“Fuck! Fuck! Ahhh!” He writhes against the rope. The two guards on either side hold him still. My blood boils with each note he hits on the scream scale.
“He said, make the Don twitch! Fuck!” Tears are pouring from his eyes, his body still vibrating from the trauma.
I furrow my brows, pausing the assault on his skin. This is not Russian muscle. Someone else is profiling me. Testing if my leash tightens when she’s in view. Maybe searching for a weak spot.
Fuck!
“I’m sorry…please,” he whimpers, hunched as far as the ropes around his body allow.
“You went after my wife!” I spit, wheels turning in my head. The bastard behind this could be the same one behind the stolen shipment.
There’s only one way to find out.
I pause, take a breath, then scan for another vital sensitive area. The wounds and bruises aren’t cutting it anymore.
Then, I hold his gaze. His eyes!
Turning on the lighter again, I use two fingers to hold his right eye open. Down here, the walls are soundproof, so no one will hear him scream. Slowly, I inch the fire close to his eye and watch his iris melt before mine.
His screams erupt, loud and gut-wrenching, as he convulses before me. I watch with a glimmer of satisfaction as blood and goo drip down his face, his breath growing faint like he’ll pass out any moment.
Chapter seven
Isabella
All you do these days is sigh, Isabella.I scold myself as I let out yet another sigh. When I’m not thinking about the sudden turn of events with my father, my mind seems to be clouded with thoughts of my supposed husband, Dominic. What a vicious cycle.
I shake my head slightly as if to shake away thoughts of him, but they don’t budge. I’m not surprised. That’s how it’s been for the past three days. It still seems beyond me how he pisses me off, yet I find myself raising my ass in the air and screaming his name until I can’t anymore.
How can I show my defiance when I always melt in his presence? How exactly do I show him I won’t bend to his will when I can barely resist his tempting advances?
I don’t know. And maybe that’s why I’ve remained cooped up in this room for the past three days. I feel ashamed and angry at myself. Ugh.
My loose bun unravels on top of my head as I throw weak jabs at the pillow I’m holding.Silly little ginger girl. My mind drifts to the annoying nickname Elena gave me when we were kids. I’d liked the nickname, loved it even, but as I grew older and Dad and Melanie opened my eyes to the many supposedly terrible sides of being a ginger, I hated it.
Then I started hearing it. How every conversation always revolved around my appearance. How I was so unattractive and was meant to be the subject of bullying. Dad, Melanie, the students at school, and even some of Elena’s friends in her presence. That’s the one that hurt the most.
Squeezing the pillow tightly against my torso, I clench my eyes shut. Elena and I are the same age; she’s my literal twin, with me being ten minutes older. There was nothing stopping her from defending me, but each time her friends threw backhanded compliments and stupid jabs, she remained quiet.
I used to excuse her silence, blaming it on puberty, hormones, whatever a desperate twin like me could find. I’d bend over backwards to justify her indifference… just to hold onto the glimmer of hope that she cared.
But even when we became adults, and she knew the difference between right and wrong, she never cared to say anything to me.
Whenever she needed me, she just called. If she met me crying, she never consoled me; she just blankly gave orders, and I had to follow.
For the longest time, I wondered why.
Her room was of-limits, her clothes were better looking, and she got everything easy, unlike me. So why couldn’t she at least be a friend to me?
My lips quiver, and I quickly bring my hand to dab at my eyes before the tears spill.
But there was a time when things weren’t as bad as they were before I left. There was a time I was treated with love and care, although it seems so long ago that I barely have any memory of it. No, I chose not to have any memory of her…of Mom…because it deepened the realization that the only person who ever truly loved me was dead.
The thought has barely materialized in my mind before I notice the screen of my phone is lit. I reach for it cautiously and let out a deep sigh when Father’s name pops up on the screen.Here we go again,I mumble to myself before answering the phone.
“My daughter.” His voice resonates out of the receiver in an unusually soft tone. Involuntarily, I shudder. Angel, my daughter, my darling…names he never called me, until recently.
“Father.” My response is curt and without any emotion. No. The emotions are clashing in my chest, but I do my best to abate them.
