Page 76 of Broken Princess

We are so fucked. I’m not entirely sure how fucked we are, but we’re definitely fucked.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

AURORA

We tumble out of the fire exit, struggling with the weight of a half-unconscious Marco. He’s still slightly loopy from the lack of oxygen, but he’s also damn heavy.

Complacent and overconfident capos are usually as overinflated as their egos, yet most have intellects the size of their dicks. I have no idea how some of these men have amassed the power and support they have. My father would never fully explain why men that turned my stomach made up his inner circle, but he would often say, “Just because something is ugly doesn’t mean it can’t be useful.”

He was a clever man, and managed his capos well, but he spent far too much time and energy working a broken system.

Enzo and the van are nowhere to be seen, and I know in the pit of my stomach that something is wrong as I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I hear the vehicles before I see them. Tyres screeching as they hoon around the corner and come to a stop in front of us. The doors of three black SUVs with tinted windows, spring open as soon as they stop and eject at least half a dozen men with guns drawn. All trained on us. No matter what Nico has concealed on him, he can’t get to it quick enough. We are out-manned and outgunned.

Nico drops our cumbersome guest on the ground and we both raise our hands automatically. Marco rolls around as he tries to right himself. No one moves to help him. These people are not his rescuers. They’re here for us.

My pulse races and I struggle to halt the ragged breaths that assault my lungs. I can’t be taken—I can’t be captive again. I wrestle my traitorous body into submission, refusing to give these assholes the satisfaction, burying my fear.

No one speaks, but the gun closest to us waves its barrel towards the SUV on the far left. Guess that’s our invitation. Behind me, I can hear our captors manhandle Marco into the back of one of the other vehicles. As we’re pushed into the rear passenger doors, I can see that Sin, Benny, and Zo are not here.

I’m desperately hoping they escaped. My teeth are clenched so hard they’re beginning to ache under the strain. Saliva pools in my mouth and as I swallow, I realise from the sharp copper taste, that I’ve bitten my cheek so hard I’ve drawn blood. They have to be alive. Shaking my head, I try to snap myself out of this spiral.

The familiar faces of Salvatore’s lackeys register just before they throw a bag over our heads. It’s oppressive and jarring to be suddenly without one of your senses, but it’s not foreign and I find it oddly calming. This was one of Max’s regular punishments when I was in the basement for any length of time. It’s an excellent way to disorient your captive and make them lose their sense of time and reality. After four days chained in darkness, I was usually at my most malleable.

Their scare tactics lighten my mood and make me chuckle—nothing about this situation is funny, but equally there’s nothing these men can do to me that would intimidate me—it’s like they’re following the Henchmen’s Guide to Intimidation. I receive a swift jab to my ribs from what I assume is the butt of a handgun, but the corset boning does a fantastic job of absorbing a majority of the impact. Nice little bonus there—stylish and practical.

It’s ridiculous that they’ve covered our heads, such a pointless thing to do. Once we get wherever we’re going, it’s highly likely we’re going to be executed, so what’s the fucking point in hiding the destination from us? As low-level lackeys go, Salvatore De Luca’s are not the smartest.

My best guess is it takes about twenty-five minutes for the cars to come to a stop and we’re dragged out of the backseat. Rough hands grab my arms, wrenching me out of the car, before I’m handed off to someone else who makes sure to grip my hips hard enough to bruise when they spin me around and push me forward to walk in front of them. I start a mental tally of exactly how many men I’m going to kill or simply castrate if I get out of this. Gotta have hope, right?

I’m pushed from the frosty night air into a warm room, which only serves to highlight the icy claw-like fingers that clutch the back of my neck under the bag—that makes number three. I distract myself by coming up with a list of unique ways to remove someone’s balls.

I can hear the scuffles of multiple sets of feet struggle with what I can only guess is an uncooperative Nico. The scratchy, musty-smelling material is wrenched off my head and hands force me down on my knees in front of a familiar desk. My tender ankle objects to the sudden movement and shift in weight.

Well, this is just fucking great. We are so fucked.

Forcing Nico to his knees beside me, we are frisked, our phones taken and switched off before the two men assume their sentry behind us and place the barrels of their guns to the back of our skulls. “Don’t fucking move.”

There’s only one positive about this situation. We have not been delivered to Max. The latent fear gripping my chest eases, making it easier for me to plaster on a veneer of cold-heartedness. I’m going to need it.

Taking in my surroundings, I’m reminded how much I detest this house. Every square inch is dripping in reds and golds, deep rich hues, and mahogany furniture. It’s like someone googled ‘more money than sense’ and then bought every piece of furniture in the search results. It’s a tasteless blend of Neoclassical, Georgian, and Victorian that’s hard to look at without sneering.

It doesn’t take long before our host enters behind us. I know from the slink of his gait and the clack of the heels on his overpriced Italian loafers who he is before he even opens his mouth.

“Well, well, well. Imagine my surprise when I was notified my daughter-in-law was alive and well, and in my office.” Salvatore De Luca stalks across his office and assumes an overly dramatic position behind his high-backed chair. A menacing yet gleeful expression etched in place by the lines on his face. I’ve always found his manner oppressive, but now it’s outright menacing. I see a ghost of the monster he spawned in his appearance and it catches me off guard, making the confidence I’m forcing myself to project slip, just for a second, but Salvatore doesn’t miss it. Shifting on his feet, he takes us in, looking down on us with an air of imperiousness that sits as uncomfortably as it ever has.

“Good evening, Aurora. Welcome home.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. This never was and never will be my home. Suppressing the urge to shout that at him I force a curt nod, grinding out my response between clenched teeth, “Salvatore.”

“Still as graceful as ever. It’s no wonder my son is obsessed with you—perhaps if he’d exhibited a fraction of your stoicism, we could have avoided all of this.”

I muster every ounce of control it’s within my power to wrangle. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, Salvatore. I’ve been preoccupied, recovering from my last encounter with your son. You’re going to need to elaborate.”

His mouth twists up into a smirk as he volleys his head, debating on whether to engage with me. “Alright, I’ll indulge you for a little while. What do you want to know?”

“Why now? Why go through the pain of forming an alliance only to attack us? It doesn’t make any sense.” I ball my fists, having to work hard to keep my tone even, careful not to show the emotion that’s trying to drown me.

He laughs, “Why the fuck couldn’t you have been a De Luca instead of a Bianchi? Ever the pragmatist.”

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