! Oh my God!” Chiara’s voice cuts through the haze like a beacon.
“Give her water,” another voice commands, calm but firm.
Cool plastic touches my lips, and warm, stale water trickles down my throat.
I gulp greedily. My mouth tastes like cotton and something bitter.
When I force my eyes open, Chiara’s worried face hovers above mine, surrounded by four other unfamiliar women.
The lighting is awful. What little there is comes from a tiny, grimy window high up on one wall.
I look around and all I can see is concrete walls and a ceiling held up by rusted metal beams, so high it blends into darkness.
“What…happened?” My voice is hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
Chiara helps me sit up and clutches me like I might disappear. “Oh my God, Lily, I thought you wouldn’t wake up. Mother… She…” Her voice breaks into a sob. I frown. Memories begin to filter back. The dizziness, the tea. Daria laughing.
“Where’s Daria?”
Chiara pulls back, tears streaking her cheeks. “She drugged your tea. When you passed out…they came. Armed, masked men. There was a struggle. Th-they shot her. She’s dead.”
The words hit me like a slap. I try to stand but my legs protest. “Where the hell are we?” I ask, scanning the room.
“We think it’s an old warehouse,” says one of the women. “Maybe this was the office once.”
“They keep us locked in here,” Chiara adds. “No one’s seen their faces. They wear ski masks all the time.”
I grope at my jeans, searching for my phone. “No one has a phone?”
They all shake their heads.
“We were stripped of everything.”
I exhale slowly, trying to focus. “Who are you?”
“I’m Laura,” says a beautiful woman with a pixie cut.
“Giulia,” offers another.
“Issy. Short for Isabelle,” says the blonde next to her.
“Anne,” says the last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Chiara speaks again. “They’ve been here longer. Days. Maybe a week. They were moved here from somewhere else.”
I get up on shaky legs and try to walk around to find out where we are being held.
It’s a makeshift prison. There’s a dirty toilet stall behind a plastic curtain.
Foul-smelling mattresses scattered on the floor, along with water bottles, a few wrappers from cheap protein bars, probably our “meals”.
The girls tell us everything they know about our captors, which is not much.
The men who guard us don’t speak. They come in only when necessary, fully masked and armed.
A chill creeps down my spine. They don’t sound like amateurs.
Still, I note one thing—they are keeping us alive. That means we have value. Which means we might still have a shot.
Hours pass. My mind clears, and my limbs feel stronger. We whisper among ourselves, the others relieved I’ve woken up, eager for any new idea, any glimmer of hope.
“We need something, anything, we can use as a weapon,” I say, scanning the room again. But there’s nothing that even comes close. No sharp corners, no loose pipes. Just a barren cage.
I go to the toilet stall, pulling the curtain aside. There is a single cracked bowl. The lid on the tank is gone. I can see nothing useful at first glance.
Then I remember something. I’d once repaired a flush myself as a broke student with the help of a plumbing tutorial on the internet. I lean over the water tank and reach inside. My fingers graze metal.
Yes!
There is the rod I remember seeing, thin and long. I work the crumbly plastic screws, and with some effort, it comes free. I bring it back to the others like a trophy.
Issy takes it first, testing its strength. It bends.
“Try snapping it.”
We take turns, passing it between us, bending it back and forth until, crack, it splits in two jagged pieces.
The ends are sharp. It’s a crude weapon, but effective.
I rip a strip from the hem of my shirt, wrapping it around one piece of metal to create a makeshift handle.
Issy does the same with the other piece. Now we have two pointy tools.
“These can injure, maybe even kill if we get close enough.”
The mood shifts. Hope, sharp and electric, begins to bloom in everyone’s eyes.
“We can’t take all of them,” Laura says.
“We won’t need to,” I reply. “We only need one of them to open the door.”
We hatch the plan quietly, every detail whispered with tense urgency. Two of us will hide behind the door. When they come in, we strike fast. The others will overwhelm if we have the chance. It’s a shitty plan, but it’s better than waiting to be sold or worse.
