Nina
I wake with a start, heart racing.
Anxiety rockets through me as I blink away the fog in my head, frantically looking for the window to ascertain what time of day it is. Dusk tilts through the curtains, casting sinister shadows across Carlo's room, almost making it seem like a room from another more twisted world.
More than before, I feel untethered, completely alone. In the chance that Luciano had opted to have me searched, I have nothing on me—not even a phone to communicate with the others. I can only assume they're holding up their end of the plan, as they assume I'm holding up mine.
Roaming this house like a misplaced ghost, it strikes me just how empty it is. I only pass a couple guards; they eye me with open curiosity but make no move to approach me. I wonder what Luciano told them about me. If you see her wandering around, just let her. She's harmless. Couldn't hurt a fly.
Seeing no sign of anyone else, I note that the guards seem subtly lackadaisical. Shifting on their feet; stifling yawns. They must be leaving soon. And sure enough, the next time I pass their stations, they're gone.
So Luciano and Antonio don't even think that the brothers will be retaliating?
I scoff, ripping into a few granola bars I find in the pantry. The crinkling wrapper might as well be a bomb going off in this abysmally quiet kitchen. They really thought they could fuck with us and we wouldn't fuck with them back? That confidence irks me. They certainly have no idea what they're in for.
To be fair, neither do I. I'm still figuring that part out.
I spend the next half hour roaming the main level. If Luciano were to check his cameras, he'd hopefully see a sad, lonely girl trudging through her childhood home, lost in memories. Really, I'm weighing the pros and cons of just going and trying the basement door. But if there's no sign of Luciano and Antonio here, chances are they're down there.
Think. I need to think.
The hallway I'm passing through suddenly feels sickeningly familiar. Reaching the end of it, nausea crawls up my throat and my limbs feel like jelly. This room. I fumble with the door, nearly falling inside. The walls are the same color, is the first thing I notice. That burnt orange color, such an odd choice against the rest of the house's monochrome theme.
It's almost like I expect the floors to still be stained with her blood, the way fear presses in on me as I look around frantically. Like I expect to see that littler version of myself cowering in the corner, trying not to listen to her mother die.
Too much. There's only so much I can take.
Walking back into the kitchen on legs that feel numb, I stutter to a stop at the sight of Luciano leaning against the countertop. Casually slicing an apple. Blood smears the front of his shirt.
I know whose blood that is.
Of course the twisted fuck would want to get in on the torture, too.
His face goes cold when he sees me, and I can immediately tell now is not a good time for me to be in his presence.
"What's wrong with you?" he sneers.
Unfeelingly, I lift my fingers to my face. My cheeks are wet. Trembles roll through me, and like I've opened the floodgates, all I can suddenly think is I miss my mother. I miss her so much. I wish she was here. And I'm not sure who she'd be—what kind of humor she had, how she'd speak to me, or what her hugs felt like. What I miss is an idea, a smoky memory that never fully took shape.
Because of him.
I knot my hands together, gripping so tightly they tremble. Trying not to stare at that knife he's placed on the countertop now, how it sits a couple feet from me and maybe if I lunged for it, he'd be caught off guard enough for me to bury it in his chest a few times.
"What are you doing?" He sounds annoyed, throwing away his apple core.
I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. He's not actually asking. He's making sure I know my place. I'm stuck in place, unsure if it would be worse to leave or stand here in silence. I'm overthinking it, frantically trying to think about what old Nina would've done, when—
"Come here. You just standing there is pissing me off. We're going to go see something, you and I. Fucking come on." He holds out a hand, roughly clasping my shoulder when I get close enough.
I stumble in front of him as he pushes me to the basement door. My lips stretch into a satisfied smile, one I have trouble forcing myself to drop. I thought I'd have to strategize a way to get down there. But here he is, leading me right where I need to go.
When he opens that door, I hear the screams. My knees buckle, and I have to grasp onto the doorframe for all I'm worth to avoid falling right down the stairs.
