Page 43

“I’m always serious about legacy, Doctor.” He returned to his observation post by the window. “You’ve proven yourself quite remarkable. Your medical knowledge, your resilience under pressure, your defiance even now. All admirable genetic qualities.”

The room tilted again, but this time, it wasn’t the drugs. The clinical assessment, the reduction of my entire existence to breeding potential—it was so much worse than Mateo’s crude desires.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m practical. My son is dead, but his genetic material isn’t.” He turned back to me, and I saw the calculation in his eyes. The same look I’d seen in researchers planning experiments. “I have access to preserved samples. Artificial insemination is quite routine these days.”

Bile rose in my throat again. I pressed my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. The medical part of my brain supplied helpful details about the process he was describing, making it worse.

“You’re talking about forced pregnancy. That’s?—”

“Expedient. You’ll receive the best medical care, of course. My physicians are quite skilled.” He paused, studying my horror with detached interest. “Though, I must admit, if the procedures with Mateo’s material prove unsuccessful, I’m not opposed to a more… direct approach.”

The implication hit like a physical blow. He meant himself. This old man was calmly discussing raping me if his dead son’s sperm didn’t take.

“Though, at my age, it would be purely for reproductive purposes,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “In vitro would be more reliable. But natural conception has its own advantages. Better implantation rates, some studies suggest.”

“You’re sick.” My voice shook with rage and fear. “Both of you, father and son, broken in the same disgusting way.”

“Broken?” His eyebrows rose slightly. “I’ve built an empire. I control territories, governments, armies. My bloodline will continue through you, creating heirs worthy of what I’ve built. That’s not broken, Doctor. That’s evolution.”

“That’s delusion.” I forced myself to push up from the floor, using the wall for support. My legs shook but held. I needed to be standing for this. “You want to know the truth about your precious bloodline?”

His eyes narrowed slightly—the first crack in his composure. “By all means, enlighten me.”

The rage gave me strength the drugs had stolen. I stepped away from the wall, standing on my own despite the trembling in my muscles. All the fear, all the disgust, all the fury at being reduced to breeding stock crystallized into words I knew would hurt.

“No wonder Mateo was so weak.” The words poured out, each one chosen for maximum damage.

“Look at his father—an old man who has to steal women to continue his bloodline because no woman would choose him. The Silva line is already dead, Diego. It died when you raised a pathetic son who needed his daddy to execute people for him.”

The silence that followed felt like the pause between lightning and thunder.

Diego’s face went very still, a mask that barely contained what writhed beneath.

His hands, which had been loosely clasped, slowly clenched into fists.

When he stood, it was with the controlled violence of a predator deciding whether to strike.

“Careful, Doctor.” His voice had dropped an octave, cultured veneer cracking.

But I was past careful. Past the place where self-preservation mattered more than truth. The drugs, the fear, the sheer outrage at his casual discussion of using my body—it all erupted.

“Carlos, the man you executed in front of me, was ten times the man your son was. A simple villager who worked hard and loved his family. And you shot him like a dog to, what, teach Mateo a lesson? But Mateo couldn’t even learn that.

He died screaming like the coward he was, blown apart because he was too stupid to realize?—”

Diego moved faster than a man his age should be able to. His hand cracked across my face, snapping my head to the side. The impact sent me stumbling, my weakened legs giving out. I caught myself on the bedpost, tasting blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.

“You want to see weakness?” His voice had gone arctic, all polish stripped away to reveal the killer beneath. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back to force me to meet his eyes. “I’ll show you what weakness feels like.”

He released me with a shove that sent me to my knees, then barked orders in rapid Spanish. The guards moved instantly, one grabbing each of my arms and hauling me upright. My feet barely touched the floor as they held me between them.

“The storage building,” Diego commanded, straightening his shirt with sharp movements.

“The one with no windows. No comfort.” He stepped close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive and suffocating.

His hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

“Let her sit in the dark and think about respect. About what happens to things that displease me. A few days without light, and we’ll see how sharp that tongue remains. ”

They dragged me out, my bare feet scraping against polished floors.

We passed through hallways lined with art that probably cost more than the entire Corazón clinic’s annual budget.

My vision swam, the drugs and adrenaline making everything feel hyperreal and distant at once.

Down stairs that my legs couldn’t quite navigate, leaving the guards to half carry me.

Through a kitchen that smelled of spices and fear—staff who kept their eyes carefully averted, pretending not to see the American woman being dragged through their workspace.

Outside, the humidity hit like a wet blanket.

The familiar sounds of evening in Corazón—birds settling, insects beginning their night symphony—felt like mockery.

How many times had I walked village paths at this hour, heading to check on patients?

