Chapter 26
Nicole
I don't know how long I've been down here. The bright lights are always on, messing with my sense of time. No windows, no way to see if it's day or night. I sleep when my body forces me to, and I eat when they remember to feed me, though it feels like it's been hours since the last meal—a cold cheeseburger and some soggy fries tossed in a plastic bowl like I'm some stray dog. They leave me with a bottle of water, a thin sleeping bag, and a bucket for everything else. The toilet paper? One roll, used sparingly.
I'm alone most of the time, the silence heavy in this bare room. But the walls are thin, and voices drift through from upstairs. His men argue constantly, their doubt in Raffaele growing louder. I can hear the cracks forming in his plan, and despite my own situation, it brings a slight sense of satisfaction. But with it comes the worry—Raffaele's losing control, and when people like him lose power, they get desperate. He's already mentioned trouble with Obsidian's higher-ups, and from what I've overheard, he's planning something reckless—an assassination.
The door creaks open upstairs. I hear Raffaele's boots descending the steps, their weight unmistakable. I tense, knowing he's here for me.
"Nicola," he calls out, his voice laced with forced calm. "This could all be over if you just cooperate. You could be upstairs, enjoying a proper meal. Fredo made Bolognese tonight. It's a shame you can't have any."
I stay silent, my back against the cold wall, arms wrapped around my knees.
He steps closer, his boots stopping just outside my little cell. "Stop this, Nicola. Agree to what we ask, and come upstairs. We can be a family again."
A bitter laugh bubbles up from my throat before I can stop it. Family . What a joke. I spit in his direction, though it barely reaches his boots.
"Nicola," he sighs, frustration seeping into his voice. "Shane doesn't have to get hurt. Neither does Jaime. You can go back to them. Just give us what we need."
I clench my jaw, trying to suppress the rage rising inside me. "I've told you a hundred times—I don't know anything. And even if I did, I'd rather rot down here than help you."
He pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen lighting up his face. I don't even bother looking up until I hear a familiar voice on the other end of the call.
"Hello?" Giovanni's voice echoes from the speaker.
My heart lurches in my chest. I whip around to face Raffaele, full of panic and hope as I shout, "Gio! It's Nicola! Are you alright? Where are you?"
He doesn't respond, just repeats, "Hello?"
Raffaele smirks. "It's muted, Nicola."
I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. The call ends with a quiet click, leaving the room colder than before. At least I know he's alive.
Raffaele tucks his phone back into his pocket. "See? Gio's working to pay off what your parents left behind, just like you should be. But he's actually doing the work. No billionaire to help him out."
I turn away, staring at the bare wall, my back to him. His words grate on me, but I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
"I'll come back when you're ready to cooperate," Raffaele says, his voice low and threatening. "We're tired of these pointless visits. If you don't start talking soon, maybe we'll just leave you down here for a few days. Let you sit in your filth, hungry and thirsty. Maybe then you'll be ready to be reasonable."
He turns and heads back up the stairs, his boots thudding with each step, the sound fading as the door closes behind him.
I curl up tighter, pulling the sleeping bag around me, my body shivering from more than just the cold. I know what's coming. Raffaele's not patient, and he's running out of time. Soon, he'll stop asking and start taking.
Hours later, I hear footsteps descending the stairs—lighter this time, definitely not Raffaele's. The smell of herbs and tomato sauce fills the stale, musky air, making my stomach growl involuntarily. I turn my head to look, and Fredo is at the foot of the steps. He stands awkwardly, holding a wrapped plate of what I can only assume is the Bolognese Raffaele mentioned earlier. Beside him, a bucket of water with a small white cloth draped over the edge.
He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me with that familiar mix of pity and discomfort. Fredo's never been like the others. He follows Raffaele's orders, sure, but there's always been a hesitation in his movements—a reluctance that sets him apart. From what I hear through the thin walls, he doesn't agree with this new direction. He questions things, always second-guessing. I see my chance.
"You want to wash up before you eat?" he asks nervously, his voice wavering slightly.
I don't reply. I just stare at him, curiosity piqued. His eyes dart from me to the bucket, uncertainty written all over his face.
"The water's clean," he adds quickly, almost apologetic. "I can turn my back, give you some time." He nudges the bucket forward, sliding it just within my reach.
I look down at the bucket, hesitating for a moment. The idea of fresh water, of feeling clean again, is tempting, but I can't afford to trust him fully. Still, the grime on my skin feels unbearable.
"Go on," he says, his voice steady but distant. He turns his back to me, folding his arms. I wait for a moment, watching him. When I'm sure he's not looking, I shuffle over and pull the bucket closer. Quickly and efficiently, I splash the water on my skin, wiping away days' worth of dirt and sweat, hitting the essential areas first. It's cold, but it feels incredible.