The screams are riddled with agony, tearing through the air. They're animal. They're begging for some unimaginable pain to stop, roaring out a lethal anger, beseeching someone to acknowledge that the sufferer is alive, alive for now. They are everything all at once.
In between that, I hear something else. It's a man's voice, loud and angry. Luciano clearly takes my upset for some kind of trauma response, laughing at me as we make our way down the dark steps.
Seeing it is so much worse than hearing it.
I knew this would be the case, but the truth plows into me now. No amount of time or preparation could ready me to see him like this. Chained to a wall by his wrists, shirtless. His head hanging loosely between his shoulders, blood mixing with ink as it runs down the elongated planes and ridges of his body. He's glistening in sweat, and I watch as a tall man uses a mid-sized blade to carve blood into his torso. As the knife makes contact, Santo's head lifts and he grits his teeth in pain, groaning into the damp air.
"Ling chi," Antonio says, "also known as 'slow slicing' or 'death by a thousand cuts.' Something I learned in my time away. You tie the condemned to a post. Or a wall," he chuckles, "and gradually remove bits of skin and limbs until death comes in a final cut to the heart or decapitation."
Santo groans again, shaking in his chains, his entire body straining. It takes me several seconds to notice why every muscle looks to be screaming in pain, why he looks like he's holding himself up somehow... it's because he is. The wall behind him is crudely crafted with splintered wood that sticks out in spikes.
In utter horror, I watch as he tries to twist away from his father's blade but only cries out in agony at the movement. He's forced him to take the torture, to hold himself in place so he doesn't drag the splinters further through his flesh.
"Did you ever use this method? Which was your favorite?" He stares expectantly at Santo, nodding as if suddenly remembering that his son can't exactly speak. "You got your sick mind from me, you know. The way you just know how to hurt people. That doesn't come naturally. No, I gave that to you. I gave you everything. I taught you to kill, I made you good at it because I let you tap into that part of yourself that was aching for it. That was a master at it without me."
He paces, still facing away from us, stopping right in front of his victim to rest a hand on his trembling cheek. Santo is too exhausted to move from the contact. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You damn everything you touch. You damned this family. I will have my peace."
Tears course quickly and silently down my cheeks as Antonio finally turns, shaking his head in disappointment. When he sees me, he comes up short. I can't help but notice how much he looks like his sons, only with more lines in his face and gray peppering his hair.
"Who are you?"
"Your son's pretty little plaything," Luciano interjects from behind me and I jump, forgetting he's there. I mindlessly listen as Luciano fills him in on my story and the men discuss me, but the words pass through one ear and out the other. My eyes are glued to the suffering body of the man I love.
A hand on my shoulder has me gasping, and an unfamiliar chuckle creeps into my ears. "My, aren't you a jumpy thing," Antonio says. "Nina—how lovely to meet you. I can see why my son would want you."
I fight the urge to slap his hand from me, to bite and claw and scratch his eyes out. I don't think I have ever felt so much hatred for one man before.
Avoid any displays of emotion with him, except for the ones you want him to use against you.
Massimo's instruction reminds me to look at Santo with blatant nervousness, to try and back away from his immobilized body, as if even being in the same room as him is too much.
Antonio's eyes observe me shrewdly. They're disconcertingly clever, and I know my acting is about to be truly put to the test. "Your father and I have decided you will be spending the night with my son."
A hoarse cry of pain from Santo makes me look back at him. Luciano is unclasping his shackles, and the splinters dig into his skin with new fervor. Luciano grasps his shoulders, pulling him from the wall and letting him crumble to the floor in a groaning mess. His back is a ghastly sight, blood and torn skin everywhere.
Antonio is pushing me forward and I go. I remember to resist after a few steps, fighting and letting terrified whimpers slip past my lips, but he's fifty times stronger than me. He stops me mere feet away from Santo's barely conscious body. "He's been plied with drugs for days," he says. "That and the pain have severely weakened him. Or at least I hope—for your sake. But we'll have to see."
