Consciousness returns in fragments.
Cold first.A bone-deep chill that seeps through my clothes and into my skin.Then hardness beneath me, unyielding and damp.Stone, maybe.Or concrete.
I try to move my arms and meet resistance.Metal clinks against metal.My wrists are bound, shackled to something I can’t see.My ankles are similarly restrained.
Chains, I realize with growing horror.I’m chained to something.
I force my eyes open, but it makes no difference.The darkness is absolute, so thick it feels like a physical weight pressing against my face.No windows.No sliver of light under a door.Just endless, suffocating black.
Don’t panic.Panicking won’t help.
I run through what I know.I was ambushed.My father’s men took me.Marcus is hopefully just unconscious.They drugged me and brought me somewhere dark and cold, somewhere designed to break a person down before a single blow is struck.
A dungeon.My father keeps several throughout his properties.Hidden rooms beneath wine cellars and behind false walls, places where men go in and don’t come out.I never thought I’d end up in one.
Time loses meaning in the dark.Minutes or hours pass while I test my restraints, explore the limits of my movement.I try to form a mental map of my prison cell.The bed beneath me is narrow and hard, with a thin mattress that does nothing to cut the cold.The chains give me about three feet of movement in any direction.Not enough to reach anything useful.
My throat is parched.My stomach cramps with emptiness.How long have I been here?
When the door finally opens, the light is blinding.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the assault.Tears prick the back of my eyeballs.Footsteps approach, measured and unhurried.Two sets.I force myself to look, squinting through the glare until the shapes resolve into figures.
My father.
And Cesare.
Giovanni DiLorenzo looks exactly as he always does.Silver hair perfectly styled, eyes cold as the marble in his foyer, Armani suit pressed to military precision.
Cesare stands slightly behind him, wearing that empty smile that makes my skin crawl.His broken nose has healed crooked, a lasting souvenir from the night Shelby defended my honor at the Syndicate gala.The imperfection only makes him look more dangerous, like a predator who’s learned to enjoy the pain.
“Figlia mia.”My father’s voice is soft, almost tender.Daughter of mine.“You’ve been very busy.”
I say nothing.
“We know about your investigations.”He moves closer, his expensive shoes clicking against the stone floor.“We know you’ve been gathering evidence.Hacking into systems you designed yourself, which I must admit shows a certain poetic irony.”
Still nothing.
“What we don’t know,” he continues, crouching beside the bed so that his face is level with mine, “is what you’ve shared with the Boyles.What your husband knows.Where the evidence is stored.”
I hold his stare.This man, who raised me and taught me to play chess and ride horses and navigate the treacherous waters of Syndicate politics.This man was willing to sell me to a monster for profit.This man traffics women and children while maintaining the facade of a legitimate businessman.
I don’t recognize him anymore.I’m not sure I ever really knew him at all.
“Serena.”His voice hardens.“I’m asking you a question.”
“And I’m choosing not to answer it.”
Something flickers in his eyes.Surprise, maybe, or disappointment.Then it’s gone, replaced by the cold calculation I’ve seen him turn on rivals and enemies, but never on me.Never on his own daughter.
“You’ve changed,” he observes.“That Irish dog has corrupted you.”
“He’s shown me what loyalty actually looks like.What caring looks like.”I let my contempt show.“You wouldn’t understand.”
Cesare steps forward, his hands balled into fists.“Let me have five minutes with her.I’ll make her talk.”
Giovanni holds up a staying hand.“No.We’re not going to hurt her.”He straightens and adjusts his cuffs, that casual gesture I’ve seen a thousand times at dinner tables and boardrooms.“Pain is such an unreliable motivator.People will say anything to make it stop, whether it’s true or not.”
