Chapter 29: Chapter Twenty Nine
**Back in Italy.**
The room was stifling, heavy with the stench of blood, antiseptic, and fear. The young man on the bed trembled as his wide, bloodshot eyes darted to the tall figure standing before him.
His body was a wreck—bandages wrapped around his hand where fingers once were, his head tightly bound, and his mouth open in a silent scream of agony.
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat beading on his pale skin.
Marco Bellini stood motionless, his presence alone enough to chill the room. The mafia Don of Italy was a towering figure, both in reputation and stature.
His piercing green eyes, cold and unfeeling, bore into the injured man, who seemed to shrink under the weight of that gaze. Marco’s broad shoulders and muscled frame, emphasized even in his casual attire, exuded an air of dominance.
“And who did this?” Marco’s deep, menacing voice cut through the silence like a blade.
One of his men, standing to the side with his hands clasped nervously, swallowed hard. “W-we don’t know, sir. We tried questioning him, but…” He hesitated, glancing at the man on the bed. “He can’t speak or write. The… injuries… make it impossible.”
Marco’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. He took a slow step closer to the bed, the echo of his boots on the tile floor amplifying the tension in the room.
The injured man whimpered, his body twitching as if trying to recoil despite being restrained.
Marco tilted his head, his green eyes narrowing as he studied the man’s tear-streaked face. “Look at you.” he muttered, almost to himself. “Broken, useless. A liability.”
The young man on the bed shook his head frantically, desperate to communicate, but his mutilated body betrayed him.
He tried to make sounds, garbled noises escaping his ruined mouth as tears poured down his cheeks.
Marco’s expression remained cold as he pulled a sleek silver gun from the holster beneath his jacket.
The room seemed to freeze as he pointed the barrel directly at the injured man’s head.
“Your silence is of no use to me.” Marco said flatly.
The young man’s muffled cries grew more frantic, his body thrashing against the restraints. His eyes pleaded for mercy, but there was none to be found in Marco’s unyielding gaze.
The shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space. Blood sprayed across the pristine white sheets, and the room fell into an eerie silence.
Marco turned away from the lifeless body without a second glance. He faced the man who had spoken earlier, his expression hard and commanding.
“Dispose of this.” he ordered, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a glass of wine.
The man nodded quickly. “Yes, Don.”
Without another word, Marco strode out of the room, his two most trusted guards falling into step behind him. The rest of his men remained behind, moving swiftly to clean up the mess.
Outside, the cold night air hit him as he stepped out of the building, a former clinic turned into his gang’s private medical facility.
A sleek red Bugatti waited at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights. Marco walked with a casual confidence, his broad shoulders relaxed, but the look in his eyes was anything but.
He paused by the car, taking a moment to glance at his reflection in the tinted windows. He was a man of contradictions—dressed in a simple black shirt and dark jeans, but carrying an aura of power that couldn’t be ignored.
His chiseled features and piercing green eyes gave him a deadly allure, but his reputation overshadowed his appearance.
Marco Bellini was a name that inspired fear across Italy and beyond.
At only 29, he had built an empire of crime and cruelty, ruling with an iron fist and a heart of stone. Mercy was a foreign concept to him, and weakness was intolerable.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, the engine roared to life, echoing in the quiet night. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he thought about the situation at hand.
Whoever had dared to challenge him, to send his men back broken and mute, would regret it.
Marco’s lips curled into a dark smile as he drove off into the night. He thrived on chaos, and this was just the beginning.
♧♧♧
The whispers surrounded her like a low hum, dragging Xena from the depths of her sleep.
“Oh, goodness, she’s so beautiful.” a soft voice murmured nearby.
Xena stirred, her eyelids fluttering as the faint voices intruded on her rest. She shifted slightly under the heavy duvet.
“Shush, girls! You’ll wake her up.” came a hushed warning.
But it was already too late. Xena’s lashes fluttered open, and she blinked against the soft glow of the chandelier above her.
When her vision cleared, she was met with six wide, curious eyes staring down at her. She gasped and scrambled to sit up, clutching the thick blanket tightly around herself.
“W-who are you?” she stammered, her voice hoarse from sleep.
