Chapter 3
Three
F allon
My heart hammers against my chest, each beat echoing the desperation that’s been clawing at me for days. And in that dim, suffocating space is Milo. He rids me of the spider and his hands work methodically at the ropes binding my ankles to the chair, his movements steady, deliberate. He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
I wonder if it’s because he can’t bear to see what his boss has done to me—or if he simply doesn’t care.
For a moment, Milo freezes. His hands pause, and a flicker of something crosses his face. Conflict? Guilt? I can’t tell, and it vanishes before I can be sure. He mutters something in Italian, his tone sharp and clipped. The words are foreign to me, but their meaning is clear: he’s not here to talk.
The door bangs open, and Maria rushes in, a whirlwind of anxious energy. She flicks the light switch futilely. Of course, there’s no bulb; Leone made sure even light was a luxury I couldn’t have.
“Maria, aiutami qui,” Milo grunts, his focus unswerving.
I don’t need to understand Italian to know he’s asking for help. Maria disappears and returns, clutching bolt cutters in trembling hands. Milo snips through the handcuffs in a few quick movements, and suddenly, my arms are free. Yet, freedom feels like an illusion, a cruel joke.
“Leone will kill you for helping me,” I croak, my voice barely above a whisper, my mouth dry from days of silence and fear.
Milo’s hand hovers in the air, motioning for me to rise. My muscles scream in protest, my body refusing to obey. I feel detached from myself, the thought of moving too overwhelming to process. My limbs are dead weight, and the thought of standing, of willingly inflicting further agony upon myself, is too much to bear. Knowing it will feel like peeling off my skin, I remain still—a broken doll amidst the wreckage of captivity.
“Get up,” Milo growls, his frustration bubbling over. But when I don’t respond, his tone softens. “Damn it, Fallon. I’m trying to help you and now you’re fucking ignoring me.”
He moves toward me, his arms sliding beneath my knees and back, and lifts me from the chair. The motion tears my filthy dress away from my skin, and I scream. The sound is raw and guttural, echoing off the walls.
Milo flinches but doesn’t stop. “I know. I know,” he mutters under his breath, his jaw tight.
Maria gasps when Milo steps into the narrow hallway, the weak light exposing me fully—exposing everything. The filth, the bruises, the cuts. The person I’ve become under Leone’s hand. Shame surges through me, hot and suffocating. I drop my face into Milo’s neck, unable to bear Maria’s gaze.
The stairs feel endless, each step a fresh wave of pain as my tattered dress scrapes against raw flesh. Maria murmurs something in Italian, her voice thick with emotion. Milo doesn’t respond, his focus singular as he carries me through the corridors.
We reach a bathroom—the one I ran to on the night of the wedding. I barely recognize it now; it feels like a lifetime ago. Rocco is already there, testing the water in the tub. His expression shifts when he sees me, his hands faltering for a brief moment before resuming their task.
“Stand,” Milo orders as he sets me down on trembling legs. My knees buckle instantly, and I collapse onto the tile.
“Damn it,” Milo curses, catching me before I hit the floor. His arms tighten around me, and I feel the tension in his body—anger, frustration, maybe even guilt.
Rocco hesitates, his eyes darting between us. “Help me get her undressed,” Milo barks.
I want to protest. I want to scream at them to leave me alone, to give me some shred of dignity. But the words won’t come.
Rocco’s hands are hesitant as he unzips my dress. I clench my teeth, biting back the cries of pain as the fabric peels away, taking skin with it.
“Forgive me,” Rocco murmurs, his voice thick with regret.
Rocco tugs at the fabric of my dress, and with a forceful pull, it rips from my flesh. The sequins embedded in my skin for days create new agony as the material scratches harshly. I can’t stifle the cry that escapes—a raw sound of pain as the dress peels away from my waist down.
“What the fuck!” Rocco exclaims, staggering back as if struck, his eyes wide with disbelief at the damage the sequins caused.
Maria mumbles something, her hand fluttering to her mouth and her eyes roll back. She collapses with a heavy thud onto the cold tile. My gaze lingers on the crumpled heap of my dress, now discarded on the floor—a pathetic reminder of the hell I’ve endured.
