Page 16 of In His Name

She moves mechanically, a puppet with cut strings, her mind clearly struggling to incorporate what she's just seen into her understanding of her reality. This is necessary, I tell myself. This clarification of boundaries, this demonstration of consequences. For her protection as much as for my peace of mind.

The world is dangerous for someone like Hannah—beautiful, valuable, desired. My possession of her isn't merely selfishness. Iit's protection, preservation of something precious that others would corrupt, damage, steal if given the opportunity. Why can’t she see that? Rivera's presumption of connection was just the first step on a path that could have led to more significant violations—conversations, confidences, perhaps eventually collaboration in another escape attempt.

Better to eliminate the threat at its inception. Better to demonstrate, definitively, that Hannah exists in isolation, in a bubble that only I may penetrate, in a reality defined solely by my presence and my will.

As she disappears down the corridor with her escort, I turn back toward the interrogation room, toward the evidence of my commitment to maintaining those boundaries. Some might call it extreme, this killing for the crime of inappropriate speech. Those people don't understand the nature of true possession, the requirements of absolute ownership.

Hannah is mine. Mine alone. Anyone who fails to respect that basic truth—who tries to establish even the most tenuous connection with her outside my control—threatens the purity of that possession, the totality of my claim.

And threats must be eliminated. Immediately. Permanently. Without hesitation or mercy.

This is love in its purest form—possessive, protective, absolute. Rivera died not because I am cruel but because I am committed, because what exists between Hannah and me transcends ordinary relationships and their permeable boundaries.

Let the others learn from his example. Let them understand that when it comes to Hannah, there is no such thing as innocent interaction, no such thing as harmless courtesy. There is only strict adherence to protocol, absolute recognition of my exclusive claim, complete deference to my singular right of access.

Anything less is a death sentence. A price I'm willing to exact, again and again, to maintain the sanctity of what's mine.

I slam my fist into the wall and roar will all the pent-up rage I feel.

Mine!

CHAPTER 8

Hannah

Rivera's death plays on repeat behind my eyelids, a horror film I can't shut off. Three days have passed, but the sound of his neck breaking—that awful, final crack—echoes in my ears whenever the room falls silent. Sleep comes in fitful bursts, inevitably interrupted by nightmares where Rivera's dead eyes stare accusingly, his broken neck tilting at that impossible angle as he whispers, "This is your fault." It isn't, I know that rationally. Dante killed him, Dante's obsession caused his death, Dante's madness claimed another victim. But the guilt festers anyway, burrowing under my skin like the ink that marks me as Dante's property. Rivera died because he showed me basic human kindness, because he acknowledged me as a person rather than a possession. The lesson is clear: anyone who treats me as human rather than as Dante's property signs their own death warrant.

The new guard outside my door never speaks to me directly. He communicates through nods and gestures, his eyes carefullyaverted from mine, especially when the tattoo on my neck is visible. His fear is palpable, a living thing that fills the space between us. I don't know his name—don't want to know it. Names create connections, and connections get people killed.

I sit by the window, watching rain streak down the bulletproof glass. My fingers trace the initials tattooed on my wrist—D.S., Dante Severino, owner, master, murderer. The matching mark on my neck throbs in phantom sympathy, though both tattoos have healed physically. The wounds they represent go deeper than skin, cutting into whatever remains of my sense of self, my humanity, my hope.

Dante is away on business today—rare, but not unprecedented. These absences once felt like reprieves, chances to breathe without his oppressive presence. Now they're just different forms of imprisonment. The surveillance continues, the guards remain, and the memory of Rivera's execution serves as an ever-present reminder of the consequences of stepping out of line.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my dark thoughts. It's an unusual sound—guards typically announce themselves through the intercom, and only Dante enters without warning. I rise cautiously, uncertain whether to answer or retreat to the bathroom, the only space where the cameras have slightly limited angles.

Before I can decide, the door opens, revealing a middle-aged woman in the uniform of the household staff. She carries a stack of fresh linens, her head bowed respectfully as she enters. I recognize her vaguely—she's changed my sheets before, always efficient, always silent, always careful to maintain the professional distance Dante demands of all staff.

"Fresh linens, Mrs. Severino," she says, her voice carefully neutral. This is standard—functional communication related to household tasks is permitted, if kept brief and impersonal.

I nod acknowledgment and step back, giving her space to work. She moves to the bedroom area, beginning to strip the bed with practiced efficiency. I return to the window seat, resuming my contemplation of the rain, maintaining the appropriate distance between staff and myself that Dante has established through Rivera's blood.

As she works, something seems off—small hesitations in her movements, glances toward the cameras that betray awareness of surveillance. My pulse quickens, anxiety rippling through me. Whatever she's doing, whatever she's thinking, I want no part of it. My existence here balances on a knife's edge; the slightest deviation could bring consequences I can't bear to be responsible for again.

"The weather has been poor all week," she says suddenly, the comment falling into the silence like a stone into still water. This is not standard—this is conversation, personal interaction, the very thing that got Rivera killed.

I don't respond, panic fluttering in my chest. Does she not know? Has she not heard about what happened to Rivera? Or is this some test Dante has arranged, some trap to assess my compliance with his rules?

She continues making the bed, but her movements bring her closer to where I sit. "My name is Elena," she says, her voice barely above a whisper now. "I worked with Rivera. We were friends."

The name sends ice through my veins. I stand abruptly, moving away from her. "I don't need to know that," I say, louder than necessary, hoping the surveillance microphones pick up my rejection of this interaction. "Just change the linens, please."

Elena glances toward the nearest camera, then back to me. Something in her expression—urgency, fear, determination—gives me pause. She smooths the comforter with deliberatemovements, positioning herself so her back is to the camera, her lips barely moving as she speaks.

"Rivera was just trying to help you,” she murmurs, the words so quiet I have to strain to hear them.

My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the microphones must pick it up. This conversation is death—death for Elena, possibly for me. I need to end it immediately, to distance myself before Dante reviews the surveillance footage.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say firmly, moving toward the bathroom. "Please finish your work and leave."

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