8. Chapter 8 #3
“He’s conscious,” Father answered.
“You promised that when he stopped being useful to you, he’d be mine until I was done with him.”
“His usefulness is ongoing, but he’s yours to play with. Don’t damage his face, and keep him able to walk.”
“That’s fine. I look forward to a long-term project.” Her heels tapped across the concrete, then stopped. “Hold his head up. I want to see my pet’s face.”
“A few tears and a quivering voice were all it took,” Marcela said. “You were so desperate to be the honorable hero that you walked straight into my trap. Imagine what I can make of that weakness once I train you properly.”
Lachlan’s breathing remained rough, but his answer came without hesitation.
“You needed drugs, six men, and a hidden tunnel to chain me to this chair. Call me your pet when these restraints come off, and I’ll show you which one of us gets trained.”
Marcela laughed softly.
“Blindfold him.”
“From now on, even his eyes belong to me,” she continued. “He sees when I allow it, eats when I feed him, speaks when I permit it, and performs when I demand it. Even begging will be a privilege I grant. Until then, darkness is all he gets.”
Fabric rustled below.
Metal clicked against the chair, followed by a brief struggle and the scrape of cloth being pulled tight.
“Leave him that way,” Father ordered. “Everyone out. No food. No water. Hunger and thirst might make him less fond of his own voice.”
“Perfect.” Satisfaction warmed Marcela’s voice. “I’ll settle into my room, eat something, and sleep off the flight. Then I’ll come back rested. I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with my new project.”
Several pairs of shoes crossed the dungeon floor. The door opened again.
“Post one man at the end of the corridor,” Father ordered. “No one comes near the cellar.”
The order placed the guard at the only entrance anyone else in the compound knew existed.
But it wasn’t the only way into the dungeon.
Behind the wardrobe in my bedroom, a false panel concealed a narrow servant stairwell my mother had discovered years ago.
It descended behind the old storage rooms and ended inside Lachlan’s cell at a door built to disappear.
Its face was covered with the same rough stone and dark mortar as the surrounding wall, every seam aligned with the masonry so precisely that even from a few feet away, it looked solid.
Pressing a small stone hidden low in one of the mortar lines released the latch.
The section of wall could swing inward with barely a sound on concealed iron pivots.
When closed, it settled back into place, erasing the doorway completely.
The lock on my bedroom door could keep me out of the hallway. It couldn’t keep me from the passages inside the walls.
The heavy dungeon door slammed shut, leaving Lachlan alone and blindfolded.
Revulsion crawled over my skin.
I’d known Marcela was greedy. Money and influence had always fed her appetite. What I heard now was darker. Lachlan wasn’t merely another tool to her. She wanted to strip away his will, possess what remained, and display his submission as proof of her power.
My father wanted leverage.
Marcela wanted ownership.
And Lachlan would fight them both, whatever it cost him.
That determination opened a possibility I’d stopped allowing myself to imagine.
Every escape plan I’d contemplated eventually ran into the same problem: I was alone, and no amount of patience or knowledge could get me past every guard, wall, and locked gate.
The foul-mouthed Irishman below might change that.
If I could reach him and convince him I wasn’t another Delgado trap, perhaps he could help us both get out.
My mother had taught me that every prison depended on routine.
She’d shown me how to memorize guard rotations, spot hidden cameras, and study every detail of the compound and the surrounding hills.
She’d died before those lessons could carry us beyond Finca La Cruzona, but I’d held on to every instruction while waiting for a disruption large enough to matter.
My father’s plan required recordings, messages, men watching airports, and guards distracted by unfamiliar threats. Lachlan Byrnes would force the compound to react in ways it hadn’t in years.
Change created mistakes.
Father intended to keep Lachlan alive as long as he remained useful. And more importantly, there were men who would cross borders to recover him, and he’d already chosen to suffer rather than abandon women he’d never met.
Before I risked everything on him, I needed to understand what kind of man he was.
For years, the dungeon beneath my bedroom taught me what happened to men who defied my father. Then they dragged in the Irishman—blindfolded, beaten, and chained—and, for the first time, the dungeon held a man who refused to beg, bargain, or break.
My father could hurt and humiliate him, but he couldn’t make him kneel.
For the first time in my life, hope had a voice—and it was Irish, furious, and defiant.