Page 87 of Tormented Oath

Marco steps forward, a smirk playing across his lips. "Miss D'Amato. Or should I say, Mrs. Rega?"

The double meaning hangs in the air. A taunt. A challenge.

I match his smirk. "I'm here to make a deal."

Stefano's broken form catches my peripheral vision. I know he's watching. Listening. I send a silent prayer that he understands what's coming.

Trust me, I think. They are the words we've spoken to one another a thousand times since we were young.

"Your husband's empire," Carlo says, circling me like a predator. "Interesting negotiation strategy."

I laugh. Sharp. Cold. "Not a negotiation. A transfer of power."

My hand drifts to my stomach—a deliberate gesture. A reminder of everything at stake.

"I'm carrying the Rega heir," I continue. "Which means I'm carrying the future. And I'm willing to give you that future. On my terms."

The warehouse goes absolutely silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

The Fiori brothers exchange a look, calculation, replacing their initial confidence.

They know they can’t take over the Rega empire by killing Stefano and his heir. Networks, connections, loyalty— they are not easily transferred. Killing us, putting an end to the empire Stefano has built. Though they might get some satisfaction from that, I know money and power are even higher on their list.

Time to make them an offer they can't refuse.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Stefano

Fuck…Ican’t feel my arms.

I can’t feel anything.

Pain is no longer a sensation. It's a living thing that inhabits every cell of my body, a constant companion that throbs and pulses with each ragged breath.

I don't know how long I've been here. Hours. Days. Time becomes meaningless when you're reduced to nothing but meat and bone and defiance.

And pain. Unbridled pain.

The concrete floor is stained dark—maybe with blood.

My blood. Their blood. Does it matter anymore?

Another blow crashes into my already swollen face, and my head snaps to the side, a low groan leaving my lips.

I've long since stopped trying to protect myself. My hands are zip-tied behind me, my body slumped in a way that tells of multiple broken bones. Ribs, definitely. Possibly my left arm. Maybe my jaw.

Maybe my head.

"Tell us about the routes," Marco Fiori says, or maybe it's Carlo. They've become interchangeable blurs.

It’s so funny the way their ugly faces merge.

It makes them even uglier.

I laugh. Or try to. It comes out as a wet, broken sound that's more like a gurgle.

The laugh earns me another punch. This one lands just beneath my eye, and I feel something pop. Cartilage, maybe. Or the last remnant of hope that I might walk away from this.

---