Page 19

She was sitting on the edge of the long velvet bench, her posture too straight, like always. Her little white dress pristine, hands folded neatly on her lap, she was trying so hard not to cry, even though the tears were brimming in her eyes.

Monte had just spilled an entire glass of red wine across her lap.

“Oops,” Gustavo snorted. “Clumsy much?”

Fioretta's lips trembled, but she didn’t say a word. She just dabbed at the stain with the edge of the tablecloth, her cheeks pink with humiliation.

I had laughed. I couldn’t help it. Watching her stand there, so stiff, so proper—it was funny then. She always thought she was better than us.

Gustavo circled her like a shark, leaning in close. His voice had that teasing edge. “You really think any of us want you here? You’re only here because your father begged for scraps.”

Still nothing from her. Silent. Meek.

But then Gustavo crossed a line.

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up. And before any of us could blink, he kissed her—hard.

The moment he pulled back, she slapped him.

It echoed across the room.

For a breath, none of us moved.

Then Gustavo’s face darkened. His hand shot out.

The first slap was loud. She staggered but didn’t fall.

The second, sharper.

The third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

By the time he was done, her face was flushed and swollen, but she still didn’t cry. She stood there, holding her ground like some broken little doll who refused to fall apart in front of us.

And even then—even then—she didn’t tell anyone.

No one told her father. No one told anyone. She just stayed quiet, like she always did.

“I am so fucked,” I hiss under my breath, my chest heaving as panic claws at my throat.

The pill bottle trembles in my hand. My gaze darts to the label: Memory Suppressant—2mg.

No, no, no.

I whirl around, eyes scanning Monte’s closet like a cornered animal searching for any escape. My pulse pounds in my ears. And then—there.

I yank open the second drawer, nearly ripping it off its tracks. Inside, rows of identical white bottles glisten under the dim light, each perfectly labeled: Vitamin A.

My fingers scramble, pulling one free. My breathing is so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts.

Switch them. Switch them now.

With trembling hands, I peel the labels off both bottles, my fingertips slipping against the adhesive. My nerves threaten to send everything crashing to the floor, but somehow, I manage to slap the Vitamin A label onto the memory suppressant bottle.

Then I shove the real pills deep into the drawer, burying them beneath stacks of folded t-shirts and old watches, like stuffing away a crime scene.

The fake bottle—now labeled Vitamin A—goes back onto the bedside table, perfectly innocent.

I take one final breath, gripping the edge of the drawer to steady my spinning head. My mouth tastes like metal. My skin’s clammy.

If Monte finds out what I just did, I’m dead. Not mafia dead. Dead dead.

And yet—my legs move before my mind can stop them.

I bolt.

Down the hall, through the door, across the corridor, heels clicking against marble like the frantic ticks of a time bomb. I burst through the front door and stumble into the daylight, chest tight.

And there they are.

Monte. Gustavo. Fioretta.

My stomach drops as I spot the scene unfolding—Monte’s men surrounding Fioretta, closing in like vultures. She’s fighting, of course she is—thrashing her arms, twisting against their grip, her voice sharp and full of rage.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” she spits, kicking out at one of the guards, who narrowly avoids her heel.

Monte stands there with that godawful smirk plastered across his face, like a wolf admiring his trapped prey.

I freeze for half a second. My pulse spikes so violently that it makes my ears ring. Then I run.

I sprint over and grab Fioretta’s wrist, tugging at her with every ounce of strength left.

“Let’s go,” I hiss urgently. “Now.”

Fioretta looks at me, panting, confused. “What the hell is going on, Emilia? What are you doing?!”

“Oh, what’s the rush?” Monte’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade dipped in honey. His fingers twitch subtly, signaling his men.

Two guards seize Fioretta by both arms, yanking her away from me. She kicks, curses, her sunglasses flying off as she twists in their hold. Her wild hazel eyes flash with rage, the sun catching the gold flecks that make them almost glow.

“Let me go, you psychopaths!” she shrieks.

Monte strolls toward me, casual as always. His eyes gleam with sick amusement.

“You can go, Emilia,” he says softly, almost like he’s offering me a choice. “Or you can stay and watch. Don’t make me ask them to get you, too.”

My breath catches again. I’m cornered. My throat tightens as I feel the weight of his threat sink into my skin.

If I leave, I’m safe. If I stay, I’m a witness. And witnesses don’t always live long.

But Fioretta’s eyes meet mine, wide and panicked.

I swallow hard, forcing my face into something resembling calm.

“I’ll stay,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Monte grins, nodding approvingly like I’ve passed some twisted loyalty test. “Good girl,” he purrs.

His words make my stomach churn.

I clench my fists at my sides, biting down the scream in my throat as I watch them drag Fioretta inside.

God, what have I done?

^^^^

The leather couch sticks against the back of my thighs as Monte pulls me closer, his arm heavy around my shoulders. His lips brush against my neck, hot breath fanning over my skin, but I barely register it. My eyes stay fixed on Fioretta.

She’s stripped down to nothing but her bra and panties, her arms yanked up, wrists tied to the beam above her head.

Her skin’s flushed and streaked where the rough rope bites into her.

She isn’t struggling anymore—not physically—but the rigid set of her jaw tells me she’s fighting in every other way.

Gustavo circles her like some sick animal. His eyes roam her bare skin with open hunger, licking his lips like she’s a meal laid out just for him.

“Now Serevin is eating well! Look at you,” Gustavo says with a twisted grin, voice sticky with mockery.

