Chapter 8
Aurelia
Two days. It’s been two days since Elijah officially took over for my brother, and the urge I had to kill myself has gone from forty to eighty-five percent.
I thought Enzo was clingy, but oh. My. God. I can’t even go pee without Elijah standing watch outside the door.
I tell him I need space, and he responds by locking me in a room and guarding the door until I’m “done.”
It’s insane. And yes, I know more black SUVs have been seen near our gates and parked near my usual running spots, but it’s not like I’m going to get snatched away while eating dinner.
Yet here I am.
The dining hall stretches around me, a cathedral built for someone who doesn’t exist. Twelve chairs, a polished table that could seat kings, and me.
Alone. (Kinda.)
My plate of steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus sits untouched for a heartbeat while I stare at the faded gold of an old painting hanging opposite. The brushstrokes are intricate, almost delicate.
I take my fork in hand, the clink against the plate sounding absurdly loud in the cavernous room.
Steam rises off the food, begging me to care.
I bite, and for a moment, the taste anchors me: rich meat, buttery potatoes, the crunch of asparagus.
Normalcy. Comfort. All illusions. All lies.
But you never know when it will be my last meal, so I take it, tasting every flavour on my tongue.
I wonder for a moment if my mother lived like this. If she lived here at all. No one speaks of her—not inside these walls, not outside them. It’s as if she never existed.
I know whatever she did fractured the alliance. Leaving me as a mistake that survived it. A De Luca girl they didn’t sacrifice.
I don’t know, maybe I should feel special. The only girl they allowed to live. But what kind of life am I living if I’m just waiting for the day I’m traded like the rest? For the humiliation. The assault. The end.
“Ace, you’re so dramatic,” I whisper to myself, taking a slow bite of steak.
“You could get taken at sixty and still have plenty of time.” Then mocking Dante, I drop into my man voice, “You could have lived a vibrant and fulfilled life with a strong man if you weren’t a naive, childish bitch.
” Maybe he had a point then, ignorance truly was bliss. I was happy.
“Ace, everything okay?” Elijah asks through the hall door.
So he must have heard me talking to myself.
Great.
“Um, yes, just eating.” I tilt back to yell since I don’t think my voice will carry like his does.
He doesn’t reply, and I try to finish my plate so he doesn’t have to stand there anymore. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable.
And I do appreciate his help, even though I don’t enjoy his company anymore. After all these years, I’ve learned that solitude isn’t a punishment—it’s armour. It’s the only thing keeping me safe from the world that would otherwise devour me whole.
The Bratva will come for me soon enough. That’s inevitable. Davide mentioned that the Orlov heir, Nikolai, and his father, Viktor, might know about me. But for now, I have to hope that’s not true, because if they had pieced that together, they’d know I ended my life at sixteen.
There was probably a time when this proximity to Elijah would have made me delirious with excitement and the hope of something more.
A true romantic, intoxicating love, the thing I always yearned for.
But even though that’s out of the cards, I consider that maybe I can use this situation to my advantage.
Elijah Romano may not have ever been in love with me, not the way I was with him.
But the one thing I know for certain is that he’s always wanted to rip my clothes off.
Maybe I can finally get him to snap now that we’re alone.
I finish the last bite deliberately, letting the clink of my fork against the plate punctuate the emptiness. And on cue, Elijah opens the door, ready to escort me to my room.
* * *
It’s one a.m., and I’m starting my first torture-focused session with Elijah. I can’t say I’m not intrigued by how he’ll treat me in comparison to my brother, so I’m actually quite excited to start my abuse.
Vincent escorts me into the basement, his eyes flicking over me with a mix of amusement and appraisal.
“What,” I say. Already knowing where this is going.
“You never showed this much skin for your training with Enzo.”
I grin and look down at my black sports bra and short sweat shorts. “Well, I’m using my assets to better enjoy my time around here, Vinny.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You are trouble, Bella, but Elijah is not stupid and won’t be manipulated as easily as some of the other men around here.”
I shrug my shoulders. “We’ll see.”
I enter the dim room and lock eyes with my trainer.
“Elijah.”
“Ace.”
I put my hands out in front of me and close my eyes, bracing for the sting he told me would come. First comes the cool bite of quick slits across my wrists and hands. Then the searing burn as the alcohol-soaked ropes tighten against raw skin.
When I open my eyes, he’s already moving me to the wall, pressing me back with a force that steals my breath. His grip is impersonal. His body isn’t.
He lifts my arms above my head, clicks them into the bar’s clasp, and steps closer than necessary. Close enough that I smell his cologne under the sting of alcohol, close enough to remember the boy who once whispered that we could sneak out for my birthday.
That boy doesn’t exist anymore.
Now he’s my executioner.
Still, I can’t help it. My gaze drags down the line of his jaw, to the muscle that ticks when he’s fighting emotion.
His shoulders block out everything else in the basement gym, and for a brief second, I imagine it differently: What if this wasn’t training?
What if he trusted me enough to let go, to give in?
His breath grazes my ear. “Stop looking at me like that, Ace.”
I bite down on a smile. I’ve never wanted to break him more.
He pulls back, his features stone. The tattoo winding his arm flexes as he adjusts the strap. He’s beautiful, in that brutal, untouchable way marble statues are. Untouchable—except he isn’t. Not really. Not to me.
I thrust my body forward when he tightens the clasp, forcing his chest to brush mine. A spark flashes through me when his eyes flick down, then snap away.
I know what I’m doing. I always have. Surrounded by men who would die for me, I learned early how to utilize that power, how to survive in a cage of protectors and predators.
But Elijah? He’s different. He’s the one who used to protect me, laugh with me, almost feel like…
mine. Now he’s cold, distant. Cruel, when he needs to be.
Maybe I hate him for that.
Maybe that’s why I still want him.
“Fuck off, Ace,” he mutters, yanking the rope taut and stepping back.
And then my body jerks, two inches off the ground, shoulders screaming under the weight. Pain tears down my arms, but I keep my face still, my eyes forward. No emotion. No weakness.
“Remember,” Elijah says, gathering the blade and alcohol. “Show strength. Nothing else.”
I don’t answer. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
He sits in the chair across from me, silent. Watching, but not watching. Pretending my suffering is just routine. Pretending this isn’t personal. But I know him. I know the way his foot taps when he’s restless, the way he won’t look at me too long in case I read too much in his eyes.
Five hours. Five hours of silence, dangling here, blood rushing from my hands, fire crawling across my skin. If I last, I get two days’ freedom. If I break—cry, wince, beg—I’m back here tomorrow.
I’ve been trained this way since that night. Trained to endure. Trained to survive the inevitable day when an enemy family decides I’m leverage.
I understand why I’m doing this.
I understand it’s for my safety.
But hanging here, I can’t stop the flood of memories of what Elijah and I almost had.
Now, years later, his silence cuts deeper than the ropes biting into my wrists.