33. Pietro
Pietro
Ishould be dead.
I’ve done worse than die.
I’ve survived.
I’ve become the monster men tell stories about.
I’m handcuffed to a metal bed.
Strapped down. Stripped naked.
The back of my head throbs.
My blurred vision clears.
A nightmare on the ceiling.
A live feed projection.
Valaria.
I watch in horror.
She stands in the center of the sterile chamber, cold light pouring down over her shoulders like judgment.
A technician’s gloved hands move in a measured rhythm, clinical gestures across the console.
She doesn’t flinch when the restraints coil around her wrists, securing her to a padded chair behind her.
A respirator mask is placed over her nose and mouth. She welcomes it.
“Subject ready for cognitive override,” the technician says. “Confirm voluntary consent.”
She nods once. “I consent.”
“Biometric signature, please.”
A scanner flashes across her retinas. She doesn’t blink. The machine hums in response. Somewhere in the sterile gloom, an algorithm decides she has forfeited herself.
The technician hesitates, as if he sees something in her face worth saving.
“The procedure will isolate emotional memory associated with the operative Cucinotta,” he warns. “You understand this is irreversible?”
My blood boils. I have to escape. Save her.
Like a molting snake, I slither out of the straps.
I spin in tight circles in the center of the cell. The metal bed orbits me like a satellite until I send it crashing against the cinderblock wall.
The handcuffs slide away from the mangled bed frame.
I strip the sheet. Rip a hole for my head. Tear off a strip to belt the short tunic of a Roman warrior. What fools to think a swinging dick would stop me.
The corridor smells of bleach and salt—like the walls themselves are rotting. The overhead fluorescents flicker, stuttering my shadow along the cinderblock. Every step feels too loud, too human, in a place built to erase both.
I force my breathing to steady.
And when the guards stop me, I do what I do best.
A knockout punch for each one.
Two guards down. One camera black.
I rifle through their pockets for an access card. My pulse hammers as I find it—red stripe, clearance B. Not high enough, but better than nothing.
I strip one guard of his tactical vest, strapping it over my makeshift tunic. Taking both guns. One for each hand. It pays to be ambidextrous. I holster one over my bedsheet belt.
Then I shoot my way through every checkpoint.
I’m not a good man.
But I’m a man who loves her.
Blood on my knuckles.
Bruises across my ribs.
But my mind’s clear.
I’m not coming back without her.
And if they stand in my way?
They burn.
At the next sensor, I’m in. Monitors show the map of wherever the hell I am. I burn the map into my brain. It has a central control hub past the first checkpoint. If she’s here—her cell is cataloged there.
I slip through the next door just before the motion sensor reactivates. The hall angles down, deeper into the earth. My bare feet are numb from the cold concrete. A woman’s scream echoes far below, too distorted to recognize. I tighten my jaw. I don’t let myself wonder if it’s her.
At the checkpoint, a lone guard leans over a monitor, bored. He doesn’t see me until the butt of my stolen rifle connects with the side of his skull. He crumples without a sound.
I drag him behind the security desk, scan his retina against the lock. The door clicks open with a sigh, as if the entire facility is relieved to let me in.
Inside, the control center hums with servers and live feeds—dozens of rooms, dozens of captives. My hands fly over the console, overriding the encryption.
Come on. Come on.
I flick through the feeds—men shackled to chairs, women strapped to gurneys, empty cells with walls painted in disorienting stripes. My eyes snag on Room 37B.
Valaria sits in the center of a sterile chamber, cold light pouring down over her shoulders like judgment.
Her reflection flickers on a glass panel. Pale. Composed. Nothing like the woman who once believed she could be loved without consequence. Believed she could be loved by me.
I freeze for a breath I don’t have time to take.
I slam the monitor off; shove open the door and run.
My feet pound the hallway. My vision narrows to a pinpoint of white fury.
I hammer the rifle butt on the lock of 37B to break it.
I kick in the door.
And stop cold.
It’s empty.
Like a ghost. Gavrix appears.
“Sonofabitch.”
“Hidey Ho to you too. Mommy didn’t dress you right this morning,” he mutters.
“No jokes. Gav. Where is she?”
“You’re back where you started. But she’s not.”
“No riddles. Where?”
“I don’t know.”