CHAPTER 4
FIORELLA P.O.V.
I listened to the heavy deadbolt slide into place.
It was a final, metallic thud that sounded exactly like a coffin lid slamming shut, locking me inside this freezing underground concrete box.
The silence that rushed in afterward was thick, pressurized, and suffocating.
I pressed my aching, bruised jaw against the freezing floor, the grit stinging my skin as the last of whatever heavy-duty sedative he pumped into me finally started to lift from my brain.
The silence was my biggest enemy right now because it left too much room in my head to replay what just happened.
I could still feel the ghost of his violent kiss burning on my mouth.
It wasn't a kiss born out of lust or twisted affection; it was a physical claim, an angry brand that made the blood in my veins feel like cracked ice.
I gingerly touched my lower lip, my fingertips finding a small, swollen split where his teeth had literally caught my skin.
I wiped my hand furiously down the side of my dress in pure, unadulterated revulsion.
"Stay dead, you bastardo," I whispered into the dark, my voice sounding cracked and pathetic. "He's just a man. Just a fucking man."
I forced myself to sit up and take stock of my own ruins.
The emerald silk masquerade gown I had put on what felt like a lifetime ago—a symbol of the untouchable Silvestri opulence, custom-tailored in Milan—was a shredded rag.
One shoulder strap was completely gone, ripped clean off in the struggle.
The bodice was smeared with bunker dust and oil, and the skirt was a shredded mess at the hem.
It offered zero warmth against the sub-zero environment of this literal tomb, serving only as a mocking reminder of the masquerade ball I was stolen from.
Every violent shiver rocking my body was a reminder that I was completely stripped of my armor, no longer protected by my last name or my father’s soldiers.
I grabbed the broken silk strap and tried to tie it back together over my bare shoulder, but my fingers were too numb and shaking too hard to manage even a basic knot.
I dropped the fabric with a curse. "This dress cost more than his fucking life," I muttered, hugging myself to trap whatever pathetic amount of body heat I had left. "I will burn these rags once I'm out."
Silvestri pride is a sharp, jagged, ugly thing, and it flared right in the center of my chest. I refused to die like a dog in the dark.
I forced my muscles to contract, pushing my weight up off the floor.
My bare knees scraped raw against the stone, but I ignored the sting and planted my feet.
Vertigo hit me like a swinging brick, threatening to pull me right back down into the dirt, but I locked my legs and stood swaying in the center of the room.
I smoothed the tattered emerald silk over my hips, a reflexive, ingrained gesture of aristocratic poise even while standing in a concrete hellhole.
If my brother Alessio saw me cowering on the floor, the disappointment in his eyes would be worse than a bullet.
"I am a Silvestri. I do not crawl," I said out loud, the sound of my own voice forcing my spine to straighten. "Get up. Fuck, just get up."
Over in the far corner, barely illuminated by the miserable lighting, lay a plastic water bottle and a dry, wrapped roll.
They looked pathetic sitting there on the dirty floor.
A literal dog's ration. Taking the food felt like an admission of his absolute ownership over me—if I ate his food, I was surviving entirely on his whim.
I glared at the bottle for a full minute, my stomach twisting, before the agonizing thirst in my throat finally shattered my stubbornness.
I crawled toward it, the trailing silk of my dress catching on a jagged, protruding piece of rusted rebar sticking out of the wall.
The fabric tore with a loud, sickening rip, exposing another inch of my freezing thigh.
"Is this poisoned, you stronzo?" I asked the shadows, ripping the cheap plastic wrap off the bread.
"Bread and water. He treats me like a peasant. "
I cracked the plastic seal on the water and tipped it back.
It was lukewarm and tasted strongly of chemicals and cheap plastic, but I chugged it until the back of my throat ached.
I shoved the dry, dense roll into my mouth and chewed mechanically.
It was like trying to swallow a mouthful of sawdust. My stomach rolled, the lingering nausea from the sedative fighting me every step of the way, but I swallowed every single crumb.
I was calculating the calories in real-time, focusing on the terrible food as pure ammunition.
