Page 92 of Always A Villain
“Get her dressed. Wheels up in thirty,” Antonio orders, his tone as icy as the air in the room.
I lock eyes with him, forcing defiance into my voice, despite the tremor. “You’re all fucking dead. Axe will find me, and he’ll kill every single one of you.”
Antonio’s expression barely shifts. “You don’t understand, Victoria. This was always the plan. Conrad owed you to me.” His words are filled with certainty, as if he’s stating simple facts. “Your place is with the Dolore, and you willserve the Family. You will marry who I’ve chosen, continue the DeLuca bloodline, and ensure the Dolore’s survival.”
I clench my fists, fighting the bile rising in my throat.
He keeps talking, voice chillingly calm. “My brother—yourrealfather—became weak. His death was a necessary sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?”
“There are always sacrifices, Victoria. Marco didn't understand that. And his failure is now yours to bear. You will not fail, and you will not disappoint me. Marco grew weak. He lost his edge, let softness creep in where it had no place. The Dolore needed a leader who wouldn’t falter, someone who understood what it took to keep us alive. They turned to me for answers.”
He takes a slow pause, his expression as hard as stone. “I couldn’t kill my own brother. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t find someone who would.” His voice tightens, low and dangerous. “Conrad found a candidate. The perfect man for the job—no conscience, no fear, nothing that would make him think twice. A man without a soul. Someone who could pierce Marco’s defenses, bring him down, and vanish without a trace.”
“Axel,” I breathe.
Antonio gives the faintest nod. “Him demanding you as his ‘wife’ for payment was…unexpected, but irrelevant. You are the future of the Dolore, my blood, my niece. And you will do as you’re told.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will,” he says, as if there’s no possible outcome but obedience. “Now get dressed.” He strides out, leaving mealone with Creed.
Creed’s hands are back on me immediately, rough and groping. I wrench one arm free and land a punch square on his nose. Blood splatters, and for one satisfying second, shock flashes across his face. But then he’s on me, slamming me against the wall with a force that makes my head spin, my vision blurring. His fist meets my face, sending a hot, metallic taste to my mouth as I hit the floor, dazed.
He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me upright and dragging me to a chair, securing my wrists with zip ties so tight they bite into my skin.
“Stop being a fucking brat, or you’ll regret it,” he sneers before storming out.
The silence that follows is suffocating. I blink through tears, my head pounding, the ties digging in deeper with every small shift I make. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the pain, and I let myself break, just a little, the soft plea slipping through clenched teeth. “Axe… please…”
The minutes crawl by, each one stretching like hours. Eventually, heavy footsteps sound outside, and the door opens. A man strides in—with a buzz cut and a jagged scar across his cheek. His face is blank, eyes hard as he tosses a bundle of clothes to the floor. A baggy t-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers.
He cuts the zip ties, then shoves me roughly back into the chair. “Put these on,” he snaps.
“Fuck you,” I rasp, my voice scraping out just enough defiance.
His response is swift—a punishing blow that sends me sprawling off the chair, stars bursting behind my eyes.
“Get dressed,” he commands.
With a glare, I struggle into the oversized shirt and sagging pants, my bruised hands trembling as I force myself through each painful motion. The shirt drapes loosely, and the pants barely cling to my hips, but I hold his gaze as I shove my feet into the worn sneakers he threw at me.
He watches with a detached sneer, as if I’m just one more task to check off. “Five minutes.” Yanking me up by my arm, he steers me roughly toward the door.
“Let’s go, love,” Creed mutters with a smirk, meeting me out the door. Rain lashes down as we step outside. A sleek black SUV waits in the parking lot, its engine idling, lights reflecting off the slick pavement. Creed opens the door and roughly shoves me inside, another man sliding in beside me.
I try to keep my voice steady. “Where are we going?”
Silence. Only the hum of the engine and the relentless patter of rain answer me.
“I asked you a question,” I say, fighting to keep the fear out of my voice.
Creed’s wicked grin reflects in the mirror. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Minutes tick by in tense silence until the SUV turns down a narrow road and comes to a halt at a small airstrip. The driver kills the engine, and both men get out, one of them jerking the door open, gesturing impatiently for me to step out.
As I climb out into the downpour, a jet looms through the mist and rain. Creed’s grip tightens around my arm as he guides me up the narrow stairs. Inside, the cabin is dimly lit, plush seats and polished wood barely visible in the shadowedinterior. A stewardess greets us with a strained smile, but Creed ignores her, shoving me into a seat and tying my wrists down with zip ties. He fastens the seatbelt around my waist, securing it tight enough to hurt, then leans close, inspecting his handiwork.