"Slide it back when you're done," Fredo says, his tone softer, less harsh than usual. I finish up quickly, pushing the bucket back toward him with a nod. Only then does he turn around.
He starts to hand me the plate of food, but pauses, eyeing me with a strange mix of caution and something like... sympathy? "If anyone asks, you had a tuna sandwich," he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I nod in agreement, eager to take the food. He hands me the plate, and I dig in immediately. The warmth of the pasta and sauce is a shock to my system—it's hot, fresh, and, at that moment, the best thing I've ever tasted. I eat quickly, savoring each bite, knowing it might be a long time before I have something like this again.
Fredo watches me in silence, his eyes studying me but never quite meeting mine. When I finish, I slide the plate back toward him. He dips a small cloth into the water bucket and hands it to me, gesturing at his own mouth. I realize there's sauce on my face, and I quickly wipe it away, handing the cloth back to him.
He turns to leave, but I can't let this opportunity pass. "Raffaele," I say, my voice breaking the heavy quiet. "He's reckless. He's going to get us all killed."
Fredo stops mid-step, one foot on the bottom stair, his shoulders tense. "Perhaps," he replies, his voice flat. "But that's the life we live in, huh?" Fredo's voice is almost resigned, as if he's accepted the inevitability of his world.
"It doesn't have to be," I press, my heart pounding, knowing I'm treading dangerous ground. "I didn't choose this life. My parents did, and I've been paying for it ever since they died. You know I don't deserve this. Help me, please," I whisper, my voice cracking with desperation.
Fredo hesitates, but only for a moment. "I've helped as much as I can," he says quietly, and with that, he turns and continues up the stairs, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence.
Hours later, I'm still lying on the cold, hard floor when I hear the creaking of the old stairs again. I know immediately that it's Raffaele. I don't bother getting up. I stay on the floor, my back to him, pretending to sleep, but my pulse quickens.
"It's hard to find good, trustworthy people, you know?" Raffaele's voice is slurred, thick with alcohol. "You take them off the street, protect them, and they throw it in your face." He's drunk again, but his tone is eerily calm, laced with malice.
I don't respond. I stay still, my breathing steady, hoping he'll leave.
"I help you. I give you food and shelter, and all you do is betray me. You'd rather help some billionaire you just met. I tell my men, 'don't give her the good stuff; let her suffer,' and they give you pasta. How was it, by the way?" His voice is filled with bitter amusement.
"What do you want, Raffaele?" I ask, my voice flat, tired of his games.
"You know I heard that whole thing, right?" He lets out a dark chuckle, his boots scraping against the concrete floor as he moves closer. "These walls are thin. I just noticed." His laughter dies quickly. "But that means you know some things too, huh? It doesn't matter," he says, his voice dropping. "You're worthless. I keep fighting the urge to kill you because something inside me says not to give up on you. That you'll come to your senses. But I don't think so anymore. You're as stubborn as you were when I had you before. You won't change... unless you're forced."
"What are you going to do, Raffaele?" I ask, sitting up now, meeting his gaze with defiance. "Throw me in a deeper cell? Starve me? Beat me? You've done all that already."
"It's not your pain that'll scare you," he says, his voice cold. "Maybe next time, I'll bring you a finger, and you can guess whose it is. Might be small enough that you'll be convinced it's someone you care about."
The blood drains from my face as the weight of his words sinks in. He starts walking up the stairs, leaving me paralyzed with fear. And then, in the silence, I hear her voice—my mother's. You can't always do what's right, Nicola. Sometimes, we do things we aren't comfortable with to protect the ones we love. Her words echo in my mind, just as they always do when my survival instincts are pushed to the limit.
"Raffaele," I call out, my voice trembling but firm. He stops, turning slowly, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"I need to know exactly what it is you want me to do," I say, forcing my voice to steady. "And I need guarantees before I agree to anything."
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he descends the stairs again. "I just need you to do what you're good at, Nicola. Making men fall for you, making them trust you. You're going to go back to your billionaire, tell him you left to check on Giovanni, and that you love him. Get close. Tell him you want to be more involved in business. Get access to his office, his computers, his safe, and get me the information I need, or at least something useful: dirt, debts, the kind of things I can use for leverage. You do that, and no one gets hurt."
"And if I don't?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"If you don't," Raffaele says, his voice dripping with malice, "you stay here. And each week, I'll bring you a body part. You can decide whether it belongs to Jaime or Giovanni. Maybe I'll visit your lawyer friend—Annette, wasn't it?—and her son. Who knows?"
"Okay," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "I'll do it."
Raffaele's eyes gleam with triumph. "I'm so proud of you, Nicola. But I need to think this over. If I feel I can trust you, I'll come back, and we'll talk. Until then... get some sleep."
He walks back up the stairs, leaving me alone again.