I needed energy to fight. I poured a tiny splash of the remaining water into my dirty palm and scrubbed the grime off my cheekbones, desperate to feel somewhat human again.
"Fuel. This is just fuel," I told myself, tossing the empty plastic bottle aside.
It hit the concrete with a hollow, depressing clatter. "I'll choke him with his own bread."
It was time to get a grip on reality. I began a methodical, tactical pace of my cage.
Four steps wide. Six steps long. I ran my bare palms across the walls, searching frantically for the texture of a seam, a loose brick, a crack in the concrete, anything.
The stone was ancient and damp, sweating a cold, disgusting slime that coated my skin and smelled like stale ozone and rot.
The walls felt like they were physically closing in on me, every inch I touched solid, heavily reinforced, and absolutely impenetrable.
I counted my steps under my breath to keep a full-blown panic attack from ripping through my chest. "There has to be a way out.
There is always a way," I breathed, my bare feet slapping rhythmically against the floor. "Uno, due, tre... focus, Fiorella."
I stopped at the door. It was a massive slab of industrial steel painted a dull, chipping grey, reeking of industrial grease around the lock mechanism.
I dragged my fingers along the frame. No hinges on my side.
The seam where the heavy door met the concrete frame was so tight I couldn't even slide a single strand of hair through the gap.
It wasn't just a lock; it was a goddamn air-lock.
The absolute, unbothered control Angelo had over my existence made my blood boil.
In a sudden, feral burst of rage, I kicked the steel plate as hard as I could.
The metal didn't even vibrate, but blinding pain shot up through my toes, making me hiss through my teeth.
"Bastardo! Open it!" I screamed, slamming my open palms against the unyielding metal.
The dull clink of my diamond rings against the steel was the only answer.
"It’s an air-lock. He's trying to suffocate me. "
I tilted my head back, analyzing my aerial options.
A single, low-wattage bulb hummed annoyingly inside a heavy steel mesh cage bolted to the ceiling.
It was ten feet up, completely out of reach.
Next to it was a ventilation grate, but the slits were barely wide enough for me to shove my hand through, let alone my body, and the entire thing was secured with massive, heavy-duty industrial rivets.
A moth fluttered erratically inside the mesh cage around the bulb, trapped and burning itself on the glass over and over.
"Even the air is rationed," I muttered, standing on my tiptoes and stretching my arms up until the vertebrae in my back cracked loudly.
I was still feet away from grazing the ceiling.
I dropped back down onto my heels, frustrated and shivering. "I need something to stand on."
I dropped back to my knees in the far corner where the shadows were thickest and the light didn't reach.
I ran my hands along the baseboards until I felt a slight irregularity in the concrete—a jagged, damaged flake right where the floor met the wall, probably eaten away by years of moisture.
I dug my manicured fingernails into the tiny crack, prying and pulling with all my strength.
My cuticles split and bled, warm blood slipping down my fingers, but I didn't stop until a sharp, palm-sized shard of concrete snapped free with a harsh crunch.
It was a completely pathetic weapon, literally just a piece of rubble, but holding it gave me the only shred of agency I had left in this nightmare.
I sat there on the floor, breathing in quick, shallow gasps, and aggressively rubbed the edge of the stone against the concrete floor to sharpen the point.
"I'll open your throat with this," I promised the stone, the coppery scent of my own blood hitting my nose. "It’s something. It’s better than nothing. "
I stood up and tucked the sharp concrete shard directly into the ripped lining of my bodice, pressing it flat against the bare skin of my ribs.
The jagged edge bit sharply into my side, a constant, stinging reminder that I wasn't entirely defenseless.
I adjusted the shredded emerald silk, making sure the stone was perfectly hidden behind a fold of the fabric.
The cold stone warmed up quickly against my body heat, resting right over my frantically beating heart.
I practiced the draw, pulling the stone out in a flash and hiding it again, doing it over and over until the motion was fluid muscle memory.
"Come back, Angelo. Come see your debt," I whispered to the door, my eyes narrowed. "Just a little closer next time."