The rhythm of their schedule is predictable, so we agree to strike in the morning.
That’s when they seem most relaxed and there are fewer voices, hinting at fewer men around.
Tonight, we wait in silence, the parts of the broken rod hidden beneath the mattress.
Our makeshift daggers are our only hope.
I lie awake, Chiara’s back pressed against mine for warmth. I don’t know where Damiano is, or if he even knows what has happened to me. But I believe he is looking. He has to be. And until he gets here, we survive. No matter what.
It’s morning when we take our positions, Laura and I pressed against the wall behind the door, metal rods gripped tight in our hands.
Giulia lies sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness.
Chiara slams her fists against the metal door, voice rising in panic.
“She’s not waking up! Oh my God, I think she’s dead! ”
Silence.
Then a voice from the other side, muffled and irritated, “Who?”
“My sister! My mother must have given her too much. She overdosed!”
There is a beat of silence, then we hear the click of a key turning in the lock and the door swings open. A man in a ski mask charges in, dropping to his knees beside Giulia, distracted by her limp form.
Now.
I leap forward, my weight slamming onto his back.
I plunge the jagged metal rod into his neck.
Warm blood spurts across my hand. He lets out a strangled gurgle, grabbing at the wound.
I wrench the rod free and stab again. Nausea rises but I shove it down.
I’m a vet, for God’s sake. I’ve seen blood. I can do this.
He crumples.
“Go!” I whisper-shout, breathless.
They scatter through the door, sprinting for freedom, I bolt after them.
Then freeze.
Five men are standing between us and the exit. They’re not wearing masks.
And right in the center—Gian. My stomach plummets.
“Well,” he drawls, smiling like a viper. “Fancy meeting you again, Lily.”
“Gian… Help us. Please.” My voice cracks. Maybe, maybe he’s not part of this. Maybe he…
His laugh, low and cold, slithers down my spine.
“Oh, I will help you. Just not the way you’re hoping.
” He steps forward, and without warning, smashes his fist into my face.
Pain explodes in my jaw. I hit the floor hard, a metal tang flooding my mouth.
My lip is split. My sight is blurry from tears and I’ve let go of my weapon.
Behind me, the women scream as the men herd them against the wall, shouting orders. Hands grab them to shove them back and push them down. I push up to my knees. My limbs tremble, but I force myself to my feet, stepping between Gian and the others.
“Don’t hurt them,” I whisper hoarsely. “It was my idea.”
His eyes blaze. Crack! A slap lands across my face so fast I barely register it until my cheek is burning and tears stream from my eyes.
“You don’t give orders here,” he snarls. He grabs me, fingers digging into my upper arms, and yanks me close. The smell of sweat and expensive cologne turns my stomach.
“So full of fight,” he mutters, voice low and possessive. “Shame to bruise the merchandise.” He drags his thumb along my bleeding lip, then presses hard enough to make me flinch. “Look what you made me do.”
I twist in his grip, but he fists my hair, jerking my head back. Pain radiates through my scalp.
“I should teach you obedience right now,” he growls. “Let the others watch. Maybe then they’ll learn.”
My breath catches when something flashes in his hand.
A knife.
He slides it under my shirt, the cold steel grazing my skin, then he yanks it upward, slicing the fabric of my shirt and my bra, exposing me to the stale air. I choke on a sob, terror washing over me in waves.
This is it. This is how I die.
“I could keep you,” he whispers, lips brushing my cheek. “Break you, make you beg. And when I’m done, you’ll go to market like the rest. And I’ll make sure the Santaluccia bastard knows how you screamed and begged to be fucked.”
No.
I snap. With a primal cry, I thrash against him, not caring if the knife cuts me. I’d rather bleed out than be touched by him. His mouth crashes over mine in a vile kiss. I bite down hard.
His blood fills my mouth as he yells and jerks back.
