Chapter 23
Damiano
Lorenzo and I built the Dungeons many years ago.
Mainly for interrogation and other ungodly acts, our business requires us to function.
While the rest of the property is sun-drenched marble and sprawling views of the Mediterranean, the Dungeons is a modern fortress of cold steel and soundproofed concrete.
This was my playground. So many of our enemies have bled and died on these floors.
Tonight won’t be any different.
Lucian and Andreas arrived with the shipment an hour ago. I stand in the center of the interrogation room, the LED lights bathing the two men in a harsh glare as they sit tied to steel chairs bolted to the floor.
Alfonso, the bastard who thought he could kidnap Katarina and get away with it, is slumped in his chair, shirt bloodied, his face barely recognizable from the one I’ve seen on TV.
Beside him sits the man he was bickering with back at my club, a middleman named Sergio, whose breathing has turned into a disgusting wet rattle.
To my right, Lucian flashes a sinister smile at Sergio before driving a punch to his face. Meanwhile, Andreas is leaning against the reinforced doorframe, idly flicking his pocketknife open and shut.
"You had an hour to think," I say, pulling a pair of the bloodied leather gloves tight over my knuckles as my patience wanes.
“I’m not known for my patience, amigos,” I say, rising from my chair to stop in front of Alfonso. I watch him visibly shake before he spits blood onto the polished floor, almost hitting my right shoe. He tries to laugh, but all that comes out is a wet cough.
“I told you what you need to know,” He sneers. “We were just doing what we were told. Kill the brother, deliver the goods, including your ex-novia.”
My grip on my gloves tightens until the stitching groans, his choice of words scratching my ego.
Ex-novia.
The term is a deliberate mockery of an old wound I’m still struggling to heal, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
Andreas fucking snickers, the annoying sound bouncing off the concrete walls. He shakes his head, the blade of his knife catching the light. "I didn’t realize this relationship was complicated,” he teases.
Strunzuni.
Lucian, however, doesn't share his humor. He shifts his weight, looking between the bleeding men and me with genuine confusion.
"Ex-girlfriend?" he asks, his voice sounding oddly loud in the room. "I thought she was your girlfriend? Isn’t that why we’re punishing these fuckers?"
I step into Alfonso’s space and drive my fist into his jaw in pure rage. The crack of bone is loud and fucking satisfying. Before he can even choke on his scream, I grab his throat with my hand, squeezing until his face turns purple.
"Who paid you?" I hiss, my face inches from his. "Say it, or I will peel the skin from your face while you're still alive to feel it."
All he can do is gurgle the blood in his mouth, his eyes bulging as his body bucks against the chair. I shove him back, the chair rattling against the bolts in the floor. His body slumps forward, almost falling off the chair.
“Give me a fucking name!” I scream, wiping a stray drop of his blood from my knuckle.
Sergio begins to sob, his triple chin quivering. Tears streak through the dirt on his cheeks. “We don’t know! We were just told to secure the girl. El tano... he was the one who wanted her. Not us. Please!”
“?Cuál tano?” I hiss.
Lucian steps forward and reaches out, grabbing a fistful of Sergio’s hair and yanking his head back until his triple chin stretches tight.
“The one in charge!” Sergio cries, his voice cracking. “We don’t know his name. He never told us!”
I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out the photo of Nicolo Guidicelli. I hold it inches from Alfonso’s face and ask,
“?Es este el hombre?”
Alfonso blinks through the swelling of his eyes, squinting at the photo. “No,” Alfonso chuckles, his voice trembling but certain. “I've never seen that man before.”
I shift the photo to Sergio. The man’s eyes bulge, reflecting the light like a cornered animal.
“Don’t lie to me, Sergio,” I croon, twisting my voice into a low, taunting melody. A dangerous glint sharpens in my eyes as manic heat coils in my chest like a wicked fever I know all too well.
Sergio’s eyes are wide with terror as they jump between my face and the photo. He shakes his head frantically. “No. No, that is not him. I swear on my mother’s soul, I have never met that guy. The man we dealt with... that’s not him.”
Andreas pushes off the doorframe, his knife disappearing into his pocket with a sharp clack. He walks a slow circle around the chairs, scanning their faces.
“They are telling the truth. They are too pathetic to be this good at acting.”
Hot rage burns in my gut. Andreas is right. They’ve never met Nicolo. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t his doing. It means the web is larger than I anticipated, or Nicolo is using a proxy so well hidden that his own soldiers don’t recognize his face.
“Well, I guess you’re useless to me after all,” I say, stepping back, reaching for the cold gun in my holster, and pointing it towards the useless rats who just wasted my time.
“This is for killing Mateo,” I say and shoot once, the bullet hitting Sergio’s head, killing him instantly.
