Page 113 of Lord of the Dark

"And how am I supposed to…" I searched for words that could hold all of this. "How am I supposed to sleep next to Carter now, knowing… all of that?" My voice was quiet. But the tremor in it was unmistakable.

Alessandro watched me for a long moment—so long I almost looked away. "You won’t. You’ll lie beside him, but you won’t sleep. You’ll count. Minutes. Breaths. Until you’re back with me," he finally said, smiling. Then he slowly opened his door.

"Go. Before I stop wanting to let you."

I stepped out. My legs felt like I was wading through water. As I pushed through the hotel’s revolving door, I turned back one last time.

He was still there, leaning against the car. Hands in his pockets. Watching me like he might never see me again.

Epilogue

When I came to, my entire body felt like I'd walked through hell. I was lying on a cold concrete floor, nothing but a filthy mattress beside me and a bucket in the far corner. Memories flooded back as I struggled to make sense of my surroundings. I'd been taken.

Karpin had seized me after everything escalated. I remembered how he led me to a delivery van where two other men were waiting. They bound my hands and gagged my mouth before throwing me onto the cargo bed and holding a cloth to my nose that plunged me into darkness.

My thoughts drifted to Alessandro. I was deeply worried because he had been shot and was bleeding heavily. Over and over, tears welled up at the thought that he might not have made it. Without him, any hope of getting out of here seemed lost. But even more painful was the thought of perhaps never seeing him again. I pushed these thoughts aside and instead imagined how, in a few days, he would find me and set me free. The tracker.

Panic rose in me as my hand instinctively flew to the back of my neck. My fingers found the fresh, throbbing spot—a small, ragged wound. Exactly where Alessandro had placed the tracker. He had anticipated this. Of course he had. They must have scanned me, discovered the transmitter, and removed it immediately. I clenched my teeth, swaying between fury and despair. So many times I had cursed him for his obsession with control—and yet, in this moment, I was infinitely grateful for it. Slowly, I brushed my fingers over my closed eyelid. A barely perceptible piece of technology—the contact lenses were still in place. Tiny, inconspicuous, they too held a chip. And they had clearly overlooked them. A glimmer of hope.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside the metal door. Instinctively, I pulled the heavy chain securing my right hand closer, allowing myself more room to move. The door creaked open, and heavy footsteps approached. I recoiled as a massive silhouette appeared in the doorway. The man stepped forward without a word and crouched to unhook my shackle from the chain. I didn’t resist—what would have been the point? It was better if they thought me weak and defenseless. But I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill these bastards if necessary.

Only now did I realize I was no longer wearing my own clothes. Instead, I was draped in a coarse white T-shirt that reached my knees. The fabric was scratchy, my legs bare, my skin numb from the cold. Every breath burned in my throat.

The air was thick, metallic. And I knew with terrifying clarity: this was not a place where people were forgotten. But broken.

The man behind me didn’t speak. I only heard his footsteps—steady and heavy—as he led me down a corridor lit by flickering neon tubes. The concrete beneath my feet was ice-cold, the light casting sickly shadows against the gray walls. It smelled of disinfectant, rust, and fear.

Then he opened a door. It screeched on rusted hinges—a sound that cut straight to the bone. What lay beyond wasn’t a storage room. Not an interrogation chamber.

It was a stage. For pain.

The room I entered was bathed in harsh light. There were no windows, the neon tubes the only source, giving the space the repulsive atmosphere of an abattoir. The air was stale, reeking sharply of blood, sweat, and something burnt.

On a rusted metal table lay surgical tools—strewn haphazardly, as if no one had bothered to clean them. The floor was stained, the paint peeling in greasy flakes. In the center stood a chair. Tall, bolted down, with leather straps on the arm and leg rests. This was undeniably a place where people were made compliant.

"Sit down," the man growled without looking at me.

I did as he said. Not out of weakness. But strategy—because resistance would have been pointless in this moment. The straps tightened. First my wrists. Then my ankles. So tight the leather bit into my skin, cutting off circulation. I fought to keep my breathing steady. The pain was secondary. The fear was what mattered.

Another man entered the room. He wore a white coat. He spoke to the one behind me in Russian—quick, loud, with the guttural growl typical of that harsh language. I didn’t understand a word, but the tone was unmistakable. Impatience laced with irritation.

The man in the coat looked like a "doctor," at least in appearance. But there was nothing healing about his presence. His eyes were cold and dead—as if they had seen more than any human should endure. His movements were detached and calm. Methodical. Like someone who knew exactly what he was doing—and had done it too many times before. He reached for a pair of forceps.

My breath hitched. I tracked every motion as adrenaline flooded my body. Every fiber of me wanted to scream, to sob, to do something—but I stayed silent. I couldn’t show weakness.

Behind me, a phone rang. The man behind me answered. He said nothing, just listened. For a long time. The atmosphere shifted violently when he finally spoke—slow, drawn-out, almost reverent.

"Russo."

The word struck my consciousness like thunder. The man in the coat froze. His eyes widened.

"Russo?" he repeated, louder this time, almost horrified.

Chaos erupted. Words were exchanged, voices raised. I didn’t understand them, but I saw it in their faces. That name had changed something.

The forceps clattered back onto the table. Seconds later, theman in the coat stormed out, cursing. Only one remained. The one who had stayed silent.

I heard his footsteps as he slowly stepped in front of me. A chair scraped against the floor, then he sat across from me. I kept my gaze down. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to know. But then he spoke. Quietly. With a rough, foreign accent.

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