“Rocco, cazzo fai? Help her!” Milo shouts. Rocco shakes his head, seemingly choked with some emotion as he kneels beside Maria, trying to rouse her.
Milo’s frustration is palpable, a storm brewing beneath his stone-like exterior. He turns back to me, guiding me to sit on the closed toilet lid. I wince, every movement sending waves of pain across my battered body.
Under the harsh bathroom light, I finally see myself—the raw, chafed skin, the angry red welts where the dress cruelly stripped away layers of flesh. Horror flashes across Milo’s face as his eyes scan the damage.
“Fallon,” he whispers, the fury in his voice replaced by something else. He clenches his jaw, muscles working as he seemingly fights to stay composed.
Milo’s hands, steadier than I expect, pulls scissors from under the sink. His movements are precise, almost tender, as he slices through the remnants of my bra and underwear, now tattered bindings sticking to my wounded skin.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me, as if the word could somehow alleviate the agony of contact. The cold metal glides, and I flinch when the fabric finally gives way, stuck to spots where blood, sweat, and urine have cemented it to my skin.
He’s about to lift me, and every muscle in my body tightens in anticipation of the coming pain. “I got you,” Milo says, a promise or a warning—I can’t tell anymore—as his arms slide beneath my knees and back. The world tilts, and then I’m falling only to be caught in his steady grasp.
The scream that escapes me as he lowers me into the bath is one of torture. The water licks at my chafed skin, and it feels like fire—like he’s dropping me into molten lava. But even amidst the pain, I hear the commotion down the hall. Milo pauses, staring at the door while my hands grip the sides of the tub, unwilling to get in. The noise outside grows louder, angrier.
“Where the fuck is she?” Leone’s voice booms, sharp as a whip, and I can picture his face twisted in fury without seeing it. The sickening thud which follows is worse than anything I’m enduring, and Rocco’s voice is no longer heard.
“Stay with me, Fallon,” Milo commands as he sits me on the rim of the tub, my feet still submerged. His tone is soft, even as he rushes to shut the door.
He doesn’t get the chance to lock it when the bathroom door crashes open, and Leone’s silhouette fills the doorway. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving with rage. I whimper, shrinking back as Milo steps forward, shielding me.
“Leave her, Leone. Just let me clean her up,” Milo growls, but it’s clear from his stance he expects to lose this fight.
Leone stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes ablaze with madness. “She belongs to me,” he snarls, each syllable dripping with venomous ownership.
“Not only you,” Milo snaps. It’s not just words—he’s choosing between us, and it infuriates Leone.
“You’d choose her!” Leone’s voice booms through the bathroom, and a brutal punch lands on Milo’s jaw before he can react. I scream as Milo stumbles, fear gripping me as he crashes into the bath’s edge. Leone grabs his arm and slams him against the wall.
“Look at what you’ve done!” Leone roars at me, his anger a living thing filling the room. I’m shaking, clutching the tub’s edge, my skin screaming from the water’s contact.
“Leone, stop,” Milo spits blood, his face twisted in pain, his eyes defiant.
“Silenzio, Milo!” Leone snaps, turning his fury on me. “You! You’re tearing us apart. This is your doing, Fallon!”
Despite my efforts, my legs refuse to cooperate as I try to stand. Instead, I slip into the shallow water, crying out as the liquid sears my raw flesh. My fall seems to break something inside Leone; his face contorts, and suddenly, I’m submerged. The water invades my senses, pressing in from all sides. I scream underwater, thrashing, certain he intends to drown me.
“Leone, stop!” Milo’s voice is distant, muffled by the water, when suddenly I’m pulled up, gasping for air. The crash of bodies colliding reverberates as Leone punches Milo, knocking him out.
Abruptly, I’m hauled up, coughing and spluttering as I cling to the tub. Leone’s face is inches from mine, twisted with fury. “Is this what you wanted? To drive a wedge between me and Milo?” he snarls, his grip iron on my shoulders.
