4. Chapter 4

Three days.

That's how long it's been since I woke up from my last fight with Dante.

Three days with no food and no water.

Three days of endless music and solitude.

I hate it.

I guess he didn't like the differences in me as much as he thought he did, because he hasn't come back.

I wanna rage.

I suppose I should be grateful that he's left me alone.

If he's not here, at least he can't cause me physical pain.

But I'm not grateful.

A part of me, a very big part of me, wants him to come back in here so that I can at least attempt to get the hell out.

I know he's physically stronger than me, and I know that there's a good chance I'll lose in another one-on-one altercation, but at least then I wouldn't feel like I'm just sitting here doing nothing.

Not even trying to save my own life.

I can't do anything if he never opens the goddamn door.

At least he's allowing me to make use of the toilet, for the time being, anyway.

The water to the sink and shower has been shut off, though, so I probably have nowhere to drink from.

In the past, he would systematically take things away whenever I misbehaved.

It started small, and looking back, I've realized that it was such a gradual process that I've stopped beating myself up for not noticing it right away or for all the times that my brainwashed mind made up excuses for his behavior—because that's exactly what he did to me.

Brainwashed me.

It's hard to see the world for what it is when you're young, starved for affection, and wearing a pair of rose-colored glasses.

But what started as tiny restrictions evolved into things much worse, and the time came when I could no longer pretend that what I felt coming from him was his own uniquely warped version of love.

His love included pain, and while I knew that sometimes love hurt, I finally came to terms with the fact that it wasn't supposed to hurt like this.

Unfortunately, by the time I had that epiphany, I was already broken down and desolate.

A shell of what I once was.

There was no joy anymore.

No laughter, no more shades of pink and red.

Only gray.

Only shadows and what had once been a head and heart filled with beautiful music had been reduced to one song.

When that song wasn't playing, there was only silence.

Right now, I'd welcome the silence with open arms.

The fact that this man had single-handedly ruined Bach for me was like a simmering fire in my gut.

As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, I'm at least thankful for the use of the toilet.

You never quite appreciated indoor plumbing until you had to pee in a bucket in the corner of a room that was locked from the outside.

Thankfully, things haven't reached that point yet.

I keep telling myself that I know how to play the game better now.

What Dante doesn't know is that everything he put me through before did nothing but condition me to be stronger.

To fight harder.

I think my newfound rebellion has thrown him for a bit of a loop.

I'd bet he's taking time to reassess and decide how best to handle me.

The joke's on him; I won't be handled this time.

I'll fight tooth and nail for as long as I've got breath in me.

This man, if you can even call him that, has already taken enough from me.

For six years, I lived in misery.

A gilded cage.

One in which I was beaten, tortured, humiliated, and ruined.

After my escape, I somehow managed to take what small pieces were left and stitch together something resembling a human being.

Someone with goals and dreams and friends.

Eventually, even the music came back.

Not this particular song, but the melodies that had always been a constant companion inside my head, filling the silence left on the outside by parents who were never there.

After all the hard work of finding myself again, I refuse to go back to being Dante's broken little doll.

I'd die first.

The sound of raised voices in the hall has my ears perking up.

I noticed the volume of the music was lowered about half an hour ago.

I have no idea why.

At the time, all I could think was thank God .

Maybe the voices outside my room have something to do with it.

Tiptoeing from the adjoining bathroom, which is probably ridiculous considering there are eyes on me at all times, I press my ear to the wood of the door.

I hear several men talking heatedly.

I recognize one of the voices as Dante's but I don't know the others and they sound too far away for me to make out what they're saying.

Shit.

I need to hear what's going on out there.

If he's planning something and is foolish enough to discuss it near my room, it may give me the advantage I need to get the drop on him.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I press my ear to the wood, it's just too thick.

The voices are still too muffled to make out what they're saying.

Feeling discouraged but not giving up by a long shot, I begin to turn back towards the chair in the corner to strategize.

I refuse to sit on that bed again.

If he wants to get me on it, he'll have to drag me there.

Just as I'm taking my first step away from the door, I feel a small waft of air and glance down.

My eyes bounce back and forth from my bare feet to the bottom of the door.

The one that's got about an inch worth of gap between it and the floor.

Yes! Lowering myself down to my stomach, I peer through the crack.

I can make out the legs and feet of three men at the end of the hallway, right in front of the door that may serve as Dante's office.

