Page 101 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

But that son died a long time ago, and I no longer have a right to dream about her.

She’d be disgusted with her little boy now and probably spit in my face if she ever knew what I’d done.

As always, when pain threatens to overwhelm me, destroying my control and allowing madness to creep into my skin, I forcibly widen my mouth in a bright grin so no one will know about it.

I’d rather be a psycho to those around me than vulnerable.

No matter how many times I got raped, beaten up, or stabbed… I never once shed a tear or gave them anything else but my smiles, which pissed them off so much, but who gave a fuck?

Like I said, fuck them.

“To think I expected a palace.” Although I have no doubt, despite the change of location, we’ll have the same shitty room.

Artem thought someone would show up with a ransom to save me, but sadly no one bothered searching for me.

One of the most powerful man in Chicago couldn’t find his son for so many years?

Yeah, fucking right.

Apparently, their little boy was not as important as they made me believe.

“Stop talking and move.” The old man kicks us hard, and we do as he says, since the tip of his gun is digging into Artem’s shoulder blade.

We go inside to face countless statues and weird portraits, all while the walls painted in red reek of luxury.

“Straight ahead to the door.”

We obey, our bare feet padding soundlessly on the cold marble, and we rub our skin a little where it itches from all the dirt we’re covered in.

Philip didn’t believe in showers, just hosing us with cold water once a month when he had to examine our skin.

The man presses a code into a lock, ordering, “Inside.” We walk down the stairs into a small, rotten basement.

Am I surprised?

Nope.

The AC is humming loudly and the chilly air creates goose bumps on my bare skin.

There is a single dirty mattress on the floor surrounded by long, heavy chains that probably allow you to roam around the room but won’t let you go very far, like reaching the stairs.

There is a sink in the left corner, dripping water bit by bit, and the sound I can imagine might drive a person crazy in time. There are also two dirty bowls with leftovers in them.

Disgusting smells fill the air, disturbing my nostrils, while something akin to blood is smeared on the floor.

Well, this place feels more like what we’re used to. Even down to feeding us like dogs.

But then my eyes spot a boy in a white flannel shirt—more a dress really. His messy hair is pulled into a bun while he watches us with surprise, like he’s seeing a kid for the first time in a long while.

By the bruises and dirt he has all over him just like us, it’s not hard to guess life hasn’t been very kind to him either.

He gets up swiftly but then groans in pain, and my gaze travels back to his ankle where the heavy chain wraps so tightly around it there is blood.

It explains the red stains.

“You’ve got company, Callum,” the man announces, walking behind us, and then I hear the door being shut.

Sometimes, on rare occasions when I got several peaceful moments at night, I would stare up in the ceiling and think about all the monsters gracing this earth who somehow escaped hell and wonder why no one makes it their mission to catch them and torture them in such ways it would serve as an example to others.

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