“Please... I didn’t...” I barely manage, my voice hoarse, my body trembling. The pain, the terror—it’s all too much. I feel myself slipping into darkness, where even his wrath can’t reach me.
“Answer me!” His demand lashes at my spirit, each word a blow, and I know there’s no escape from the hell I’m trapped in.
Leone’s hands are rough, and the sponge he wields feels like a weapon against my skin. His movements are harsh and punishing, each scrub a fresh assault on my already raw flesh. I flail beneath his touch, trying to escape the searing pain flaring with every pass of the sponge.
“Leone! Bastardo! Fermati!” Maria bursts into the room, her voice shrill with panic as she yells at him, pointing an accusing finger.
Leone whips around, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. Maria’s courage falters under his glare, her words dissolving into a whimper. After a moment, she seems to find some hidden reserve of bravery and hurls out a string of Italian curses, her cheeks flushed with anger.
My heart pounds, adrenaline surging through me, giving my weakened body a sudden surge of energy. Leone turns on Maria, too caught up in their confrontation to notice as I slowly push myself out of the tub, water slopping over the sides. Maria blocks him, giving me the smallest chance to run.
“Stop her!” Leone bellows, snapping back to reality. His command echoes through the corridor, laced with fury.
I stumble toward the front door, my legs barely holding me upright. Rocco is on the ground, groaning as he tries to rise. Our eyes meet for a split second, and I see a flicker of something—regret, maybe, or pity—before he pushes himself up, positioning his bulk between Leone and me.
“Fallon, wait—” Rocco starts, but I’m already on the move, driven by desperation that quickens my steps.
“Grab her!” Leone screams again, and I hear the heavy footsteps of his guards approaching from the front door.
Panic fuels my decision, and I change direction, sprinting toward the stairs. My bare feet slap against the cold marble with each step, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind me, the sounds of a scuffle break out—Rocco’s deep voice yelling, the grunt and thud of bodies colliding.
“Fallon!” one of Leone’s guards calls out, but I don’t look back. I can’t.
I bound up the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding so fiercely I fear it might burst from my chest. The footsteps behind me are gaining ground with every second. I can almost feel Leone’s breath on the back of my neck, his cologne mixed with the stench of sweat and rage.
But I can’t stop now. I won’t. I have to keep moving—keep running from the nightmare threatening to swallow me whole. I have to survive. For myself. For the small flicker of hope that refuses to die inside me, no matter how much pain or terror Leone inflicts.
“Fallon!” Leone’s voice is full of rage and twisted betrayal. It’s the voice of a man losing control, and I know if he catches me now, the consequences will be unspeakable.
Panic claws at my chest as I sprint through the dimly lit corridor on the second level. Each door I try is locked, mocking my desperation. Leone’s footsteps echo too close for comfort, his fury palpable—a storm of vengeance I know will be merciless.
I race up another flight of stairs, the burn in my thighs a mere whisper against the terror coursing through my veins. I burst into the third room down the hall, away from his bedroom. Darkness envelops me, and for a moment, I’m blind—vulnerable again, thinking I’ve stumbled into a closet.
My hands fumble along the wall, searching for a switch, a latch—anything. My foot catches on something unseen, and I pitch forward, losing my balance. I hear the clatter of something falling from a shelf.
Scrambling on the floor, my fingers brush against a cold, solid object. It’s metallic—possibly a weapon. Grasping it, I rise to a crouch, ready to defend myself.
The steps are closer now, methodical and measured. He’s checking each room, confident in his hunt, certain he’ll find me. I know he will. The doorknob rattles gently—a soft sound, but to me, it’s deafening. My heart races, thudding with the force of my fear. I clutch the object tighter, my breath shallow.
“Fallon...” His voice is a sinister caress, sliding under the door, wrapping around my soul.
I don’t respond. I can’t give myself away—not when escape still feels possible, even if it’s slipping further from my grasp. Every sense is heightened, every muscle tensed for flight—or fight.
The door stays closed, but his footsteps move on, then return. His shadow blocks the thin strip of light under the door.
The door creaks open, a sliver of light slicing through the darkness. I stifle my breath. Leone’s figure looms in the doorway, a silhouette of impending doom.
