Page 17 of In His Name

Elena follows, carrying a hand towel as pretext, her desperation becoming more evident. "Rivera left information," she persists, her voice still a barely audible whisper. "About you. About ways to get you out. People are willing to help—people who know what Severino is, what he does."

"Stop," I hiss, genuine terror making my voice shake. "Do you understand what will happen? He killed Rivera for speaking kindly to me. He made me watch. If he hears this conversation?—"

"He's not here," Elena interrupts. "The surveillance feeds are monitored by regular security when he's away. They don't watch as closely. They don't report everything unless specifically asked." She presses something into my hand—a small, folded piece of paper. "Hide this. Memorize what's on it, then destroy it. It's a way out, if you're brave enough to take it."

I should refuse, should drop the paper, should call for the guard. Instead, my fingers close around it automatically, the instinct for freedom overriding the conditioned fear momentarily. The paper feels impossibly heavy, burning against my palm like a live coal.

"He'll kill you," I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. "He'll kill anyone who tries to help me. You don't understand what he's capable of."

"Some things are worth dying for, Mrs. Severino. Freedom is one of them."

Before I can respond, the door to my suite bursts open. Marco stands there, flanked by two guards, his expression grimly purposeful. My heart stops, then restarts at double speed. They've been watching. They've heard. Elena is already dead; she just doesn't know it yet.

"Step away from Mrs. Severino," Marco orders, his voice flat. "Hands where I can see them."

Elena straightens, resignation replacing the urgency in her expression. She expected this, I realize. She knew the risk she was taking. The paper feels impossibly obvious in my clenched fist, a death sentence not just for her but potentially for me as well.

"I was just providing fresh linens," Elena says, as if this explanation might somehow negate what the surveillance has already captured.

Marco doesn't bother responding. He gestures to the guards, who move forward to grasp Elena's arms. She doesn't resist, but her eyes find mine one last time, conveying a message I can't fully decipher—encouragement, perhaps, or apology, or simply acknowledgment of our shared humanity in this inhuman situation.

As they lead her away, I remain frozen, the paper still clutched in my palm, terror and guilt washing through me in alternating waves. I should have stopped her sooner, should have walked away the moment she began speaking, should have called for help immediately. Another death on my conscience, another life destroyed because of proximity to me.

Marco lingers, his eyes flickering to my closed fist. "Mr. Severino has been notified," he says. "He's returning immediately. He'll want to see whatever she gave you."

Of course. Nothing escapes notice here, not even a paper passed in what Elena mistakenly thought was a camera blind spot. I open my trembling hand, revealing the folded square. Marco takes it without touching my skin, careful to maintain the professional distance that might preserve his life.

"You should prepare yourself," he advises, his tone almost compassionate despite his role in the machinery of my captivity. "Mr. Severino will be…displeased."

An understatement of catastrophic proportions. Dante's reaction to Rivera's minor kindness was execution. What he'll do to Elena for actively attempting to help me escape, for being part of a network that opposes him, will be beyond mere killing. It will be slow, painful, exemplary.

"It wasn't my fault," I say, hating the pleading note in my voice but unable to suppress it. "I didn't encourage her. I tried to stop her."

Marco's expression doesn't change. "The surveillance footage will speak for itself," he says, neither confirming nor denying whether it will exonerate me. "Wait here. Do not attempt to communicate with anyone else."

As if I would, after this. As if I would risk another life when Elena's is already forfeit.

After Marco leaves, I sink to the floor, legs no longer able to support me. The room spins slightly, shock making my vision tunnel. A network. People who help girls like me escape. The knowledge that such a thing exists—or existed, as Dante will surely destroy it root and branch now—is both tantalizing and torturous. Freedom was potentially within reach, yet remains impossibly distant.

What was on that paper? A phone number? An address? A time and place for extraction? I'll never know now. Whatever chance Elena offered died the moment Marco took the paper from my hand.

Hours pass in a fog of anxiety and anticipation. I don't move from the floor, don't eat the lunch that's delivered, don't respond to the new guard's impersonal announcements through the intercom. I simply wait, knowing what's coming, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Dante's rage.

When he finally arrives, the door slamming open with a force that makes me flinch, his fury is a physical presence filling the room. His normally immaculate appearance is disheveled—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His eyes, when they fix on me, burn with a cold fire that makes my blood freeze in my veins.

"What did she tell you?" he demands, crossing the space between us in three long strides, hauling me to my feet by my upper arms. "What was on the paper?"

"I don't know," I gasp, genuine in my ignorance. "I never read it. Marco took it before I could. Please, Dante, I didn't ask her to approach me. I tried to stop her."

His grip tightens painfully, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. "You expect me to believe that? That you showed no interest in escape, in freedom? That your first instinct wasn't to grab at any chance to leave me?"

The truth is too dangerous to admit—that yes, part of me desperately wanted to read that paper, to take whatever chance Elena was offering. "I was afraid," I say instead, another truth that might save me. "After Rivera…I knew what would happen to her. I didn't want more blood on my hands."

Something in his expression shifts—not softening, exactly, but recalibrating. His grip loosens slightly, though he doesn't release me entirely. "Elena Vasquez is being questioned," hesays, his voice controlled again, the initial explosion of rage contained but still present. "She will reveal everything—her co-conspirators, their methods, their plans. This network will be dismantled. Permanently."

I close my eyes briefly, unable to bear the knowledge of what "questioned" means in Dante's world. Elena is suffering now, will continue to suffer until she reveals everything she knows, and then she'll die—painfully, as an example to others who might consider similar defiance.

"You will watch," Dante continues, confirming my worst fears. "As you watched Rivera. You will see the consequences of conspiracy against me, against us."

---