Page 6 of Until You Break

EMILIO

I woke with a start, restless sleep clinging to my skin. The blur of drugged dreams hadn’t lifted when terror hit clean and fast. Guards were filling the doorway.

“Don’t move.”

The cell door slammed, hinge groaning low, rattling down my spine.

His voice was steady, the same one I’d heard when they dragged me off the street.

The same man who’d inspected me inside the van.

Death. Broad shoulders, dark hair, face set like he’d been carved to endure.

A scar split one eyebrow, the only flaw in a face built for cold.

Under dim light, the resemblance clicked.

That jaw, that sharp gaze. The same dangerous symmetry as Damiano Bellandi. My captor.

My head snapped toward him. “You.”

He didn’t look at me. “Me.” His mouth curled in amusement, not warmth. Like a cat watching something small bare its teeth.

Damiano followed, his cologne warming the air by a degree. “On your feet, piccolino. Alesso, here.”

Leather grazed my arm. I smacked it away. Another hand found the nerve. My knees gave.

They pushed me through corridors. Steps echoed too loud, the air sour with damp and metal. Panic surged; I lashed out, shoulder into Damiano’s side, teeth snapping at the air. He caught me again. My nails dragged his skin, enough to make him hiss.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice cracked. I fought his grip, thrashing toward a dark opening that gaped like a grave. “No!”

“Stop squirming,” he said, calm enough to mock. “You’ll only bruise easier.”

A door groaned. Cold climbed my spine. They shoved me into the van. Leather, gasoline, steel. Damiano slid in beside me, Alessandro at the wheel. The partition thudded shut like a verdict.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

No answer.

I jerked against the seatbelt, wrists twisting against the cuffs. My boot slammed the partition. “Let me out!”

Alessandro didn’t turn. Damiano chuckled, low, pleased.

“Still fighting?” His knuckles skimmed my jaw. “You’re strapped in a box with me, kitten. Keep going, I like the view.”

I lunged as far as the belt allowed. He caught my chin, fingers unhurried, forcing my gaze.

“Fight harder,” he said softly, words slipping under my skin. “Show them how pathetic it looks from the outside.”

Heat burned my face. I shoved again. His grip didn’t shift.

“Alesso,” Damiano murmured, bored.

“On it.” A glance in the mirror, Bellandi eyes pinning me like a specimen.

“Our passenger needs to calm down.”

A sting hit my arm, cold spreading fast. The syringe withdrew. “What—” The word cracked and fell apart.

Damiano’s mouth curved. “Bedtime.”

The drug slid in like fog, slow and inescapable. It burned, wrapping muscle and thought until every breath felt thick. Vertigo surged; the seatbelt cut my ribs, each inhale shoving Damiano’s scent deeper into my lungs.

Dino’s grin flickered through the haze, betrayal sharper than the needle. My stomach rolled; I bit my tongue until blood cut the fog. My body jerked once and dropped heavy. Heart racing, vision swimming, the world tilting wrong. I could barely breathe, let alone think.

I stared at the dark window. My reflection wouldn’t hold.

Streetlights smeared to sick gold lines.

I heard the faint rustle of a crowd outside the warehouse, a low murmur building like a warning.

Glass glittered, bracelets and rings flashing under hard light.

Their silence pressed down, turning every betrayal and mistake louder.

Through the haze, the blur sharpened: the warehouse at the end of the street. Steel doors pulled wide. Lights wrong, hum of tires fading under the rush of my pulse.

This was where Dino had taken me. And I had believed him.

He’d walked me past these doors, hand on my shoulder like it meant something. Called it neutral ground. All a setup, his voice, his hand, the promise of safety twisting in my gut like a blade.

Streetlamps didn’t touch the upper walls. Windowless, cold, soot-stained steel. A building built to forget the sun.

The van jolted to a stop. Cold air slapped my face as the side door slid open.

Hands clamped my arms and dragged me out.

My shoes scraped pavement, grit biting through thin soles.

Damiano leaned in, breath brushing my ear, voice mock-gentle.

“Easy, piccolino… wouldn’t want you to trip before the show. ”

They pulled me inside the warehouse I’d only ever seen from the outside.

Steel walls soared, air reeking of oil and damp stone.

Light came down in slabs. Sound flattened, murmurs, clink of glass, fabric shifting.

They hauled me forward. My knees buckled.

Cuffs bit bone. Damiano’s palm pressed my nape, barely any pressure, enough to make my body remember its place.

Faces crowded the space, eyes cutting as sharp as the lights.

Bellandis on the right. Silver serpents crowned in thorns.

Too many, like the walls wore their mark.

My stomach tightened. The woman in black silk stood at their center.

Marcella. Mama’s best friend turned killer.

A whisper in every plan. Now real, staring through me.

Beside her, another Bellandi sibling, face carved sharp, gaze colder than steel, watching like I’d already been filed.

Valentis on the left. And there… Papà.

His eyes found mine as soon as I crossed the threshold.

The same eyes I’d inherited, colder now.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Something in his face shifted, barely.

Fury buried under calculation, deciding if I was still his or already gone.

The look hit like a slap, and for a breath I wanted nothing more than to run to him, hide in his shadow, beg for cover.

My oldest brother Salvatore shook with fury, fists curling. Enzo clenched his jaw hard enough to crack it. I wanted to believe their rage was for me.

“Papà…” My voice scraped raw. “Please… don’t let them. Say something. Stop it, please.”

The words felt small and stupid. I hated that I still wanted him to save me.

He stepped forward. One step that cracked the room. “Enough.” A guard raised his gun. Another clicked off the safety. Papà didn’t flinch. “You think you can parade my son like this? In front of me?”