“Fallon,” his voice is deceptively soft.
I tighten my grip on the object, its purpose forgotten as his eyes—sharp and unyielding—lock onto mine, then dart to what I’m holding. His gaze narrows, and I sense the shift in the air, the tension coiling like a spring.
I take an involuntary step backward, my foot catching on something. I stumble, the object slipping from my grasp, falling into the dark cavity of whatever I’d leaned on.
A sharp click, and harsh light floods the space, revealing the room. My heart plummets as I realize what I’ve stumbled upon—a crib. Its stark white rails stand out like bones in the brightness. The cold metal object I held is an urn. My breath hitches as I see the name etched on the headboard of the crib: Angelo.
Leone’s presence fills the room, his energy a suffocating force. He steps forward, and I recoil, the urn slipping from my hands into the crib. A delicate urn, etched with a cherub’s wings, whispering of innocence lost and grief too profound for words.
“You dare to come in here,” he growls, his voice low, each word a threat.
I should move, should run, but my legs betray me. I’m rooted to the spot, my breath caught in my throat as I realize the poem tattooed on his chest wasn’t about his ex-wife—it was about his son. Angelo. A child lost before his time.
Leone steps closer, his rage barely contained, and I realize too late the gravity of what I’ve discovered. The urn is cool and heavy, and as I set it back into the crib, I see his shadow returning. He steps into the room, a storm cloud of fury and grief.
“Leone, I—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look, his face contorted with raw emotion.
“I didn’t mean to come in here,” I stammer, but my words falter. I’ve trespassed into sacred territory, a mausoleum of broken dreams and unspoken goodbyes.
His dark eyes bore into mine, searching, accusing, and I feel exposed—vulnerable. There’s no escape from the wrath simmering just beneath the surface of his calm.
For a moment, unbearable silence hangs between us, laden with the ghosts of what could have been, and the reality of what is. Angelo, a name that will forever haunt me yet offers a sliver of understanding the complex, dangerous man in front of me.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with fear. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Silenzio!” Leone snaps, his voice harsh, filled with barely restrained fury. He stalks toward me, and I retreat, step by faltering step, until my back hits the wall, trapping me.
“Leone, I—” My plea dies as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling cruelly in my hair. A sharp cry escapes my lips, pain lancing through my scalp.
“Shhh...” His other hand moves, giving me no time to react, the sharp pinch on my neck sends icy dread down my spine. The world warps, my vision blurs, and I feel myself slipping into the dark.
“Non così forte ora, eh?” he whispers, his voice soft against my ear, chilling in its tenderness.
“Huh?” I manage, confusion clouding my senses as the drug takes hold.
“Not so strong now.”
I try to fight the drug coursing through me, but it’s like grasping at smoke. My knees buckle, and I’m falling, falling...
Darkness swallows me whole.
Cold. Hard. Unforgiving.
My body screams as consciousness creeps back, every bruise, every abrasion waking me to the nightmare I’m still in. Naked and shivering, I open my eyes to the familiar darkness of the basement. This is not the chair. I’m lying on the floor, the concrete pressing cold against my bare skin.
A soft moan escapes my lips as I push up with my hands, terror clawing at my throat as I turn my head, dreading what I might find.
Marcel.
His lifeless eyes stare blankly, his face frozen in shock. I scramble away, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, until my back slams against the cold wall. Every inch I move is agony, my skin protesting with each movement.
“Marcel,” I whisper, trying to convince myself this is real. The stench of the dead man beside me, once full of life, and now reduced to a bloody, mutilated corpse should be enough to make this feel real, but it’s not, some part of me no matter how bad things get can fathom that this is my life now. His limbs are severed, his body just a bloody heap of muscle and skin.
There’s no response—only the echo of my voice in this dark, damp prison which has become my world. The weight of reality sinks in, heavy and oppressive: Marcel is dead. And I’m alone with his body.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, trying to make myself small, invisible. Maybe if I stay quiet enough, still enough, everything will reset. Maybe I’ll wake up somewhere safe.
But life isn’t a game with second chances. There are no do-overs.
And I can’t breathe.