One set of those feet definitely belongs to him.

I'd recognize those shoes anywhere.

The pretentious fuck.

He was always very particular about brands and price tags.

Dante grew up dirt poor, the son of a barber with a drinking problem.

His father spent more money on booze than he ever did on food for his family.

How he still managed to idealize the man, I had no idea.

But it's no wonder that when Dante inevitably turned to a life of crime and actually got some money of his own, he developed severe delusions of grandeur.

Rolling my eyes at his feet, I press my face as close as possible to the gap beneath the door, trying to see if I can figure out who the other men are.

There's no way to tell by the legs, but based on the shoes on their feet, they're definitely not guards.

Whoever they are, they must've just come out of Dante's office.

Taking my eyes from the crack is a gamble, but one I'm gonna have to take. Tilting my head, I press my ear to the opening, finally able to make out some of their conversation.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

one of the unknown men asks.

His Italian accent is thick but I don't recognize the voice.

"You know it's only a matter of time before he comes after you."

The other unknown man tacks on, "Exactly my thoughts.

Right now, he doesn't know you're the one with the diamond, but if you try to sell it, the trail will eventually lead him right to your doorstep."

The reply comes from Dante's voice.

"Once it's out of my hands, it's not my problem anymore.

He can chase down the poor bastard that buys it.

But even so, I'm not worried about Ilya.

He's getting old; from what I hear, no one respects his successor.

His true heir is nowhere to be found, and really, at this point, all he has is his reputation.

That type of fear only invokes loyalty for so long.

There are many in the Bratva that think he's gone soft and is ready to be replaced,"

he says.

I can see his feet pacing back and forth in the hall as he continues.

"You both know my situation.

I don't want to sell the stone, but I don't have a choice."

Dante's voice lowers before he says, "It's all I have left.

If I'd gotten rid of it three years ago, the way I planned, I'd be sitting on an island somewhere, with Ilya Kapranov none the wiser.

Instead, I spent years recovering and reclaiming what was mine.

I came from nothing, and I'll be damned if I go back to being nothing, all because of a fucking woman."

Three years ago? A woman? He's gotta be talking about me.

I wonder if the circumstances of my escape wrecked some deal he had in the works.

Maybe I cost him a lot of money? And what diamond are they talking about? I thought that by eavesdropping, I'd get some answers to the questions that have been rattling around my brain for days, but instead, all I have now are more questions.

Most of what they said meant nothing to me, but one thing certainly stood out amongst the rest.

The name, Ilya Kapranov.

Russia is a big place, but surely it can't just be a coincidence that the sexy Russian FBI agent who's been popping in and out of our lives for the last few months has the same last name as this Ilya person.

Could they be related? Ugh, the unknowns are going to drive me insane.

The low hum of the music isn't enough to disguise how deafening the silence in the hall is.

Worried that he will come in soon, I begin to push up from the floor when I hear one of the other men pipe up.

"Speaking of the woman, do you think it was wise to take her with everything else going on? She was the cause of your ruination before, after all.

What if she manages to do so again? If it's a matter of revenge, just kill her and be done with it."

So it is me they're talking about.

When I left Dante the first time, he obviously survived, but what I did to him clearly cost him greatly.

Good.

I hope I do get the chance to do it again.

Pressing my ear harder to the gap, I wait for Dante's reply with bated breath.

"I know what I'm doing.

She won't escape me again.

She's developed something resembling confidence since the last time, but I'll break her, just like before.

It's only a matter of time.

I have plans for her, and those plans require her to be with me at all times so I can control her movements, her mind, and, eventually, her spirit.

A spirit that I will break.

But no matter what happens, I won't be parted from her again.

She's mine. "

The other two men remain silent, which is probably wise.

Maybe even they recognize that he sounds more than a little unhinged, and it would be in their best interest not to oppose him.

As the voices from the hall grow fainter, I put my eye under the door again and see that they're heading down the stairs.

Thank fuck.

I need time to sit and think about everything I've just heard.

The irony of the fact that I was spoiling for a fight with Dante only moments ago, and now I'm thanking my lucky stars that he's not coming in here isn't lost on me.

God, I wish I could call Amelia.

She'd tell Merrick, who'd tell Deacon, who'd tell Alexi, and between all of them, they'd figure out what's going on.

But I can't.

I'm stuck here in a kind of endless purgatory.