The smell of cooking fires drifted from somewhere, probably staff quarters, and my stomach clenched with a homesickness that had nothing to do with Chicago.

The storage building squatted separate from the main house, utilitarian concrete that spoke of function over form.

No windows, just like Diego had specified.

A padlock hung from a hasp that looked newer than the weathered door.

One of the guards produced a key, unlocking it with efficient movements.

The door swung open on darkness so complete it seemed solid. The smell hit me first—dust and mold and something else, something organic and wrong. Old chemicals, maybe, or things left to rot in tropical heat.

They shoved me inside. I stumbled, catching myself against what felt like wooden crates. Splinters bit into my palms. The door slammed shut, locks engaging with final clicks that echoed in the enclosed space.

Darkness. Complete, absolute darkness that pressed against my eyes like physical weight.

I stood frozen, afraid to move without being able to see.

My breathing sounded too loud in the enclosed space, harsh gasps that echoed off unseen walls.

Somewhere in the darkness, something scurried—rat, lizard, or worse.

The sound sent primitive fear shooting through me, the kind that bypassed rational thought and went straight to the lizard brain.

“Okay,” I whispered, needing to hear something besides my own panicked breathing. “Okay. You’re okay.”

But I wasn’t. I was locked in the dark in Diego Silva’s compound, scheduled to become breeding stock for a dead psychopath’s legacy. Logan didn’t know where I was. No one knew where I was. And Diego had been very clear about his timeline—days in here, then his medical team would begin procedures.

A sob tried to escape, but I bit it back. Crying wouldn’t help. Panic wouldn’t help. I needed to think, to plan, to use what I had.

First step: map the space.

I extended my arms carefully, shuffling forward until my fingers found rough wood again.

More crates, stacked at least three high.

A few steps. Something metal. Solid. Maybe shelves.

I followed them, building a mental picture.

The wall was rough concrete, cool despite the jungle heat and slightly damp with condensation.

Something skittered across my foot, and I had to bite back a scream.

Ten shuffling steps along one wall. Turn. Fifteen steps. Turn. Ten again. Fifteen. A rectangle, about ten by fifteen feet. No windows. The door was metal from the sound it had made, set in a frame that felt solid when I found it again. No give when I pushed against it.

In one corner, my foot hit something that clanked. Bottles. Old glass bottles that rolled and clinked against each other. The sound was almost musical in the oppressive silence.

I sank down in the corner where two walls met, pulling my knees to my chest. The concrete was gritty with dirt and God knew what else, but sitting felt safer than standing blind.

Time lost meaning in the darkness. Minutes or hours—impossible to tell.

My eyes strained for any hint of light, creating phantom shapes that dissolved when I tried to focus on them.

The scurrying sounds continued, bolder now.

Again, something ran across my ankle, and I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to muffle the shriek trapped in my throat.

But worse than the creatures, worse than the dark, was the echo of Diego’s words. His calm discussion of forced pregnancy. His backup plan to father the children himself. The clinical way he’d reduced me to genetic material, a vessel for continuing his poisoned bloodline.

My medical training supplied helpful details about what he was planning. Hormone injections to stimulate ovulation. Careful monitoring of my cycle. The procedure itself—catheter through the cervix, specially prepared sperm injected directly into the uterus. Clinical. Violating. Effective.

And if that didn’t work, Diego himself. The thought made me gag, bile burning my already raw throat.

Tears came then, hot and bitter. For the first time since waking up, I let myself feel the full weight of my situation. I was back in Corazón, in the hands of a man who saw me as breeding stock. Who had the resources and ruthlessness to keep me here indefinitely.

Logan would come for me. I knew that like I knew my own name. But how would he find me? How long would it take? Diego had been planning this—the grab in Chicago had been too smooth, too professional. He’d probably been watching me for weeks, waiting for the right moment.

The storage room suddenly felt like a preview of my future—trapped in the dark while Diego Silva decided how to use me.

But even as despair tried to drown me, anger flickered beneath.

In the darkness, I smiled. It probably looked unhinged, but there was no one to see.

Diego Silva thought he’d already won. He thought he had me trapped, helpless, ready to be molded into his grand genetic plan.

He was wrong.

Maybe I’d lost sight of who I really was, what I really believed, over the past couple of months. Diego had just unknowingly given that back to me.

I was Lauren Valentino. I’d stitched wounds while bombs fell. Delivered babies during hurricanes. Loved a broken soldier and lived to tell about it.

The darkness pressed in, but I pressed back. Somewhere out there, Logan was looking for me. I just had to stay strong until he found me. Stay smart. Stay myself.

In the corner of my concrete cell, I began to plan.