Page 1 of The Freedom in Captivity

Flynn

Life.

Death.

Two cycles that provide balance. Life and death are constant. Life comes and goes, death arrives and remains, and this is a part of being alive. It’s predictable, and for that reason, comforting to me.

In some ways, lifeisdeath. To be alive means to feel pain. To endure the cruel sting of life’s struggles over and over, and it’s been like that since the moment I turned five-years-old and watched my mother leave through our run-down apartment’s front door, never returning. She deserted me for her own selfish purposes of no longer wanting to be a parent. I was left to my father’s vindictiveness and neglect.

Death as a whole is a relief. To dish it out and release the rage that’s been building inside me since childhood is easing for my chaotic mind. Then knowing, eventually, Death and I will meet is relieving on its own. One day, life and the misery accompanying it will end. I will be free.

It’s been a few weeks since the Corsettis have given me someone to kill, and I miss the gratification of the act. I almost had one women in my basement, Della, who had tricked Nico, my underboss, but he ended up taking charge of her punishment, eventually even making her his wife. My presence the day he found and dragged her back here was to make a point of what she could have had instead.

Which is why when Nico messages, checking to see if I’m around the mansion or not, I know he’s about to remove my boredom in the best way possible.

Nico

I have someone for you. I’ll update you on what I need from her soon.

Her. I smile. Women react so differently to torture, but the differences are intriguing.

I exit my bedroom in the soldiers’ wing of the Corsetti mansion and head down the hall, toward the basement, to await Nico. Given the time of day, most of the Corsettis are gone, allowing for complete silence as I tread through the ornate hallways that always have me feeling uncomfortable and out of place.

Silence is pleasant. It quiets my mind, subduing its frazzled thoughts and the chaotic way it thinks and analyzes, which can be tiresome.

As I reach and open the basement door, cool air from below greets my entry. Every step I take invigorates me, knowing what my day is about to become, and by the time I reach the bottom, I’m even smiling. A grin my captive will soon fear.

The basement is completely different from the rest of the mansion. It’s the darkness within the beauty. Everything beautiful in the world always has a shadow beneath it. Nothing isjustattractive.

A weapon might look clean and shiny, but it’s deadly.

The Corsetti family may appear to be an elite group, but they’re criminals.

A woman might look sexy, but she’s a devil in disguise.

This lavish mansion is no different: its sprawling grounds, massive multi-floored complex, high, arched ceilings, and antique décor might seem impressive, but beneath it all, there’s a shadow of obscurity.

This right here is that very shadow. The basement. A place countering the brightness upstairs, with only a single low hanging light dangling over the chair bolted to the ground in the centre of the room. That metal chair has seen more death than a graveyard. The blood stains on the floor don’t get scrubbed away because they’re a promise for the basement’s next visitor. They say,this is how it’ll end for you.

Each drop of blood staining the cement is a personal trophy. Every single one represents whatIdid.

Against the far wall, beyond the chair, there’s a metal table holding a few of my favourite weapons, kept clean for their next victim. I check them over, recalling each recent kill. A few unable to pay their debts back, so they lose their lives. Those kills were clean and straightforward. Another thought it okay to pocket cash from one of the casinos. So he lost his hands. My fingers brush over the small machete that assisted with that.

At the end of the row, I pick one of my favourite knives. The handle is a smooth wood, the blade three inches long and polished to ensure the blood never rusts the metal. I slip it into the side of my boot before heading to the far corner of the room, toward the rope hanging from a hook for binding options.

When the door opens, I smile again, knowing my boredom will soon be gone.

Time to play.

Within seconds, Rosen, Nico’s captain, appears first, a small body cradled in his massive arms. Her wrists are strapped together by a zip tie in front of her, and a dirty cloth bag covers her head, which is slumped to the side, meaning she’s likely knocked out. A waterfall of blonde hair falls over Rosen’s arms. Like, aninsaneamount of hair, a shade so pale, it reminds me of someone I once knew.

“Really took no precautions with this one,” I comment appreciatively.

Rosen lets out a grunt, his eyes stormier than I’ve ever seen them. My own emotions might be trapped beneath barbed wire, but I’ve become attuned to reading others, and for all Rosen’s professionalism, I’ve never seen him likethis. The fire behind his gaze could be considered scary for some.

Nico Corsetti enters next, barely sparing me a nod before he erects himself in the centre of the room, arms crossed while Rosen drops the woman to the chair. With a knife, Rosen slices through the zip ties and twists her arms behind the chair. I hand him rope and he methodically fastens her wrists.

In the time he’s taken to bind her, Rafael Corsetti and their older, and before recent events, long-lost brother, Hawke, has also come down. Hawke leans against the wooden post that connects the staircase to the building, his arms crossed, his stance similar to both his brothers. One wouldn’t know, looking at the three of them, that Hawke grew up away from them.

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