Page 40 of Damaged & Deadly
My breath comes in heaving wheezes by the time he pulls away, and on and on it goes for who knows how long. Could be seconds or minutes. Hell, it could even be days. When he gets bored of the taser, he moves on to his fists, the serrated knife, or whatever other instrument of pain he fancies. None of the damage he leaves is life-threatening. He knows just where to punch and how deep to slice to enact pain without accidentally killing me.
He doesn’t let up until I’m a sweating, half-unconscious mess, my restraints the only thing holding me upright in the chair.
With my head hanging between my shoulders, my chin touching my chest, he moves to crouch in front of me.
“The Antonelli Famiglia is the most powerful, most respected, and most feared family on the West Coast. People would kill for the blood running through your veins, boy.” He rakes his eyes over me, critically assessing and sizing me up. “You’ve got grit and determination. Two things that will take you far in this life. Except your allegiances are misplaced. When I’m done with you, youwillbe one of us, and then you will see how great it is to be an Antonelli man.”
I spit blood out onto the floor, watching as it crawls along the concrete until it connects with a larger tributary that flows into the drain under my seat.
Using the last of my energy, I lift my head enough to meet Santos' cold, unflinching gaze. “I will never be one of you. You’ll have to kill me first.”
Instead of the flash of anger I expect, he simply grins. It’s ice-cold and terrifying. “There will be no need for that. Sooner or later, you will break. Everyone has their limit. I’ll find yours.”
On that hopeless note, he pushes to his feet and strides to the door. I keep my head down when he flicks a glance over his shoulder at me before typing a code into the keypad on the door. Without lifting my head, I watch as he does, mentally noting the numbers before he plunges the small room into darkness. The only sound is the click of the lock behind him and his receding footsteps, until I’m left alone with my jumbled thoughts and waning energy.
***
The days go by in much the same routine. At least, I assume it’s days. The only time I leave the room is when he drags me to the bathroom for a ten-second piss break.
With each passing round, I can feel the flare of hope in my chest diminishing. I want to hold on to it, but I’m just so tired. So sore. It’s not that I’ve given up, I’ve just stopped caring.
As if he can sense my fading resolve with every round we go, Santos has been upping the extent of his torture. Pushing me to my limits, to my breaking point, and goddamn, I feel close to shattering. Close to giving in. Close to losing.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here or how many days have passed. I don’t know how many more will come to pass before Sawyer and the Rejects come, but I know they will. While the strength to fight may be leaving my body, my confidence in Sawyer never wavers.
I’m nothing more than a useless lump of skin, muscle, and bone when, on day number who-the-fuck-knows of my incarceration, Santos slices through the ties binding me to the chair. Even though I’m no longer bound, my arms refuse to move, the muscles now stuck in that position after days of immobility and unuse.
He roughly grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me to my feet, but the minute I’m left to stand on my own, my weak legs give out beneath me, and I fall to the floor that’s still coated in the remnants of my dried blood from previous torture sessions.
Fun times.
I’m now beginning to understand Bone’s dark humor and dry wit a little better. Gotta cling to something, even if it is solely for my own amusement and at my own expense.
“On your feet, boy,” Santos growls impatiently, yanking me back up once again.
With a hand on the wall and slow steps, I manage to follow him down a nondescript corridor with buzzing overhead lighting and into a bedroom. I stare longingly at the bed, only Santos continues past it to another door, and since I haven’t been anywhere other than that room, I don’t want to piss him off already and have him send me back there before I’ve had a chance to scope out wherever we are.
He directs me into a living area with floor-to-ceiling glass windows providing an unobstructed view of the city. I scour my eyes over the buildings, trying to pinpoint the Reject clubhouse. Not that it would do me much good, I just need to see it to remind myself that although I feel very alone right now, I’m not.
Before I can work out any more than the vague direction in which the clubhouse is, Santos pulls my focus. “Sit.” He points to a chair at a long dining table. “Eat.” He doesn’t have to tell me twice as I dive into the plate of food. I haven’t had anything to eat since that meal, and the only liquid I’ve had is what I was able to cup in my hand and slurp down from the tap every time I was granted a piss break.
I don’t even know what the hell I’m eating, but it tastes fucking delicious. I stuff my face until the plate is wiped clean, and all the while, Santos watches me with a keen eye that unnerves me.
“You have the whole apartment to yourself today,” he says when I’m finished, waving toward the television. “You can watch TV, play video games, sleep, shower. Do whatever you want.”
I want to ask why but bite my tongue against the question. It’s not like he’d be honest, and no matter how tempting all of this sounds, it’s a ploy. I’m smart enough to know that.
Standing, he moves toward the door that I assume leads into the corridor. To the elevator. To freedom. My eyes linger on the thin piece of wood that separates me from that freedom, and a voice at the back of my head tells me to make a run for it. I debate it. I’m so desperate for it that I even take a step forward before catching myself. It’s not just one measly bit of wood that separates me from freedom. It’s however many guards are standing in the hall. It’s the security cameras in the elevator and the guards on the ground floor. I wouldn’t reach the kind of freedom I’m after if I ran.
Santos must see my indecision as he smirks confidently when I pause. The realization must be clear on my face—the knowledge that I’m trapped—because he doesn’t even bother threatening me to stay. He simply turns around and leaves.
Even after the door clicks shut behind him, all I can do is stand and stare at it. I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually I turn to stare out the window instead, going back to my initial task of pinpointing the Reject clubhouse. Unfortunately, too many taller buildings between here and there obstruct my view, yet simply knowing it’s out there settles me a little. I can almost visualize the guys going apeshit over my disappearance, and Sawyer will be demanding that they come up with a plan ASAP. Even though she’s been absent recently—doing whatever the hell job had her walking down the fucking aisle to an Antonelli—I know she will be there now, fighting for me. It’s all she knows how to do—fight to protect me.
I shake my head against the shock that wracked my body that day in the church when her veil was pulled back and all I saw was Sawyer. Until then, I couldn’t figure out what I was doing inside a church. I still can’t get the look of shock and horror on her face out of my mind. I swear I saw something break in her eyes before she was forced to look away. She stood there with her rigid posture that might as well have been cut from stone as she was coerced to spit out those vows, her voice barely more than a cracked whisper. And when that asshole shoved the ring on her finger, I saw red. Then, before I could blink, he was dragging her down the aisle away from me.
I was so relieved when I laid eyes on her at that dinner. I know Sawyer is made of tough stuff. It will take a hell of a lot more than a couple of days with an Antonelli to break her. Still, something loosened in my chest when I saw she was in one piece with the fire burning in her eyes, even if she was uncharacteristically submissive.
Anger licks a path along my spine as my fists clench, simply remembering how that asshole would glare at her whenever she opened her mouth. The way he spoke to her, like she was a child. Something to be seen and not heard. That’s not Sawyer; I know she only complied for my safety.