Page 25 of To Hell

The windows are open. I can’t say why, but the golden glow of the sun kissing the black dip of the estate’s interior brings opulence to mind.

I see a couch, the ceiling is high and adorned with gold chandeliers, and there are small gold light linings on the floor, rails, bar, and ceiling corners. On one side, there is a large painting of an inferno. It took me a while to realize it was only a painting, at first I thought it was a fireplace and almost got scared the house was on fire. It's incredibly realistic.

I crawl back to the foot of the coffee table where I was sketching to continue my work. I have less than a week to make this happen. If I could have it my way, I would make him pick…

“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?” Someone asks hoarsely, and I spring my head up to see a man pointing a gun at me.

A gun.

My heart dips to my stomach, and as he narrows his eyes in a menacing glare, my heart sprints to my throat, making me choke with panic.

He looks familiar. Dark hair and beautifully salient features. Tall, lean, but athletic. He is wearing white slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, like he just came back from a walk by the beach.

“You have thirty seconds to talk,” he cocks the gun.

I do have something to say, but my tongue twists in a knot, and my throat closes in, making it impossible to say anything. Making it impossible for me to breathe.

And I’m there again, in that room. The dark one they threw me into when I had thought I could fight my way out of the life I had been thrust into.

I’m there again with the Bratva men. Men who were ordered to fuck me until I understood that I no longer owned my body.

Whipped when I fought to escape, chokeholds to make me realize how fleeting I was, bruises and marks that served as a continuous reminder of my fate, and pain from my bones being broken.

I sit on my knees, my hands tucked between my thighs, my body vibrating like a railway with an approaching train.I was instructed to say just one thing, and it appears that's all that's getting past my lips.

“I’m sorry, master,” I drop my eyes, because I have no right to look into his gaze, “I’m at your service.” I hit my forehead against the floor as I bow, making sure he sees I’m already punishing myself for being disrespectful.

What was I thinking to forget my training?

It has saved me. I went on to do what I was asked, and the beating stopped. The unwanted sex stopped. No more violent rapes. They gave me drugs to make it tolerable and less painful. They took care of me.

My scars healed, and my bones got stronger. At the cost of my innocence, I became better—at least, that was what they told me. I became their favorite.

Footsteps close in on me, and I try not to move from my position because doing so would mean more punishment.

I clench my teeth, waiting for the hard blow or smack as he stops in front of me. He will starve me for being stupid and defiling his orders. But it is what I deserve.

“What are you doing?” His hand comes under my chin, and he cradles my face, then lifts it, but I keep my eyes sloping down. “Look at me.” His tone is soft, so soft that I might think he cares for me. “Hey,” his grip turns slightly firm, but only to make me look at him.

I lift my eyes to stare at his and find confusion. His green eyes bounce from side to side as he searches mine for what I assume will be answers.

“What are you doing?” He seems genuinely concerned and very tender. “Who are you?” He glances around, “And where is my brother?”

Brother?

I blink, my lashes twitching, as I force my mind to return to the present, but it seems far gone. I’m trying to remind myself where I am and what this is.

He is my master. He was going to punish me for my insolence.

“Get your hands off her,” a dark voice drums, slithering into my chaotic mind and somehow reshuffling it back to the present. “She is mine,” Ettore steps down from the stairs, dark eyes like flint stones about to strike.

I didn’t know he was home. Home? Is that what this place is now to me? Can I call it that?

I keep my eyes on the majestic way a barefoot Ettore stands by the edge of the staircase, hands fisted at his sides, in black jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.

He looks different. Casual. But not any less scary. And that fire is directed at the man with his hand still on my face.

“I won’t repeat myself, Cesare,” Ettore grits, almost snarling but in the most composed way ever.

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