Monte chuckles low in my ear. His hand slides over my waist. “We could have an orgy right here, you know.” His tone is smooth, like he’s suggesting a game instead of something vile. His lips trail down to my collarbone, and I flinch.

I can’t do this. I can’t breathe.

I turn my head away, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.

My eyes dart back to Fioretta. She isn’t crying.

That’s what gets me the most—how she just stands there, chin lifted, as if daring them to go further.

But her cheeks are red, her skin gleaming under the wine that’s already been poured over her.

Gustavo uncorks another bottle with a pop that sounds deafening in the tense air. He steps forward and casually empties it over her head. The dark red soaks through her hair, staining her skin as it drips down her neck and onto her chest.

“Cheers!” Monte calls, raising an invisible glass. His laugh is sharp, echoing off the walls.

Gustavo grabs a bowl of chips from the table nearby and crushes them in his fist before tossing the crumbs over Fioretta like confetti. The oily crumbs stick to the wet sheen on her skin. The entire display is absurd—grotesque and childishly cruel.

Gustavo grabs Fioretta’s chin, tilting her face up so their eyes meet.

“I heard you lost your memory,” he sneers.

“But I had to test it out myself. You actually believed I was your friend. You have no friends, Fee. You’re a sad, stuck-up bitch who nobody likes.

You think you’re better than everyone. You and my stupid cousin Serevin. ”

For a moment, the room stills. I hold my breath.

Then Fioretta’s lips part, her voice flat but sharp enough to slice him in half. “You have a small dick, don’t you?”

Gustavo freezes, eyes widening in disbelief. His face shifts—confusion to rage in half a second—and then he slaps her, the sound so loud it rings in my ears. Her head jerks sideways, strands of wet hair whipping across her face.

I can’t look. My chest tightens. My fingers clench against my thighs as I lower my gaze, shame prickling my skin.

Monte laughs, fully entertained. His hand leaves my waist, and he stands, stretching lazily as if warming up before joining the show.

He strolls toward Fioretta with a predatory grin. Each step echoes. She lifts her chin again, refusing to cower, even as her cheek blooms red from Gustavo’s slap.

“You've got quite a mouth now,” Monte drawls, circling Fioretta like a wolf scenting blood. “Serevin must be rubbing off on you.”

Fioretta raises her chin despite the bruises darkening across her cheek. She glares down at him. “You’re smaller than him, too,” she sneers, voice hoarse but sharp.

Monte’s grin doesn’t falter. His eyes glint with a cruel kind of amusement as he gestures to Gustavo, who releases Fioretta from the hook in the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Monte reaches for a nearby figurine resting on the side table—smooth, solid, heavy—and without warning, slams it across the side of her head.

The dull crack echoes through the room.

Fioretta crumples to the floor instantly, a groan slipping from her throat.

Before I can even move, Gustavo steps in, boots colliding with her stomach. Monte joins him. Their kicks land again and again—gut, ribs, back.

“She won’t remember a thing after this,” Monte mutters, kicking again for good measure.

My stomach flips. The bile rises to my throat, but I force it down and lurch to my feet. “Enough!”

My voice cracks louder than I expect. My hands shake as I pull my phone from my pocket, holding it up like a weapon.

“I have a recording,” I shout. My breath hitches, but I plant my feet. “I recorded everything. If you touch her again, I send it straight to Serevin!”

The words hang heavy in the air.

Gustavo freezes, his face draining of color. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Monte doesn’t flinch. Instead, he smiles. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Baby,” he says softly, stepping closer, “do you want to join her?”

I flinch but don’t move.

“We can make you forget too,” Monte whispers. “I can delete that silly little recording. You’ll wake up tomorrow like nothing happened. Or maybe not wake up at all.”

My pulse roars in my ears. My grip tightens on my phone like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

“You really want to hurt two people Serevin cares for?” I shoot back, voice shaking but sharp. “You think he won’t burn this entire city if you do?”

Monte studies me. The grin fades, but his eyes still glimmer with something cold.

I keep going, desperate now. “Just give me the pill. I’ll give it to her. I’ll take her home. You’ll be in the clear.”

The silence stretches. My knees threaten to buckle under the weight of it.

Finally, Monte turns to one of the guards. “Bring me the pills from my bedroom.”

The guard rushes off and returns quickly, placing the bottle into Monte’s outstretched hand. He tosses it to me like tossing scraps to a stray dog.

“Your little act better work,” he says.

I don’t answer. My throat’s too dry. My hands fumble as I scramble to Fioretta’s side. She’s barely conscious now, her head lolling as I prop her up.

“Stay with me, Fee,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Please.”

I slip two of the fake pills into her mouth.

“Water,” Monte orders, and another guard appears immediately with a glass. My fingers tremble as I tip it to Fioretta’s lips, coaxing her to swallow. She chokes slightly but gulps it down.

Gustavo looms over us. “I want to be sure she swallowed.”

Without hesitation, I open Fioretta’s mouth and tilt her head back for him to see. He nods reluctantly.

Monte watches me for a beat longer. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” he says. “You used to be fun.”

I bite back the scream trapped in my throat.

Hoisting Fioretta up, I drag her limp weight toward the door. My muscles scream under her weight, but I keep moving. Each step feels like I’m pulling us both out of quicksand.

Finally, the door shuts behind us, sealing their laughter inside.

I shove her into the backseat and slam the door. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop the keys as I shove them into the ignition.

Tears stream down my face as I speed toward the hospital, the weight of what almost happened crashing down on me.