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For the children who won't grow up. For the women who disappeared. For every person treated like inventory by men like Raymond and my father.
I don't try to hide the noise anymore. What's the point? My chest heaves with each sob, the pain flowing through me like a river breaking through ice.
I push through the rusted side door of the warehouse, gulping in the fresh air like a drowning man.
Fuck.
The cool metal of my lighter is a welcome distraction as I flick it open. I shouldn't be doing this—I quit smoking four months ago—but I found a half-empty pack of Cohibas stashed in one of the supply crates. Today calls for breaking promises made to myself.
The first drag burns my lungs in that familiar, punishing way. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl upward against the blue sky.
What the fuck was I thinking?
If she hadn't pulled away...
I take another drag, longer this time.
A sound breaks into my thoughts—keen and pained—coming from inside the warehouse. My body reacts before my mind processes, gun already in hand as I move silently along the perimeter wall.
I approach the window, staying low, and peer through the grimy glass. The warehouse interior is gloomy but I can make out Melania's silhouette at the table.
She's alone.
And she's sobbing.
Not the delicate tears of a society princess but gut-wrenching, body-shaking sobs that seem ripped from deep inside her. Her shoulders heave with every gasp. Her hands cover her face but they can't contain the raw sounds escaping her.
I holster my weapon, the adrenaline draining away, replaced by heaviness. And something I don't want to name.
This isn't the conniving woman who offered me thirty million dollars without blinking. This isn't the sharp-tongued captive who challenged me at every turn.
This is Melania stripped bare of all her defenses.
The reality of what she's discovered has finally hit her—not just intellectually but in her bones. The horror of what Raymondand her father have done. The lives destroyed. The innocence shattered.
I should go back inside. I should say something. Do something.
But what comfort can I offer? My hands are stained with blood too. Different blood, for different reasons—but still blood.
I take one last drag of the cigar before crushing it beneath my boot. The ember dies, leaving nothing but ash.
Through the window, I watch her break apart, knowing that whatever comes next, she won't be the same person who walked into that warehouse. Pain changes you. Strips away illusions. Makes you see the world for what it really is.
And once you see it, you can never unsee it.
Something primal stirs inside me—a need to protect, to shield, to destroy whatever causes her pain.
But I don't move. Not yet.
I wait, a silent guardian outside the window, giving her the privacy to shatter completely.
The timeline needs to accelerate. Raymond and Antonio need to pay—not just for their crimes against strangers but for what they've done to her. For turning her into both commodity and victim.
They'll die. That's not a question. It's a fucking promise.
But death is too simple, too quick. They need to suffer first. Need to watch their empire crumble. Need to feel the same helplessness their victims felt.
Melania's sobs begin to quiet. Her breathing slows, becomes more measured. She wipes her face with the back of her hand—a childlike gesture that makes my chest wring like laundry.