The oldest of the three women stepped forward. She was dressed impeccably in a crisp, dark uniform that exuded professionalism, her silver hair pulled back into a neat bun.
Her expression was calm yet firm, the kind that demanded respect.
“Good evening, Madam. My name is Svetlana.” the older woman began in a measured tone, her Russian accent strong and distinct.
“These are Zoya and Alina. They will be assisting you during your stay here. However, should you need anything more, you may come to me directly.”
“I—uh, thank you.” Xena replied, unsure of what else to say. Her gaze flickered between the three women, confusion and unease written all over her face.
The memories hit her like a truck. The train station. Viktor’s cold, possessive grip. The jet. Being carried into this mansion.
Her body tensed as the reality of her situation sank in.
“You’ve had a long day, Madam.” Svetlana said, her tone softening slightly.
“Come, let us draw you a bath. You must be exhausted.”
Xena sniffed the air and winced, realizing she smelled of sweat and travel.
Her cheeks turned a faint pink, and she gave a small nod. She attempted to untangle herself from the massive duvet, struggling awkwardly as it clung to her legs.
Zoya and Alina stifled quiet giggles, but the sharp look Svetlana gave them quickly silenced their amusement.
“This way, Madam.” Svetlana gestured toward a door on the other side of the luxurious room.
Xena followed, her bare feet padding softly against the marble floor. Svetlana opened the door, revealing a bathroom that could only be described as regal.
The walls were made of polished white marble with gold accents. A grand clawfoot bathtub stood in the center of the room, flanked by elegant silver faucets.
Crystal sconces cast a warm, golden light over the space, making it feel like a scene from a dream.
Xena’s eyes widened in disbelief. “This... this is the bathroom?”
Svetlana allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile. “Indeed. I will leave you to your bath. Zoya and Alina will assist you if needed.”
With that, Svetlana bowed slightly and exited, leaving Xena alone with the two younger maids. They stood quietly, beaming at her with an eagerness that made Xena shift uncomfortably.
“Do you need help undressing, Madam?” Zoya asked cheerfully.
Xena’s brows furrowed, and she shook her head. “Please stop calling me ‘Madam.’”
The maids exchanged nervous glances. “We can’t, Madam.” Zoya said hesitantly.
“The Don wouldn’t like it.” Alina added, her tone serious. “It could... cost us.”
“Cost you? What do you mean?” Xena’s voice rose slightly, her unease growing.
Alina gulped and looked down. “The Don doesn’t tolerate disrespect. He’s very... particular.”
The weight of their words settled heavily on Xena.
This wasn’t just a mansion; it was a gilded cage ruled by Viktor’s iron will. Escape seemed even more impossible now.
“Fine.” she muttered, her voice laced with frustration. “But I don’t need help. I’d prefer to handle this on my own.”
The maids hesitated, their faces falling as if they’d done something wrong.
“Are you upset with us, Madam?” Alina asked timidly.
“No, no.” Xena replied quickly. “I just... I like to take care of myself. That’s all.”
Reluctantly, the girls nodded and exited the room, leaving Xena alone. She sighed heavily, leaning against the sink.
“What have I gotten myself into?” she muttered under her breath.
Her reflection stared back at her from the ornate mirror. Her long hair was tangled, her face pale and tired.
She still wore the simple top and trousers she’d put on earlier that day, now wrinkled and stained from her harrowing journey.
Shaking her head, she began to strip out of her clothes. She turned the faucet, watching as hot water poured into the tub, steam rising and filling the room.
She added soap until the surface of the water was covered in frothy bubbles.
Slipping into the tub, she let the warmth envelop her, relaxing tense muscles she hadn’t even realized were aching.
Her head rested against the edge as she stared up at the ceiling, thoughts swirling like the bubbles in the water.
Her Nana. Her little brother. Leonardo. The memories tugged at her heart, each one more painful than the last.
“And now I’m in Russia.” she whispered to herself, her voice breaking slightly.
“Kidnapped by a man who thinks he owns me.”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to cry.
Instead, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, letting the heat of the bath soothe her frayed nerves.
She whispered softly to herself.“I need to find a way out of this. I need to escape him.”