Page 34 of Ruined By Capture

"She says at least a week for full access. Maybe longer."

"We don't have a week, Alessio." His voice drops, that dangerous tone that means he's truly pissed. "Antonio and Raymond are tearing the city apart looking for her. They've got cops, private security, everyone with a fucking badge searching. Two of my properties have already been trashed."

“Shit.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "But this is delicate work. Push her too hard and we risk corrupting the data."

"What about what we've already accessed? Anything useful?"

"Not yet. Just the outer shell of the system."

Silence stretches between us. I can almost see him pacing in his office, that predatory movement whenever he's strategizing.

"I need information the moment you find anything," he says. "Anything we can use."

"Understood." The phone goes dead.

I toss the phone onto the desk and lean back in the chair, dragging a hand down my face. The muscles in my shoulders ache from tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. We've got hours of work ahead—days, maybe—and I'm already feeling all kinds of strain.

I sink into the bath, letting the hot water rise to my collarbones. The tension in my muscles melts away and for the first time since my abduction, I feel something close to peace.

My mother always said a hot bath could solve half of life's problems. The other half required good wine and better friends. I smile at the memory, dancing over the water with my fingertips.

After more than twenty-four hours without cleansing, this feels like heaven. I've always been fastidious about cleanliness—a trait my father called ‘delicate sensibilities’ with thinly-veiled contempt. But the sensation of being unwashed makes my skin crawl, especially in the unusual warmth we've been having for mid-spring.

The safehouse maintains the perfect temperature, thankfully. Not too cold, not too warm—unlike the sticky heat building outside. I close my eyes and slide down until the water covers my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head. Only my face remains above the surface.

For a moment I pretend I'm somewhere else. Not captive. Not running. Just... being.

The knowledge that cameras monitor my every move outside this bathroom makes my nerves prickle despite the soothing water. This bathroom is my only sanctuary now. The only place I can let my guard down completely.

I lift my leg, watching water roll down my skin. I've always loved summer—the brightness, the freedom, the promise of it—but I hate the constant battle against sweat and stickiness. My friends in London used to tease me about my ‘princessy problems’ but they didn't understand. It wasn't vanity. It was the feeling of being trapped in my own skin, unable to escape the discomfort.

Like now. Trapped in a different way.

I reach for the shampoo on the edge of the tub. It's nothing like my usual products—some generic brand that smells vaguely of artificial flowers—but right now it might as well be liquid gold. I work it through my hair, massaging my scalp, and for a brief moment everything else fades away.

Just this. Just now. Just clean.

I pull myself from the bath reluctantly, knowing there's work waiting. Real work. The kind that makes my fingertips tingle andmy mind power up with pure energy. The USB drive calls to me like a siren song.

Wrapping a towel around my body, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My wet hair hangs in dark ropes down my back and my eyes look sharper, more focused. This is the version of me that comes alive when I'm cracking a security system.

The rush of hacking has always been my secret addiction. I remember the first time I felt it—fifteen years old, watching some B-grade thriller about the dark web. The protagonist, a woman with neon-streaked hair and impossibly fast typing skills, had broken into a government database in under three minutes. Pure fantasy, of course. Real hacking is methodical, patient work. But something about her power to access forbidden knowledge lit a fire in me.

I twist my mother's ring, thinking of the irony. The daughter of Antonio Lombardi, desperate to access illegal information. As if I hadn't been surrounded by illegality my entire life. But drugs, clubs, money laundering—those were the acceptable family businesses. The necessary evils of power.

Never this. Never stealing people's organs. Never trafficking children.

I drop the towel and pull on the clothes Alessio provided. The T-shirt falls over my thighs and smells faintly of something distinctly male that I refuse to analyze.

My hands shake slightly as I dry my hair with the towel. Not from fear, but anticipation. The same tremor I get before breaking through a particularly difficult firewall.

I'd been so naive. Believing that my father's empire stopped at certain moral boundaries. That power had limits. That evil had lines it wouldn't cross.

Part of me hates myself for that blindness. For the privilege of ignorance while people disappeared, their bodies harvestedlike crops. Mothers lost children. Children lost parents. Lives erased for profit.

The adrenaline surging through me now isn't just about the technical challenge. It's about justice. It's about using the very skills my father would despise to bring down his bloody empire.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Raymond and my father think they're untouchable. They've never faced someone who understands both their world and the digital one.

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