Marcella didn’t blink. “Sit down, Riccardo. You’re late to the story. And far too small to change the ending.”

His jaw locked. Hands clenched. He didn’t move again. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “You said you wanted to talk. You didn’t mention him. Didn’t mention you had my son. If I’d known that…”

Marcella’s reply came ice-cold. “And yet, here we are.”

“Sal! Enzo!” I tried to break free, the drug making my voice slur. “Please… please say something.”

Enzo stood so fast his chair toppled. “He’s innocent. He has nothing to do with this. Get your hands off him. Now.”

“You take him,” Salvatore growled, eyes on the guns, “and you’ll answer for it. He shouldn’t be the one taken.”

“Yet here he is.” Damiano’s arm tightened, holding me upright as my knees sagged. His breath grazed my ear, cruel amusement in his tone. “Careful now. Can’t have you falling before the curtain call.”

Guards surged forward, forcing my brothers back with gun barrels and heavy hands, turning their fury into a stalemate of steel.

Heat crept under my collar, fabric stuck to my spine. I’d dreamed of standing before them with honor. Not like this, drugged, cuffed, a walking humiliation. Their fury only sharpened the shame, like I’d dragged them into it with me.

Shoes scraped marble, perfume cut through gun oil, whispers rolled like a tide. Someone near the front exhaled, almost a laugh. Another turned away, shame too bright. Maybe I wanted their rage more than rescue. Maybe I wanted them to bleed for me.

Marcella stepped forward, chin high, serpents gleaming at her throat. Silk hissed. Her perfume hit sharp.

“Smile for the crowd, tesoro,” she purred. “You’re the centerpiece tonight.”

Then she turned to the room, voice velvet over a blade. “Welcome. As Riccardo said himself, you came to talk. Or better, listen. I didn’t expect so many of you on short notice. I’m glad you came. It’s right that you bear witness.”

Rows of strangers glittered with old money and power, feeding on the show.

Their silence was enough, lights catching rings and brooches, faces bright with expectation.

Eyes pinned me like a specimen. Murmurs shifted; glass clinks punctured the hush.

Anticipation moved through them like they already knew the script.

“You’re here because something was taken from me. Because a woman was buried like a secret.” Marcella’s gaze skimmed faces and locked on Papà. “You took her from me. My best friend. My sister in everything but blood.”

Her voice cracked like a whip.

“And you thought you could get away with murder. Thought you could piss on her grave.”

Papà surged to his feet, eyes blazing. “You twist every word! I didn’t kill her—”

“You buried her,” Marcella cut in. “Then you built a casino over her grave.”

His fists went white. “That’s a lie and you—”

“Sit down, Riccardo. Before I make you.”

He froze. A guard’s hand dropped to his shoulder. The room leaned toward quiet with predatory interest.

Marcella’s smile turned sharp. “You must have known I was coming, but you didn’t expect this, did you? I took your son. The one who still has a heart. The one she loved so much.”

Sweat slid down my back. Cuffs burned. Fingers tingled.

My chest cinched; my pulse ran hot. Memories of canvases, paint-stained hands, quiet rooms, ripped out by this moment.

The drug tugged at my limbs, nerves screaming while my body felt like lead.

I wanted to hide, to disappear into a corner, to slip through air, but every step was someone else’s.

She turned to me, measuring, then raised her voice. “Your softest boy. The artist. Bella’s pride and joy. Soon he’ll wear our crest.”

“What?” My breath caught. The air felt thick. “No, you can’t—” My legs went weak.

Marcella’s eyes lingered on me, a moment of softness.

Then her voice sharpened, carrying. “Soon he’ll be bound by Bellandi vows, because he’s mine now.

He will marry my son and live in my house, his bloodline stitched into ours.

Not revenge, but legacy. So every mouth that speaks our names will know which one endures, which one conquers, which one survives. ”

My heart slammed. My pulse roared, drowning the room.

A flash of Mama’s veil, lace in sunlight, curdled in my throat.

Marriage was supposed to be vows and flowers.

Not chains and bloodlines. Not this. A wild thought flared, run, fight, vanish, but the cuffs bit deeper, the drug dragged heavier, and even rebellion felt stolen. I wasn’t dying.

I was being married.

To him.

“Are you kidding?” Papà surged again, voice gravel and gunpowder. “Marry a man? You think I’ll watch my son, my blood, bend for some Bellandi monster?” He threw a glance at the crowd, daring agreement.

No one moved.

Two guards slammed him back into his chair, gun to his temple.

Papà spat. “This isn’t a wedding. It’s a funeral.”

Damiano finally spoke, voice low and amused. “Funerals and weddings aren’t so different. Both need witnesses.”

A hush fell. Not shock, but recognition. No one moved. Just slow sips of wine.

“No!” Enzo roared. He lunged. “Come here, brother!”

I heaved forward. Hands yanked me back.

Enzo reached; our fingers grazed before someone caught him.

The crowd rippled into murmurs. Glasses paused, somewhere a sharp intake of breath. One man laughed under his breath. Another hissed a bet. Whispers rose.

Damiano’s gaze cut to Papà. His voice dropped, velvet and cruel. “Ahh, Riccardo. Your softest boy. Look at him. Drugged, trembling, still pretty. And soon he’ll be crawling to my bed, begging to be kept.”

Papà’s chair scraped with a snarl. “Bastardo,” he spat, rage shaking his voice. “I’ll cut that smile off your face.”

Damiano only laughed. It sounded low and sharp. Glass shattered. The room convulsed.

All hell broke loose.