Page 38 of Broken Princess

Who is this Aurora Bianchi and where the fuck did she come from? She’s dark, near demonic in her movements and she’s never been more captivating to me. She has yet to ask him a question. He couldn’t answer even if he wanted to, but it’s not looking likely she’ll take the ball gag out anytime soon.

She unwinds the clamps, designed for securing timber, and then places the first one at his knee, ensuring that the metal plates are situated around the knee joint. As she winds the mechanism tight on the first leg, she continues until it can support itself, repeating the process with the second G-clamp, this time on the ankle of the same leg.

She checks the position of both clamps and then, using both hands, winds each one clockwise—setting an agonisingly slow pace. A quarter turn at a time. Carlo pulls against his restraints, and it’s followed by loud huffing snorts as he tries to breathe through the pain.

Rory’s face remains impassive as she focuses on the handles and watches the movable jaw of the clamp tighten on the joints. She is focussed on the task at hand and is unaffected by Carlo’s increased struggling.

The moment she breaks him is spectacular. There’s a sickening pop that draws my focus to his knee before he cries out in anguish. But she doesn’t stop. She continues to tighten both, and I realise that she’s dislocated his knee and is targeting his ankle next. His noises have returned to snorts of discomfort but are soon replaced by loud muffled cries of agony as his ankle emits a loud crunching sound before he passes out.

I stare in wonder at the little villain before me as she unwinds the clamps and returns them to her bench.

“I guess we’ll have to wait for him to wake up,” she says. Her tone is hollow. She returns to the seat and watches him.

Shit, this isn’t good. I’ve been marvelling at her technique and dropped the ball. I walk around the chair to look at her and it’s like she’s returned to the trance-like state we found her in. She’s here, but she’s not here. I mean, thank fuck this time she at least appears to be conscious, but it’s like I’m looking at a mannequin. She’s completely vacant. Void. Empty.

Shit.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AURORA

When Carlo finally stirs, his head bobs and dips as he battles his consciousness. I can tell the moment he comes to, by the harrowing cry he heaves out. Though, with the ball gag still in, his pitiful wailing has nowhere to escape through.

Tears fill his eyes, causing snot to stream out of his nose. As his nasal passages block, he coughs and splutters violently, transforming him into a fountain of mucus.

Delightful.

It really fucking hurts when someone dislocates a joint with a compression clamp. I should know.

Carlo’s cries are growing more urgent. I stalk around the chair and remove the ball gag. “No no no, Carlo. That simply won’t do. I can’t have you choking on your own tears before Nico gets his turn.”

I lift my head and hold Nico’s gaze. He’s obviously concerned about me, but now is not the time to discuss the state of detachment I find myself in. It’s new. Not like the other place I go. I’m here, I’m present, and I’m filled with a rage I’ve never felt before. The man in front of me is complicit in my father’s death and as much as I would like to torture him endlessly, I know that this is Nico’s area of expertise.

Nodding slowly, I hand off to Nico and step back, returning to my chair and dragging it back to my workbench so that I can give Nico space to work. My ankle is aching, bombarding me with dull but persistent throbs, reminding me I will feel it worse tomorrow.

It’s fascinating to watch Nico. In his arena, he doesn’t walk, he prowls. He’s a predator circling his prey. Calculating the most efficient way to capture and devour its target. It’s clear from Carlo’s general demeanour that he believed himself to be at the top of the food chain, however he is not the apex predator in this situation. He’s beyond fucked.

“We know it was Marco who was communicating with the De Lucas, not you. How long before you realised you were working for the monkey, not the organ grinder?” Carlo flinches at my words and it tells me a lot. As Nico circles our captive, he swings by his bench and grabs his first weapon of choice.

“How long have you been doing Marco Romano’s bidding, Carlo?” Nico asks, stalking towards him, grabbing his chin and forcing it up, demanding all of Carlo’s attention. I observe Carlo and see him biting down hard, clenching his teeth together in rage.

“Fuck you, bastard scum,” he spits out between pained breaths.

“Well, that’s not very nice, is it Carlo?” Nico deadpans and then I catch my first glimpse of the implement he’s brandishing. It’s a pair of large pliers, the kind used to wrench out nails from timber. Nico levels the tool at Carlo’s raw and exposed chest. Lining the open pincer up at his nipple, Carlo’s eyes widen in horror as Nico closes the pliers over his nipple and wrenches upwards, tearing it clean off and discarding the lump of tissue with a flick of his wrist. It lands flesh side down with a pathetic sounding slap on the tile.

Huh, that’s a new one for me. I’m impressed, and it’s fucking effective. Carlo howls in agony but it doesn’t afford him any leniency as Nico crosses to his other side and rips off the other nipple, letting it fall to the floor. I cannot suppress my smirk as this one bounces and rolls under Carlo’s chair, like the strangest little spinning top.

“How and when were you recruited by Marco?” Nico barks.

Carlo, while in tremendous pain, continues to hold his ground against Nico, and I shake my head at him. His resistance merely makes Nico’s eyes come alive; they glisten with glee. His malevolence has a twisted beauty to it, and I watch in awe as he unleashes a beast.

I remain in my chair for the entire performance. Nico breaks his victim down, cell by cell, until he no longer resembles the man they dragged in. He uses a selection of knives to carve intricate patterns into Carlo’s skin. It’s hypnotic, watching the swish and flick of the knife as drops of blood trickle off the tip in mesmerising arcs. Nico seems quite lost in the art of his torture as he moves from one method to the next. After the blades, he drags Carlo’s chair back to the sink, covers his face with a rag and pulls the overhead faucet down, allowing him to waterboard our rat to his heart’s content. Carlo gasps and splutters, unable to catch a half-decent breath between barrages of water.

Nico doesn’t ask a single question.

Ripping off his now sodden shirt, Nico hauls Carlo back and carries on, this time choosing the knuckle dusters to tenderise the smirk on Carlo’s face. The ripple of his tattooed muscles as he punches and pummels Carlo’s torso has me transfixed while the rhythmic dull thuds of fists meeting flesh soothes me. This isn’t a reaction I was expecting, but I lean into it. I’m dimly aware that Carlo’s howls of pain have died down to exhausted grunts, more like responses to each punch forcing air out of his lungs, than deliberate cries.

I’m equally impressed as I am baffled at Carlo’s resilience to this onslaught. I’ve known this man for years and in that time, nothing about him has impressed me. He may be clever enough to be a capo, but not much else. What’s in this for him? Taking out my father wouldn’t progress his ranks, at least not by much.

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