Page 5 of High Stakes

“Maria, aiutami qui,” Milo grunts, his focus unswerving.

I don’t need to understand Italian to know he’s asking for help. Maria disappears and returns, clutching bolt cutters in trembling hands. Milo snips through the handcuffs in a few quick movements, and suddenly, my arms are free. Yet, freedom feels like an illusion, a cruel joke.

“Leone will kill you for helping me,” I croak, my voice barely above a whisper, my mouth dry from days of silence and fear.

Milo’s hand hovers in the air, motioning for me to rise. My muscles scream in protest, my body refusing to obey. I feel detached from myself, the thought of moving too overwhelming to process. My limbs are dead weight, and the thought of standing, of willingly inflicting further agony upon myself, is too much to bear. Knowing it will feel like peeling off my skin, I remain still—a broken doll amidst the wreckage of captivity.

“Get up,” Milo growls, his frustration bubbling over. But when I don’t respond, his tone softens. “Damn it, Fallon. I’m trying to help you and now you’re fucking ignoring me.”

He moves toward me, his arms sliding beneath my knees and back, and lifts me from the chair. The motion tears my filthy dress away from my skin, and I scream. The sound is raw and guttural, echoing off the walls.

Milo flinches but doesn’t stop. “I know. I know,” he mutters under his breath, his jaw tight.

Maria gasps when Milo steps into the narrow hallway, the weak light exposing me fully—exposing everything. The filth, the bruises, the cuts. The person I’ve become under Leone’s hand. Shame surges through me, hot and suffocating. I drop my face into Milo’s neck, unable to bear Maria’s gaze.

The stairs feel endless, each step a fresh wave of pain as my tattered dress scrapes against raw flesh. Maria murmurs something in Italian, her voice thick with emotion. Milo doesn’t respond, his focus singular as he carries me through the corridors.

We reach a bathroom—the one I ran to on the night of the wedding. I barely recognize it now; it feels like a lifetime ago. Rocco is already there, testing the water in the tub. His expression shifts when he sees me, his hands faltering for a brief moment before resuming their task.

“Stand,” Milo orders as he sets me down on trembling legs. My knees buckle instantly, and I collapse onto the tile.

“Damn it,” Milo curses, catching me before I hit the floor. His arms tighten around me, and I feel the tension in his body—anger, frustration, maybe even guilt.

Rocco hesitates, his eyes darting between us. “Help me get her undressed,” Milo barks.

I want to protest. I want to scream at them to leave me alone, to give me some shred of dignity. But the words won’t come.

Rocco’s hands are hesitant as he unzips my dress. I clench my teeth, biting back the cries of pain as the fabric peels away, taking skin with it.

“Forgive me,” Rocco murmurs, his voice thick with regret.

Rocco tugs at the fabric of my dress, and with a forceful pull, it rips from my flesh. The sequins embedded in my skin for days create new agony as the material scratches harshly. I can’t stifle the cry that escapes—a raw sound of pain as the dress peels away from my waist down.

“What the fuck!” Rocco exclaims, staggering back as if struck, his eyes wide with disbelief at the damage the sequins caused.

Maria mumbles something, her hand fluttering to her mouth and her eyes roll back. She collapses with a heavy thud onto the cold tile. My gaze lingers on the crumpled heap of my dress, now discarded on the floor—a pathetic reminder of the hell I’ve endured.

“Rocco, cazzo fai? Help her!” Milo shouts. Rocco shakes his head, seemingly choked with some emotion as he kneels beside Maria, trying to rouse her.

Milo’s frustration is palpable, a storm brewing beneath his stone-like exterior. He turns back to me, guiding me to sit on the closed toilet lid. I wince, every movement sending waves of pain across my battered body.

Under the harsh bathroom light, I finally see myself—the raw, chafed skin, the angry red welts where the dress cruelly stripped away layers of flesh. Horror flashes across Milo’s face as his eyes scan the damage.

“Fallon,” he whispers, the fury in his voice replaced by something else. He clenches his jaw, muscles working as he seemingly fights to stay composed.

Milo’s hands, steadier than I expect, pulls scissors from under the sink. His movements are precise, almost tender, as he slices through the remnants of my bra and underwear, now tattered bindings sticking to my wounded skin.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me, as if the word could somehow alleviate the agony of contact. The cold metal glides, and I flinch when the fabric finally gives way, stuck to spots where blood, sweat, and urine have cemented it to my skin.

He’s about to lift me, and every muscle in my body tightens in anticipation of the coming pain. “I got you,” Milo says, a promise or a warning—I can’t tell anymore—as his arms slide beneath my knees and back. The world tilts, and then I’m falling only to be caught in his steady grasp.

The scream that escapes me as he lowers me into the bath is one of torture. The water licks at my chafed skin, and it feels like fire—like he’s dropping me into molten lava. But even amidst the pain, I hear the commotion down the hall. Milo pauses, staring at the door while my hands grip the sides of the tub, unwilling to get in. The noise outside grows louder, angrier.

“Where the fuck is she?” Leone’s voice booms, sharp as a whip, and I can picture his face twisted in fury without seeingit. The sickening thud which follows is worse than anything I’m enduring, and Rocco’s voice is no longer heard.

“Stay with me, Fallon,” Milo commands as he sits me on the rim of the tub, my feet still submerged. His tone is soft, even as he rushes to shut the door.

He doesn’t get the chance to lock it when the bathroom door crashes open, and Leone’s silhouette fills the doorway. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving with rage. I whimper, shrinking back as Milo steps forward, shielding me.

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