“You little…” He slams me to the floor with such force that my head cracks against the cement. Stars burst in my vision, everything spins.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Gunfire erupts like thunder, screams echo off the warehouse walls. Chaos. Violence. Death.
I can’t move. I curl into myself, eyes screwed shut, hands over my head as if that could shield me from it all. My ears ring so loudly it drowns out the world. Dust and smoke choke the air. Someone is yelling. Someone is crying.
Then strong hands grip my arms.
No, no, no.
I scream. Thrash. Fight. I can’t see, can’t breathe—
“Lily.” The voice cuts through the haze, deep and raw. “Lily, my love. It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe.”
The world tilts. My heart clenches, then stutters into motion again. I blink through tears and blood and grime.
“Damiano?” I whisper, trembling. “Is it… Is it really you?”
“It’s me, little flower.” His voice breaks. “I’ve got you.”
He pulls me into his arms and I break. The sob that rips from my chest is full of relief and agony and everything I’d kept buried. He crushes me against him, solid and warm and alive.
“I’m here, I’ve got you.” He breathes into my hair. “You’re safe. No one’s ever going to hurt you again.”
Around us, the gunfire has gone silent. The only sound now is the soft sobbing of the other women.
I jolt upright in his arms. “Chiara!”
“I’m here, Lee,” her voice calls. She rushes over, falling to her knees beside us, her wary eyes locked on Damiano. He doesn’t let go of me, but shifts slightly so I can see her.
“She’s safe,” he says gently. “They all are.” His jacket comes off in one fluid motion and he wraps it around my shoulders, cocooning me in his warmth. The scent of him, mingled with gun smoke and steel, grounds me. He smells like safety.
Issy’s voice drifts from behind us. “We’re alive.”
I rise on unsteady feet, Damiano anchoring me to his chest as he rises smoothly. The warehouse is a war zone.
Four bodies lie sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around them. No sign of the one I stabbed. Gian, however, is still here, kneeling, one arm useless at his side, Matteo’s gun trained on his skull. His expression is twisted, part fury, part something unholy.
Lucas has his suit jacket over Chiara’s shoulders, his arm steady and protective. The other girls hover behind them, still trembling. I turn to Damiano, emotion flooding me, crashing into me like a wave.
He came for me.
He found me.
He saved us.
Then I see his gun, tucked in his shoulder holster. Before I even think, I move. My fingers close around the grip, sliding it free. I turn and level it at Gian.
“You filthy, disgusting pig,” I snarl, voice cracking under the weight of my rage and terror.
My hands tremble. I don’t know if I am strong enough to pull the trigger, but God, I want to.
I want to watch him bleed. I want to erase his smirk and every twisted word he said. My finger inches toward the trigger.
But Gian only stares at me, dark eyes unblinking, daring me. I clench the gun tighter. My heart pounds in my ears and I want to throw up. Do it, Lily, a voice in my head tells me.
Then a warm hand closes over mine.
Damiano.
He steps behind me, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest.
“Let me,” he whispers, voice low and steady. “Let me be your monster.”
I turn my face up toward him, and in his eyes, I see it. Not pity, not fear, but fierce, brutal devotion.
“Let me be your vengeance,” he murmurs. “Your darkness. You don’t have to carry this.”
I tremble. I want to be strong. I want to take the shot. But I’m so tired. So broken. My breath shudders out.
And I let go.
The gun slips from my fingers into his waiting hand.
He turns me gently, then presses my face to his chest, shielding me.
“Don’t look,” he says.
I obey. I close my eyes and cover my ears. I dimly hear voices, shouts, and I jerk as a single shot detonates, leaving only deadly silence in its wake.
Damiano moves again, shifting me into his arms as if I’m something precious and sacred, and carries me out of the place where I thought I was going to die.
When I open my eyes again, I’m in the backseat of a car, curled up on his lap.
He strokes my hair, grounding me, whispering wordless comfort.
And in the warmth of his embrace, I know one thing for certain—my monster came for me.
And he will never let the darkness touch me again.