We descend the stairs to the second level, my heart pounding so hard I fear it might break out. Cruz holds tight to my hand, providing the stability I need to make it down to the third level.
The Duke walks in front of us, leading the way, and when we reach the bottom of the stairs, I take a moment to breathe. Girding my loins, I start moving, coming up to the cells. “Eilidh!” I call out, the flicker of hope growing, even as a dark sense of foreboding rushes through me. “Eilidh Buchanan!”
The women peer out of their cells, some exclaiming when they see The Duke. “Have you come to let us out now?” one cries, and my heart shatters. I shouldn’t be surprised my father would lock women up like cattle.
My steps pick up as I look into each cell. “Do you know a woman named Eilidh?” I ask as I pass each one, looking for my mother’s trademark strawberry-blonde hair. None of the women claim to know her and are too busy watching The Duke unlocking the cells to pay much attention to me.
“She’s not here,” I murmur, Cruz’s hand tightening around mine. “Did you see a woman with reddish-blonde hair while you were down here?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
Coming up to the final cell, I glance in at the woman lying on the cot. I gasp at the state of her. Her long brown hair is greasy, her nightgown stained and filthy. Bones protrude from her emaciated frame, her pale skin streaked with heavy purple bruises.
The Duke comes alongside me, her eyes full of sadness. “She passed away last night, poor thing. If she just could have waited until today, we could have rescued her.”
I place a hand on the cell and bow my head for a moment, grief clogging my throat. I hate that it was so close. I step away, then spin back around, squinting. The woman’s arm dangles over the cot, and on her wrist is a scar I recognize.
“No!” I shout, banging against the bars. “Open the door!” The Duke fumbles with the keys, finally getting it unlocked, and swings the door open. I pull myself free from Cruz and race inside, falling to my knees.
“Momma?” I murmur, brushing the hair from her forehead. Her dark hair, except for where her roots were growing out, a strip of strawberry-blonde growing through. Violent sobs tear from my throat as I gently pull her off the cot and into my lap. Beyond the jutting cheekbones, I can still see my mother’s face. Her skin is cold, her eyes closed in forever sleep.
I rock her back and forth, tears obliterating my sight. The pain in my chest grows until I can’t hold it back anymore, and I scream, the haunting, terrible sound stretching from one corner of the room to the other.
Cruz sits down behind me, pulling me into the vee of his legs. He holds me as I fall apart. “I–I was upstairs,” I sob, “just upstairs. She was alive last night while I was here. Why didn’t I come sooner? Why did I wait the three days Vincenzo asked for?” Guilt stabs me in the heart, and I can’t breathe. How could she have been alive all these years and I not know it? Vincenzo had her as his prisoner all this time, doing who knows what to her. Raping her? Torturing her? Making her pay for taking away his ability to have more children?
“Give her to me, sweetheart,” a deep voice commands, and I look up to see my uncle standing above me, rare tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’ll take her now.” He kneels down next to me, holding out his arms, his eyes full of pain.
“I didn’t know!” I wail, holding onto her tighter. “There was so much blood, and Vincenzo said I killed her.” My lips tremble as I beg Harris to understand. “I didn’t know she was still alive.”
He places a hand on my arm, giving Cruz a wary look. “Look at me, Dutch.” I lift my tear-filled eyes and meet his, expecting to see condemnation. But all I see is sadness and grief, one to match my own. “Do not blame yourself. You couldn’t have known. The only one to blame is Vincenzo.” He glances between me and Cruz. “I met some of your army upstairs, I’m impressed. I’m assuming you’ll take care of Vincenzo today?”
I bob my head, sniffing. “We’ve got something planned. It’s going to be noisy, though, so I hope you’ve done something to smooth it over with the local law enforcement.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ve got your back.” He holds a hand out to Cruz. “I know who you are already, Mr. Sandoval. Take good care of my niece.” Cruz shakes his hand, and then I reluctantly hand my mother to her brother. He gets to his feet, then says, “I’ll take her home since it’s not that far from here. I’ll arrange a small funeral and text you the details. I’ve got a couple of agents with me, ones I trust. We’ll take the other women with us and get them to their homes.”
I incline my head, and Harris leaves, my mother draped over his arms, the women trailing behind. Letting out one last shuddering breath, I let Cruz help me to my feet. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I nod shakily. I will be.
Knowing she was alive, that I didn't save her, is going to eat at me for the rest of my life. I know it’s not my fault but telling myself that isn’t going to help anything.
Walking over to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, washing away the evidence of tears. I won’t let Vincenzo see my grief; it’s not for him. For years I dreamed of making him suffer for everything he’s done. For my mother, for me, for Harris, for my grandmother. For all the women raped, beaten, tortured, sold, and murdered. For their families and their grief.
I imagined I would spend days tearing him to pieces, finding creative ways to torture him slowly. And a part of me, that little dark devil on my shoulder, still wants that. Wants to dance in his blood, bathe in it while laughing at his pain.
But none of that brings any of them back. I may be dark inside, but I’m not evil. I’ve killed, yes. To protect innocents and stop trafficking. I like to blow things up and take down the bad guys. But I don’t want to become my father.
I’ve dedicated so many years of my life to taking him down. Years lost to hatred and bitterness, and a driving need for revenge. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I make peace with my decision. I let go of the rage and anguish.
It’s time to end this.
Chapter 72
Vincenzo
Thebitchthatdestroyedmy fingers—Susannah?—comes back down the stairs, one of my mortal enemies in her wake. The ginger bastard barely even glances in my direction, making me grind my teeth. He could at least be polite enough to say hello to the man that’s been feeding and housing his sister for the past twenty-eight years. She introduces him to the others, then points the way to the stairs.
He’s going to spend the rest of his life wallowing in guilt. He and Daniella both. All these years I’ve had Eilidh right under their noses and the stupid fuckers didn’t know it. I let out a maniacal laugh, startling the assholes guarding me. Oh, the fun I’ve had with her over the years! The best part was when I informed her after what happened in London that Daniella was dead, shot in the line of duty.
I even bought one of those folded flags on Craigslist, the kind that comes in a wooden box. Waved it around in front of her, taunting her with it. All the years I tried to break her, she stood strong against me. Nothing I did worked, until that. The light finally went out in her eyes. It happened gradually at first, then picked up speed. Eventually, she stopped eating, refused to bathe during her weekly shower.