That, in itself, is its own type of torture, and maybe that's exactly what Dante intended, leaving me alone for the last three days.

I can't stand seclusion.

I hate being alone with my own thoughts almost as much as I hate him.

Being in this house with this man and listening to that music is essentially killing me slowly.

Finally standing, I begin to pace back and forth from one side of the room to the other.

With my arms crossed over my chest, I try my best to dislodge the whispers floating around my head.

They're always in his voice, things he used to croon to me, and the tone always belied by the weight of his words whenever he was hurting me the most.

"You deserve this."

"You and I are destined to be together."

"No one else ever wanted you, not even your parents.

No one else ever will."

"I'm the only one that loves you."

Gripping the sides of my head in both hands, I shake it violently back and forth.

No, no, no.

Lies.

They were all lies.

Lies he told, to keep me docile.

To keep me dependent on him.

To keep me under control.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to scream, I give in and let loose a shriek of rage that would make a banshee proud.

I scream out all my built-up frustration at being stuck here, all the fear about what comes next, and all the hate I still harbor inside me for this bastard.

I scream until I run out of breath and my throat burns.

Running my fingers through my still-damp hair, I swivel around to pace back in the other direction and come face-to-face with Dante.

As we stare at each other, I try to analyze the look in his eyes.

It's menacing, sure, but what I really see in the dark depths is … pleasure.

He likes seeing me lose my cool.

It's an indication that he's getting to me, and in his mind, he'll assume that means I'm reaching my breaking point.

But he doesn't know me.

He used to, but that's not who I am anymore.

This version of me is vengeance personified.

I will not go down without a fight.

So I don't step back when I realize he's there.

I stand my ground but still watch him carefully.

He cocks his head to one side, studying me.

Like a child or a dog would when they're trying to figure something out.

Finally, he says, "I'm glad I still have the ability to make you scream, Sirena.

Though, I wish you would've waited for me.

I had to handle some business, but we can finally begin now."

Begin what?? When he talks about me screaming, I know he's referring to torture, but whether it's of the physical or sexual kind, I'm not sure.

Either way, I'm not interested.

Without warning, I rear back, attempting to headbutt him in the nose.

At the last second, he turns his head, sidestepping me and causing me to graze his cheek instead.

Not very ladylike of me, but you know what? Fuck ladylike.

If he doesn't like the person I've become, he can take me back home and drop me off right where he found me.

He turns back to face me slowly, deadly intent written all over his features.

I watch warily as he takes off his suit jacket and lays over the back of the nearby chair.

I brace for whatever's coming next because I know whatever it is, it's gonna hurt.

I expect a slap or maybe even a punch.

But when he reaches his hand into the pocket of his slacks and removes something rectangular that glints silver when it catches the light above, my blood runs cold.

"That wasn't very nice, Sirena.

Do you remember what I said to you the first night I brought you here?" he asks .

As he lifts the old-fashioned barber's razor that I know belonged to his father, I finally allow a healthy measure of fear to take over and take a slow step backward.

It's not a retreat, just self-preservation.

At least, that's the excuse I tell myself.

"I told you, I spent so much time and energy turning your body from a worthless lump of clay into a beautiful work of art, and you go and ruin it with these unsightly blemishes.

Tell me, when you look in the mirror, do you still see my name on your skin?"

I shake my head no, even though I know it's a lie.

I hate looking at myself in the mirror.

I always have, even before him.

As a child and throughout my teen years, I went through the motions, not realizing there was a term for what I was experiencing—Body Dysmorphia.

Those issues were only ever reinforced by my parents, other students at school, and young people of my own social class.

Adults could be cruel, but kids were even more so, and Dante knows this.

He knows how I felt about my body when we first met and, how self-conscious I was about my weight, how I hated nearly everything about myself.

But that's not the focus of the conversation now.

No, now he's referring to all the cuts that he painstakingly made in my flesh during the time we were together.

The ones that I've spent the last two years covering with tattoos.

Most are on my back and upper shoulders, but some are in places like my thighs and ribcage.

Any place he put his blade, I wanted a needle full of ink there afterward.

He laughs low under his breath, moving towards me.

"Don't lie to me, Sirena.

I know you better than that."

Flicking the blade open, he continues, "Unfortunately, I will have to punish you for what you've done.

But after that, we'll start fresh.

There's still more than enough left of you to mold, after all."