“Never heard of him,” another voice calls from the growing crowd. “Must not be very important if he lets his boytoy get locked up with the rest of us animals.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. They don’t know. They don’t recognize Carlo’s name. They don’t understand that they’re sitting across from the wife of one of the most feared and respected men in London.
For the first time since I’ve been here, genuine terror begins to creep through my carefully maintained composure. These aren’t just crude criminals. They’re... common. Petty thieves and small-time dealers, so far removed from Carlo’s world that his name means absolutely nothing to them.
Which means his protection doesn’t extend here. Which means I’m not safe.
“Carlo Benedetti,” I repeat desperately, as if saying his name louder will somehow make them understand. “He owns the best club in London. He’s connected. Important. If you touch me, he’ll...”
“He’ll what?” A large, sweaty man grins, showing teeth stained brown with neglect. “Send us a strongly worded letter?”
The tattooed man’s hand is back on my thigh, gripping harder this time, fingers digging into my flesh through the rough fabric of my prison uniform. The other men are laughing, making crude suggestions about what they’d like to do to Carlo Benedetti’s pretty little boy-wife.
“I bet he’s never been properly broken in,” one of them speculates loudly. “Rich little gay-boy like that, probably all silk and perfume and no experience with taking it rough.”
“We’ll fix that,” another promises with obvious relish. “Teach him what it means to be a real man’s property.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I envisioned. Carlo is supposed to arrive before anyone can touch me, before anyone can treat me like some common criminal instead of the cherished wife of a powerful man.
But he’s not here. And these animals don’t care who I’m married to because they’ve never heard of my husband.
The crowd is getting bigger now, more aggressive. Men pressing closer, hands reaching out to touch my hair, my face, my body. Comments getting cruder and more explicit about what they plan to do once they get me alone.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, trying to pull away, but the tattooed man’s grip only tightens.
“Or what, princess? You’ll call your imaginary husband? Scream for guards who don’t give a shit what happens to pretty boys who think they’re too good for this place?”
The mockery in his voice, the casual disregard for my dignity, the complete dismissal of everything I am and everything Carlo means to me, sends something snapping inside my chest.
I grab my fork with my free hand and drive it deep into the flesh of his wrist.
The man screams, jerking his hand back as blood wells around the metal tines. “You fucking psycho!”
But I’m already moving, already on my feet, the fork still clutched in my hand like a weapon. Because if they don’t respect Carlo’s name, if his protection doesn’t extend to this place, then I have to protect myself.
“I told you not to touch me,” I snarl, and I barely recognize my own voice. This is something primal and desperate and absolutely murderous.
The wounded man lunges for me, his companions right behind him. Other prisoners are shouting, some backing away, others moving closer like sharks drawn to blood. Guards are blowingwhistles somewhere in the distance, but they’re too far away, too late.
The fork isn’t much of a weapon, but it’s all I have. I slash out wildly, catching someone across the face, feeling warm blood splash across my hand. Someone grabs my hair, yanking my head back, and I bite down hard on the nearest piece of flesh I can find.
More screaming. More blood. Hands grabbing at me from all directions, trying to pin me down, promising to hurt me in ways I don’t want to think about.
This is hell. This is what happens when you’re abandoned by everyone who’s supposed to love you, when even your husband’s name can’t protect you from the wolves.
A fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. Another catches me in the face, splitting my lip and filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. But I keep fighting, keep slashing with my makeshift weapon, because if I stop they’ll tear me apart.
“Carlo!” I scream his name even though he’s not here, even though he can’t hear me, even though he might never come for me at all. “Carlo!”
But Carlo doesn’t answer. Nobody answers except the brutal hands and cruel laughter and the terrible realization that I’m completely, utterly alone.
The guards finally reach us, batons swinging, tear gas filling the air, but it’s too late. The damage is done. My beautiful fantasy about being rescued by my powerful husband lies in pieces around me, mixed with blood and broken teeth and the complete destruction of everything I believed about my place in the world.
As they drag me away in restraints, my face already swelling from the blows, I catch sight of my reflection in the metal surface of a tray that’s been knocked to the floor.
I look exactly like what I am. Not the cherished wife of Carlo Benedetti. Not someone important and protected and loved.
Just another broken prisoner who got what was coming to him.