“Wait! Please!” Alfonso screams, his bravado finally snapping as he watches Sergio slump on his chair, lifeless. “I can help you—”
“This is for putting those fucking bruises and wounds on my woman,” I whisper, through his ragged gasps. I grind the muzzle into his forehead, marking him one last time. His eyes widen in pure terror as he realizes his demise is here.
“And you should know, she belongs to me. In this life and the next.”
POP!
The silence that follows is absolute, the smell of gunpowder coating the air as the bullet case hits the floor. Alfonso and Sergio slump forward, their chairs creaking under the dead weight.
I tuck the gun back into my holster and look down at the blood pooling on the grey floor.
Great, now I’m back to square one.
I turn to Lucian and Andreas.
“What a waste of time,” I say, pulling the leather gloves off my hands.
Lucian nods and says, “What now?”
I turn to wash my hands at the sink, and I notice Andreas isn't moving. He’s staring at the small, darkened observation window in the back wall.
“Damiano,” He says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I spin around. “What?”
“Someone was there. I saw a shadow.” Andreas says, pointing to the window.
Shit.
I move, my boots thundering as I bolt for the heavy steel door.
“Katarina!” I roar, my voice echoing throughout the basement level.
Fuck, I didn't want her to see this.
I burst into the security corridor, but the hallway is empty. When I reach the far door leading to the exit, it’s swinging on its hinges, and I see a shadow darting toward the staircase, running blindly.
“Katarina, stop!”
The iron door to the Dungeons slams shut behind me with a heavy clank that vibrates through the soles of my boots. I run toward the exit, my lungs burning, the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood still clinging to my clothes.
This night air is cold, and the moon shines brightly, casting the lemon trees into twisted shadows. I find her near the stone fountain, her small frame doubled over, clutching the moss-covered rim, holding for dear life.
Before I can reach her, the sound of her distress stops me. She’s retching and crying, deep sobs breaking through every attempt to hold herself together. Her whole body is convulsing as if she couldn’t decide whether to cry or scream.
I stop a few feet away, my hands hovering in the air, trembling with a sudden, paralyzing helplessness. I’ve killed so many times before, but I have never felt anything of it until now.
She heaves again, gasping for air. I take a step toward her, my boots crunching softly on the gravel.
She spins around, slamming her back against the fountain's edge. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Tears streak down her cheeks. Her eyes fall on my hands before her breath hitches, her lip trembling.
"He's dead," she whispers to herself. Her voice cracks on the word. "He's actually dead."
"Katarina,"
"I wanted this," she chokes out, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as if she's trying to hold back another sob. "I told myself I wanted this. And now I just—"
Her voice falters, shaking her head, her eyes squeezing shut. "They didn't even tell you who sent them. They died, and they didn't even give us anything. Mateo is still just—he's gone, and it means nothing." Her eyebrows knit together in despair.
The champagne satin of her dress reflects the moonlight, clinging to the stiff lines of her posture, trying to hide her still bruised body. She looks fragile, yet the venom in her voice is deadly.
"They killed Mateo, so I killed them," I say, my voice hardening. I take a tentative step forward. "They were going to sell you like livestock to men who make me look like a saint."
"I know," she says, and the two words come out wrecked. "I know what they were." She wraps her arms around herself, staring past me towards the basement door. "I watched you in there. The way you moved, the way you spoke to them. It’s like nothing to you. Like you've done it a hundred times."
"I have," I say.
I won't lie to her.
She lets out a short, broken sound. Her voice drops to a whisper. "It was so easy for you.”
“It is. Do I disgust you?” I ask.
Her eyes snap back to me with a pained look in them.
“I’m disgusted with myself!” she shouts.
“Why is that?”
“Because I feel good that he’s dead!” She grabs a fistful of dirt and rocks in one hand and throws them at my feet in her fit.
"What else do you feel?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, her eyes glistening.
"Sick," she whispers.
She turns away, the hem of her satin dress catching on a rose bush. The thorns rip through the fabric, scratching at the skin of her leg. She sinks into the dirt at the edge of the path, her legs giving out beneath her, dropping her face into her hands.
I stand there like an idiot, watching her shoulders shake. I have never felt more powerful and more pathetic at the same time.
I know how to end things. To hold a room full of dangerous men and make them fear for their souls. But I don’t know how to sit with someone who is breaking like this.
But I kneel anyway.
The gravel bites into my knees through the fabric of my trousers. I don't touch her at first. I lower myself until I am level with her, close enough that she knows I am there, and she stiffens.
"Don't," she mutters.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
A long silence. Then another sob tears through her, uglier than the last, and something in my chest cracks open. I reach out slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and when she doesn't, I pull her in. Her face against my chest, my arms closing around her.
She doesn't fight it. She grabs the front of my shirt and cries.
For Mateo, for the answers she didn't get, for the relief she doesn't know how to feel. I press my lips to the top of her head.
And for the first time since my mother died, I hold someone like I am afraid to let go.
“I love you, Kat. I’m never letting you go.”