Page 4 of Until You Break

EMILIO

I came to with a jolt, gasping, cheek glued to freezing marble.

My stomach lurched. Silence buzzed under my skin, the kind that follows being drugged and dumped. Vision doubled, breath dragging slow. Heart racing too fast, veins pounding with something foreign. Nausea coiled low. Every attempt to move felt like climbing through glue.

My last memory was running, feet pounding pavement, lungs tearing open, Dino’s face in the streetlight, saying it was safe. Lying. Selling me out with a smile.

Then a flash. A fist. A needle. Fire behind my eyes.

Then blackness.

Now I was cold, filthy, caged, shaking.

The marble sucked heat from my body. My lips were cracked. My tongue tasted of metal.

Clove, sharp and sweet, hung in the air thick enough to gag.

A strip of light buzzed overhead, throwing shadows across stone walls. No windows.

In the corner, a narrow metal bed bolted to the floor, sheets crumpled and stained. Beside it, a wall-mounted showerhead above a drain.

Everything reeked of containment. Of punishment.

Dark patches stained the floor near the drain. Dried blood, maybe. Or rust.

At some point, someone had unshackled me. My wrists throbbed raw where the cuffs had bitten deep.

Whatever they’d injected still pulsed in me. My limbs didn’t want to move. But I forced them to.

I staggered upright. My head spun, stomach pitched. My hands shook as I scanned the cell.

Somewhere beyond the walls, metal groaned. A hinge, a pipe, or just the building settling wrong. The sound scraped down my spine.

“Hello?” My voice broke. Even speaking hurt.

Then came whistling.

A jagged tune, off on purpose. Each note snapped short, paced with the thud of footsteps.

The air thickened. Skin prickled. Steps too calm, too measured—violence walking in clean shoes.

“H-hello?” Smaller now. My body locked.

Someone was on the other side of that door. They were about to come in.

I couldn’t run. Could barely think. Instinct dropped me back to the marble.

I wanted to vanish. My nails scraped the floor; the marble answered with burn and grit. These hands had once held brushes. Now they shook like they’d forgotten art entirely.

The panic climbed. My breath stuttered. I pressed my forehead to the wall. The scream stayed locked behind my teeth.

And still, I looked up when the door opened.

A man filled the frame. Tall. Dark clothes built to move, not to show off. Black hair slicked back, careless. Lashes thick, eyes storm-dark with a glint that burned instead of softened. He couldn’t have been more than his late twenties, but power sat on him like a birthright.

“Don’t stop begging on my behalf.” His grin curved, voice smooth, low. “I love the sound of your fear.”

I scrambled back. My pulse jumped, wild.

He didn’t move closer. Just studied me like an art critic judging brushstrokes.

“You must be wondering what this is,” he murmured. “Still trying to decide if it’s a mistake or a message. Why no one’s come to save you.”

“Yet,” I snapped.

A low chuckle. “You think someone’s coming? That’s cute.”

Three slow steps forward. The cell shrank.

“Where am I?” My tongue felt thick. I pressed my back to the wall. “Please, just let me go.”

“Aww… piccolino. Still thinking we got the wrong order.”

He crouched until his gaze was level with mine. “You belong to me now. And I don’t share my things. Not even their screams.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.” My voice broke.

He laughed, low. “I’m here to announce you don’t get a vote.”

He leaned in, close enough for leather, steel, and smoke to settle around me like a collar.

“Your father made a deal with someone who doesn’t forget,” he said. “And now you’re here. In my house. At my mercy.”

“You’re a Bellandi,” I whispered.

A grin. “Damiano Bellandi, at your service.”

Bellandi meant killer. The same name Papà had whispered like a curse, the one tied to the night Mama never survived.

“Why am I here? What is this?” I pushed.

“Innocence isn’t currency. Not here. Not anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He straightened. “Your blood did. That’s enough.”

“Tell me what you know about my family.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard the name in whispers. Tell me what they said.”

I shook my head, throat tight. “Stories. Nothing I believed.”

“You should have believed every word.” His grin widened. “Because now you’re living it.”

He turned to leave. “You’ll stay here until I decide you’re ready. Ready to obey. Ready to kneel. Ready to break… or maybe just beg first.”

I moved with a roar, before thinking. Shoved to my feet and slammed my palm against his jaw, spit landing hot beneath his eye.

He went still. Not shocked. Pleased.

Two fingers dragged the spit slow. “You just gave me your hands and your mouth. In my world, that’s an invitation.”

“It’s called self-defense.”

He grinned. “Self-defense doesn’t feel this good, cucciolo.”

“Then why not thank me for the lesson?” I shot back, trembling.

His grin widened. “Careful. I reward defiance differently.”

He stepped in. The wall pressed my spine. His thumb smeared spit across my cheek. “Next time, make it count. Because now I decide how you touch me.”

His hand shot to my throat. The leather of his sleeve rasped my jaw.

“You’re not a threat,” he murmured. “You’re a kitten. Do you want to claw, ragazzo? Shred me with those pretty little nails? Go on. Try. I’ll break every finger while you purr for more.”

My skull knocked against stone. His thumb pressed over my pulse. His scent clung. Clove, leather, smoke.

“Your vein does that when you’re scared.” His thumb lingered. “Makes you honest.”

He squeezed just enough to narrow the world. Breath hitched.

Then he let go.

I fought the sting behind my eyes. He wanted tears, wanted silence he could own. I pressed my lips together until they hurt, refusing to give him either.

My knees buckled. I crumpled.

Behind me, a low chuckle. Then his footsteps, unhurried, and the door closing.

The sound trailed long after the lock snapped shut.

I bit my wrist. Knocked my head once against the wall. Dragged nails over skin.

I slammed fists on the door. “Let me out! You’ve got the wrong guy!”

Silence.

Hours passed. A tray slid through with bread, a boiled egg and water. The scrape of metal made me jump, certain eyes were on me.

Later, I curled on the bed. I pulled the blanket tight. It carried someone else’s scent. My eyes stayed wide. I tried to sketch in my head. Instead, all I saw was his. Damiano’s mouth, the cold glint in his eyes, his thumb smearing spit across my cheek.

Mama’s voice rose like smoke, warning, soft and desperate. Papà’s came sharper, both echoes scraping over me. I remembered her jasmine perfume. His hand heavy on the back of my neck when he wanted silence. The Bellandi name burned louder.

Sleep clawed at me. My chest ached with the wrong kind of heat. I kept replaying what he’d said until the words felt etched under my skin.

When I finally drifted, it wasn’t peace. Just flashes: red light, Mama’s hand over mine, Papà turning away, Damiano’s shadow covering the room. I woke gasping, throat raw, the strip light unchanged.

In the corner, a red dot blinked. A camera. Watching. Recording. My stomach turned. I dragged the blanket over it, but the dot glowed through, stubborn as a heartbeat.

“Are you listening?” I whispered. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The dot blinked once. Shame crawled up my neck. Who was watching? Damiano himself? Strangers? The whole family? Even alone, I wasn’t alone. I pressed my forehead to the wall instead.

I covered the lens with my palm, then dropped it away in defeat. Whoever watched had my begging face already.

The tray was gone.

And in the hush, my pulse kicked against my throat like his thumb was still there. Hunger gnawed, wrists ached, the strip light drilled into my skull.

I was still here.