CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE CHLOE
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHLOE
THEN
TEN YEARS AGO
Every muscle screams as I shift in the hard chair.
I’m in a continuous cycle of numbness and agony. One minute I can’t feel a thing, and the next I’m uniquely aware of the ropes slicing into my wrists and the stiffness of being in the same position for days.
But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain. My chest is raw from crying, my throat dry from dehydration and sobbing. Apart from the few times Damon has given me water, we’ve been starved, and weakness clings to every muscle.
At first I was hopeful that I’d have a chance to escape, but with each hour that passes, that hope dwindles.
Even if by some miracle I could slip the binds around my wrists and then the door was by chance left unlocked, I’m starting to question whether I actually have the strength to escape.
Between the hunger and thirst, the near-constant nausea that rolls through my stomach, and the stiffness in my muscles and joints, escape seems impossible.
And then there’s the question of whether I want to leave here at all.
Every time I close my eyes all I can see is blood and violence, but more than that, if I run, I’ll have to leave them behind.
I’m not sure how Dad is still alive. He’s been beaten to the point he’s unrecognizable. He’s missing teeth and fingers, and he’s lost so much blood there’s a permanent crimson puddle beneath his chair.
And then there’s Mom.
My chest aches every time I look at the shell of a woman that raised me. Mottled bruises cover her face from the beatings she’s taken, and then there are the handprints around her throat.
For a time they tried to break Dad by choking her out, only to release her just as she started to lose consciousness. Over and over again they took her to the edge of death and then dropped her back into this shit hole where dying almost feels like a gift.
But there’s one thing that keeps me going. The knowledge that it’s not just me anymore, that while death may be a kindness to me, it’s not what’s best for the little life growing inside me.
I can’t give up because I have someone else relying on me.
A jagged wheeze comes from Dad, and I force my tender eyes open. I’m so tired I can barely keep them open most of the time, but the fresh horrors that await me each time they fall closed prevent me from falling asleep.
We’re alone now.
One of the rare times we’ve been left by ourselves since this ordeal started, but I guess they just assume we’re not going anywhere at this point.
“Dad?” I whisper, my voice hoarse from barely using it for days.
He doesn’t respond, and I force myself to look over his injuries, ignoring the way my stomach rolls with nausea.
His head has been dropped forward since he last passed out from pain, but the blood from his temple has slowed, which could be a good thing or a very fucking bad thing.
On one hand, the wound may be healing, or his body might be giving up.
The thought is like a hot poker to my chest.
I should have prepared myself for the inevitability by now. It’s been days of torture, days of blood and violence, and the reminder that our lives are in their hands, but the idea that we’ll take our last breath in this cell is still as startling as it was to begin with.
Glancing over at Mom, I’m faced with another wave of grief.
She’s alive, breathing, but her mind is gone. She’s crawled into the furthest recesses of her own subconscious to escape the horrors of this cell, and there’s no dragging her back.
At least not while we’re stuck here.
Footsteps on stone drag my attention to the door, and I toss up whether to pretend to be asleep or not.
There are pros and cons for both options, and after having my head held and being forced to watch as my father’s fingers were cut off, I have to say pretending to be unconscious is looking like the better option, but when the door swings open, the guard is staring right at me.
His beady eyes have become a feature of my nightmares despite not knowing his name. When I was young, I would make a point of knowing everyone that worked at the compound, but the more paranoid Salvatore became, the higher the turnover rate, and it was too hard to keep up with the new faces.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek to catch the whimper his attention brings to the surface.
He steps closer to my parents, allowing someone else to step into the room.
Salvatore Lombardi could never be accused of being ugly, despite his soul being hideous. His dark hair is the same as his sons, and his startling blue eyes are so similar to the boy that’s spent years making my life miserable.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” he says as he steps further into the cell, a sneer tugging at his lips. As if the conditions of his cellar were beneath him. Which I suppose they are. It’s rare that he takes care of his own dirty work, usually preferring for one of his men to do the torturing.
The fact he’s down here at all is a bad sign, and my stomach rolls with anxiety at his presence.
Does he know I’m pregnant?
Does he realize his grandchild is growing inside me right now?
Damon has made sure I’ve had water, and he fed me some crackers not long after he came storming in here demanding answers, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to protect us.
Why would he?
It’s his dream to be rid of me.
Salvatore steps closer to my father, and a rogue tear rolls down my cheek. The saltiness causes the cut on my lip to sting, but I cling to the pain, reveling in the reminder that I’m alive and it’s not over yet.
There’s still a chance I make it out of here, no matter how remote it may be.
His fingers slide into my father’s hair before tugging his head up until I’m staring at the battered, broken version of the man who raised me.
“I’m disappointed in you, Weaver,” he tuts. “I thought having your wife and baby girl down here would make you talk, but it’s clear your loyalty to Kingston knows no bounds.”
Dad’s eyes blink open, the once vibrant green now dull and almost devoid of life. “It’s hard to give information I don’t have,” he wheezes.
“See, I want to believe you. But you’ve been lying to me for so long I don’t believe a fucking thing that comes out of your mouth,” Salvatore spits, yanking the dark strands harder. “Nonetheless, it’s time to put us all out of our misery.”
He reaches into his jacket and produces his gun, an antique piece handed down from Lombardi to Lombardi when they take their place at the head of the table.
A choked sob tears from my throat because I know all too well what that weapon means. It’s the gun they use on traitors. The one saved for only the deepest betrayal.
“I was going to keep you alive and force you to watch as I killed the most important people in your life, but then I found out your whore of a daughter went and got herself knocked up with my son’s baby.
Now I think she’s the one that should have to watch you both die before I end her and the little bastard inside her. ”
Dad’s eyes flicker to mine, but his face is blurry through the tears rolling down my cheeks.
Where I expect to find disappointment, I’m met with sadness in eyes so similar to my own.
Maybe because getting myself pregnant at eighteen is the last thing he wanted for me.
Or maybe because none of us will have the chance to meet the little life Ronan and I created.
Pressing my eyes closed, I wait for the bang, and Salvatore doesn’t waste any time.
Two gunshots that leave my ears ringing. One for my dad, and the other for Mom, and when I finally force my eyes open, forcing myself to acknowledge the brutal death of my parents, I’m instead staring straight into the barrel of the gun that just killed them.
“Ronan will never forgive you,” I stutter. It’s a weak argument, but it’s true. The love I share with his son is the kind you read about in fairy tales, and no matter what lies they tell to justify my death, he’ll always resent his father for taking me from him.
He chuckles. “I don’t need my sons to love me, Chloe. I just need them to be loyal soldiers.”
The click of the bullet entering the chamber has my eyes pressing closed as I await the inevitable. At least it will be painless. A quick death after days of agony.
Salvatore curses under his breath, and the cool metal drops from my forehead.
“Want me to take care of her, boss?”
“No, leave her staring at her dead parents for a few hours until I get this mess sorted out.”
I force my eyes open just in time to catch Salvatore glaring down at his phone.
Neither of them regard me as they leave, but when the click of the lock never comes, my chest tightens.
They didn’t lock me in.
By underestimating me, they’ve given me the chance to escape.
And I’m not going to waste it.