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I don’t care, though.
She’s safe. Ava is safe, and that’s all that matters.
"You think you're strong," the voice continues. Definitely Marco. I can tell by the slight lisp that enters his speech when he's truly furious. "You think the Monster of Chicago can't be broken?"
I want to tell him that breaking isn't the same as surrendering. That pain is just another language I've become fluent in over the years.
But speaking would require more energy than I currently possess.
And I have no wish to teach Marco shit anyways.
He’s a dummy, explaining things to him will take a lot of strength.
My mind drifts to Ava again. To our child. The baby I won’t get to meet. That thought is both my weakness and my greatest strength.
They keep asking about shipping routes. About my businesses. About the network that could protect my family.
They'll get nothing from me.
Fools.
Another blow. This time to my kidneys. I can't help the sound that escapes, part grunt, part sob. My body betrays me even as my mind remains unbroken.
"Look at him," Carlo says, stepping closer. I can smell his expensive aftershave mixed with the metallic tang of my own blood. "The great Stefano Rega. Reduced to this."
I focus on a crack in the concrete floor. Memorize its jagged edges. Anything to stay present. Anything to avoid slipping into unconsciousness where they might gain an advantage.
My tattoos, those symbols of power and heritage that once meant everything, are now just roadmaps of bruises, dark ink blending with fresh wounds.
"One name," Marco says. "Just give us one connection. One weak point in your network."
I meet his eyes. Mine are swollen, but the message is clear.Go to hell.
Coño.
The next blow feels different. Calculated. Like they're finally realizing that physical pain won't break me.
They're right to be worried.
Because the monster inside me isn't dead. He's just waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
* * *
Footsteps approach, then pass by, fading into the distance. Voices become distant echoes.
The Fiori men are leaving. I try to make out what they are saying but sounds blend into a meaningless symphony of pain. My body feels like broken glass held together by nothing more than willpower and rage.
Then—her voice, cutting through the fog of near-unconsciousness.
Ava.
My head lifts, or tries to. The movement sends knives of pain through my skull, and I manage only the slightest twitch. Blood and sweat blur my vision, but I'd recognize her voice anywhere.
Fuck, what is she doing here? Or is my mind playing tricks on me now?