Page 35 of Broken Princess

When I’ve exhausted the hot water supply, I shut it off and step out, balancing on one leg while I reach for the towel. Last thing I need is to slip in the shower—Zo would bench me in a heartbeat. Once I’m wrapped up, I manoeuvre across the bathroom to perch on the closed toilet seat. Towelling off, I then start the ordeal of trying to get dressed. I live in Benny’s sweats these days as they’re easy to get on and they have drawstrings to keep them up. But lifting on t-shirts is still more of a struggle than I’d like.

While they’re healing, my ribs and collarbone complain at the imposition of lifting my arms above my head. They also make it impossible for me to wear a bra. I will never admit this to another woman, but fuck, I miss wearing a bra. There’s no way in hell I can right now until my collarbone is more fully healed. For years I’ve savoured the feeling of removing a bra after a long day. Now, all I want to do is get them strapped down and under control.

Our guests should be here soon. I need to get a move on. I abandon the protective boot and swap it out for a compression bandage. It’ll have to do. There’s no way I can show weakness in front of the capos. I’ll lose the room before I’ve even started. I grab my crutches and start my ungainly lollop back to the med-room.

I love that I’m more mobile now, but I can’t hide how much it takes out of me. I constantly feel like I’m wading through treacle. Everything requires more of an effort than you expect it to. At least I’m looking more like myself. The swelling on my face has gone down and all my superficial stitches have dissolved. The stab wound is still tender as fuck and my skin looks like a rainbow of mottled hues; angry reds and purples are morphing into camo greens and yellows.

I try to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. Not because I’m ashamed, but because the Aurora I see in the mirror isn’t an accurate reflection of the way I feel inside. The Aurora in the mirror looks broken—a shadow of her former self.

I lean the crutches against my bed and gingerly place all my weight down on my ankle—it’s not unbearable. I’ve maxed out my pain meds for this and I’ve been practising without the boot for the last few days. Doc Em’s going to kick my ass if I fuck this ankle up further. But that’s future Rory’s problem, I think as I wrangle on a pair of sneakers the guys picked up for me and make my way to the interrogation room to prepare.

Nico had me set up everything I wanted to use tonight on a table of my own, next to his. I hand-picked everything, although in all honesty, I’m not sure if I will use them all. Every item on this table is something I have an intimate knowledge of. I know how each object can be used to our advantage. A couple of my choices confused Nico, but he’ll find out soon enough how I plan to use them.

I trail my fingertips over each tool and my mind drifts. This room, while it serves a similar purpose to Max’s basement, is very different in its appearance. It’s bright and clean and almost clinical. It helps me compartmentalise what I’m about to do. How far I’ll go to get the answers I need. The men coming here tonight betrayed everything they stood for, betrayed me, betrayed my father. For what? To hoard scraps of power?

They’re traitors. Whatever happens tonight, they had it coming.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting staring at the empty interrogation chairs, but I snap out of my trance when I hear the dull thuds of heavy boots coming down the stairs and approaching the door. They’re back. The unease I didn’t realise was weighing so heavily on me lifts at the thought of them returning to me. This is the first time I’ve been alone in the house since I arrived, and I hadn’t realised how much it would affect me.

They’ve all sacrificed more than I had a right to expect to save my life. And besides that, they seem to have pledged themselves to helping me avenge my father’s death. They have an immense amount of loyalty to my father’s name and legacy, but sometimes… it feels like there’s more to it.

Since I’ve been here, their care, their reverence, has awakened parts of me I thought were long dead. For years, the only way I survived was to shut down parts of myself. The more walls I erected, the more protected I was. To know that there’s anyone, let alone four people who will stand by me—will help me—it’s quite frankly staggering. I’ve been alone for so long.

While they’ve been gone, I’ve felt exposed and raw, like every barrier I had built before is vulnerable. When they’re here, I feel safe and protected. Without them, I feel… lost.

Sin opens the door and holds his index finger to his lips, reminding me not to say a word. Behind him, Zo and Nico carry a blindfolded Antonio Rossi. He sounds groggy and twitches as he fights against their hold.

“Where the fuck am I? What’s going on?” Tony slurs his words, getting more and more agitated. I can almost smell the fear rolling off him as he’s forced into the nearest chair, his arms and legs strapped down. He struggles, but it’s pointless. Zo has all his weight behind the bear-hold he’s got on dear old Tony. Nico nods a hello at me and crosses the room, standing beside his table as Sin and Zo retreat from the room.

It doesn’t take long before I hear everyone returning with Carlo Barone. He’s unconscious and decidedly heavier than Tony, so it takes Benny, Sin and Zo to carry him comfortably. The stale smell of sweat emanates from his every pore, and I can’t help but sneer as his stench hits me. Carlo is every inch the archetypal corpulent Mafioso, a grotesque caricature that makes me ashamed of my heritage. He represents everything that’s wrong with the traditions and the institution.

He’s tied into the second chair with speed and efficiency, and they leave Nico and me to it.

Nico and I have planned this as much as we can. We can’t predict exactly how this will go or how long it will take to break them. But break them, we will. Phase one of the plan is easy though. We’re going to do nothing. Just sit here and wait. See how much they’ll talk when they think they’re alone in here.

Tony is fidgety. He’s twitching his head around in all directions like he’s surveying his surroundings despite being blindfolded, trying to figure out where he is and why his captors have left. He looks like a disgruntled pigeon on crack.

Tony jumps as Carlo stirs, groaning and pulling against his bonds. “What the fuck is this?” he moans like a mean drunk waking, only to be greeted by their familiar hangover.

I steal myself, tamping down my rage and forcing the vengeful thoughts deep down. I have to maintain control, no matter how much every part of me is screaming to make these fuckers pay. I may have to be rational right now, but there’s no part of me that will ever understand how these men—men I considered family—betrayed me so heinously.

I sacrificed everything for their precious organisation, and it meant nothing to them. It takes everything in me not to unleash the fury that’s scorching my soul just being in the same room as them.

I glance across at Nico and can tell from the devilish glint in his eyes that he’s holding himself back as well. He tips his head towards me, his near maniacal grin turning to something warmer. Something I know means we got this.

It’s time, boys… show us just how stupid you are, you traitorous cunts.

“Carlo, is that you?” Tony says in a shriek that matches his manic energy. He’s going to be too easy to break. “What the fuck is happening?”

“Tony, shut the fuck, you imbecile.”

“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that. We’re alone. The fuckers that took us left.”

I take my time assessing the differences between our two rats. I can almost see the threads I’ll pull to unravel Tony, but Carlo surprises me. Despite my distaste for him, I can tell there’s more to him. He’s stoic in response to the unexpected. Since he came round, he’s already started erecting what he thinks will be an impenetrable wall against whatever is to come. He will be harder to crack, but there’s no way he’ll withstand us both. But it also tells me that while we’ll get something from Tony, my diabolical husband is an intelligent man and won’t have trusted him with anything vital.

Carlo remains silent while Tony continues to run his mouth. “One minute, I was in the john and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in the back of a van. Who do these cunts think they are?”

If I was a betting woman, I’d put money on Carlo rolling his eyes under his blindfold at Tony’s histrionics. And I’m already wondering how this idiot was ever promoted to capo under my father. My best guess is that he knew where too many bodies were buried to deny him advancement. I’m trying to remember a single job Tony’s crew has been involved with that was vitally important to our operations in recent history and I’m drawing a blank. He deals with enforcement for the protection racket we run in the neighbourhood.

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