Then, both men are leaving. Leaving... me. Down here. With Santo. For what will certainly be a painful reunion—just not for the reason they think.
"Think he'll be lucid enough to have his way with her one last time?"
"Maybe she can actually fight back this time."
"I wouldn't count on it. Look at the size of her."
Laughter. "And that scared look on her face—I see what you mean now."
Their amused voices fade, cut off by the unmistakable sound of a door shutting and locking.
I don't waste a second. I'm falling to my knees, hands hovering over his body, wanting to console the tremors that wrack his powerful frame but not knowing where to touch. Everything is a wound. Everywhere is bleeding.
"Santo," I whisper urgently, "Santo, it's me. Can you hear me? Please, please say you can hear me. I'm here. I'm going to get you out of here."
I take a trembling hand and cup the back of his neck, burying my fingers in the sweaty hair there. He flinches, murmuring something unintelligible in his half-conscious state, and my heart breaks for the hundredth time.
"It's me. It's Nina. I'm here. Look at me? Look at me, please." I'm begging, pleading, but even when he rolls over to his side so I can catch a glimpse of his face, I can tell that his eyes are unseeing. Lids at half mast, gaze unfocused.
He groans, head lolling until his cheek presses into the concrete floor. I keep pushing his hair from his eyes, touching his face and neck, the only places that seem safe to touch without aggravating his injuries.
An hour must go by just like that. My body is cramped from staying in the same position. His back wounds seem to be relatively shallow because they've stopped bleeding, but there's so many of them. I've tried to move him, to see if he's hurt worse anywhere else, but he cries out anytime I touch his body and I can't bear the sound. I'm talking to him, mumbling things that don't make sense, when suddenly, his eyes crack open, a moment of clarity in the midst of his delirium.
"Santo."
He looks at me and his face pinches, as if he's experiencing new pain. I cup his rough jaw with both hands, smoothing away the furrow between his brows, and he pushes into the contact. He looks like he's simultaneously tasting heaven and drowning in a world of pain.
"Feels so real," he sighs, a blissed-out noise, and then his eyes roll back, and he's gone.
+
Santo
Embers.
They rain from the sky.
They pelt my body with their fiery fingertips, sometimes so hot that their touch feels like ice. I'm poked through with a million pinpricks of little infernos, tiny meteors, each one pressing a hole into my skin that can never be patched up again. Darkness pours from the holes—what's inside me—swallowing me up. Bringing me closer and closer to the oblivion I won't be able to escape.
I'm glad for it, because the dream I'm having is too cruel. Even for me.
I swear I see an angel.
See isn't quite the right word; I feel her. I hear her. In clearer moments, her voice sounds so real that I swear it's not a dream.
"Just wake up, wake up and we can escape together. I can't lose you too. You can't—you can't just do this. You're the one who kidnapped me, you big fucking idiot. You brought me here and made me fall in love with you and your brothers. Now you have to stay in my life, asshole. You can't just—just make this my home and then fucking leave me."
I know she can't be here. If she actually were, I think my heart wouldn't survive it. This is no place for her. While I wish for her with a desperation that hurts, I don't want her here, in the lion's den, right alongside me. That realization in and of itself might jerk me from this hellish dreamscape with a roar of anger and fear, might tear me apart because I can't protect her here.
So I don't surrender to the dream, the one that's becoming more of a nightmare as it tries to convince me that I'm not actually alone.
Whether I'm alone or whether she's here, both are outcomes that rip me apart.
And even though I know it's not real, I try to tell her. I want at least some version of her to know the truth, even if it's just an apparition—yes, even then. I open my mouth so many times but the words won't form, my throat feeling like it's filled with cement.
At least I can remember the way she sounds now. The way her touch feels. My strong, smart girl—if she really were here, I can't help but selfishly think that everything would be alright.