Chapter 77

Chapter 77
The darkness was the worst part.

Not because Lucia was afraid of the dark—she'd survived enough in her life to know that darkness was just the absence of light, nothing more. But in this kind of dark, the mind filled in what the eyes couldn't see. 

Every drip of water from somewhere in the walls became a footstep. Every creak of the old house settling became a door opening. She sat with her back pressed against the cold wall, her wrists raw and burning, her cheek still throbbing from where Rico's hand had connected with her face.

She was not going to cry again.
She'd already given him that. She refused to give him more.

She was still trying to slow her breathing when she heard it—the shuffle of footsteps above, a muffled exchange of voices, then the heavy drag of the lock. The door swung open and the pale light from the hallway spilled in just long enough for a figure to be shoved through before the door slammed shut again.

The lock clicked back into place.

Lucia pressed herself flat against the wall on instinct, every muscle in her body tensing. She heard the woman hit the floor with a pained grunt, heard her catch herself, heard the unsteady sound of her trying to regain her bearings in the dark.

Then silence.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Lucia's eyes had adjusted just enough to make out the outline of her—the shape of her shoulders, the way she was curled slightly inward like someone who had learned a long time ago to make herself small. She was still bound. They'd taken the tape off her mouth at some point, but her hands were tied behind her back the same as Lucia's.

It was Rico's wife.
Their eyes met through the dark.

Lucia stared at her with something between pity and confusion—this woman she barely knew, this stranger who had been standing in that room upstairs looking just as broken as she felt. She didn't know what to make of her. Didn't know what to feel. All she knew was that they were both locked in the same cold room by the same man, and that had to mean something.

Rico's wife looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth lifted. It wasn't a full smile—her face was too swollen for that, her lip split near the corner—but it was there. A small, tired smirk that sat strangely against all the pain written across her features.

"You must be Lucia," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
Lucia blinked. "Yes."

"I've heard the name." She exhaled slowly, shifting where she sat. "Don't look so worried about seeing me here. It's not complicated. Rico never had much use for me to begin with—not in any real way. But now that he knows I've seen things, heard things—knows that I know every dirty detail of what he's done—" She paused, swallowing carefully. "He wants me quiet. Permanently quiet." She said it plainly, without drama, the way someone speaks about something they've already made peace with.

Lucia stared at her. Then she pushed herself away from the wall, wincing as her wrists protested the movement, and crossed the small room until she was closer to her. She lowered herself to the floor a few feet away, her whole body aching with every shift.

"What do we do?" Lucia asked quietly. "Is there a way out of here? Is there anything—" She stopped, then changed direction. "Was he always like this?"

The woman was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, some of the composure had worn thin at the edges.

"I used to help him," she said. "Not because I wanted to—not the way you might think. I just didn't know. Not fully. I ran errands, passed messages, kept my mouth shut about things I thought were just business. I told myself everyone's husband had secrets."

A short breath escaped her. "But then I started seeing things more clearly. Started understanding what the business actually was. What happened to people who got in the way." She shook her head slightly. "When I told him I wanted out—that I wouldn't be part of it anymore—he looked at me like I'd said something funny. Like I'd forgotten that I didn't get to make that choice." She paused. "That backfired badly. But honestly? I don't regret it. I'd rather be here, knowing I said no, than be upstairs pretending I didn't know what he was."

Lucia watched her face. There was no self-pity in it. Just a kind of worn-down steadiness that came from someone who had already done their grieving.

"I just want to live," the woman continued. "That's all. Something quiet. Something clean. Without guilt sitting on my chest every morning when I wake up." She almost laughed, but it didn't quite form. "Funny thing to want, isn't it. When you're locked in a basement."

Then she moved.

It was subtle at first—her shoulder dipping, her arms shifting awkwardly behind her back. Lucia watched, confused, until she saw her hands twist at an odd angle and her fingers work at something near her side. She fumbled, cursed softly under her breath, and then her fingers closed around something small.

She tossed it across the floor toward Lucia.
It slid and stopped just in front of her knees.
A key.

Lucia stared at it. Small, dull, unremarkable. She looked up sharply.

"The room key," Rico's wife said simply. "I lifted it from his pocket when they were dragging me in here. He was close enough and he wasn't paying attention." She held Lucia's gaze. "That's our way out. Only way I can see."

Lucia's heart was hammering. She stared at the key, then back at her. "Can I trust you?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was a genuine question—open and raw and necessary.

The woman didn't flinch from it. "That's fair," she said. "You don't know me. You have no reason to take my word for anything." She was quiet for a beat. Then she exhaled—a long, slow breath, like she was setting something down. "Rico raped me when I was fourteen years old."

The room went very still.
"He was older. He had power over my family's situation and he used it. It didn't stop for years. Not until we were married—and even then, married just meant he owned me with a document. It didn't make him better. It just made it harder to leave." Her voice was level. Almost disturbingly so. "So when you ask me why I'm helping you—it's because I will go to whatever length it takes to bring him down. Whatever length. I have nothing left to protect and I stopped being afraid of him somewhere around the time I realized I'd survived him this long already."

Lucia sat very still.
She thought about the kind of person who could do that—who could destroy a child and then build a life on top of it like the ground was solid. She thought about Rico upstairs, his flat eyes and his cold smile and the casual way he spoke about hurting people. Like it cost him nothing. Like people were just objects he moved around until they became inconvenient.

She picked up the key.
Her fingers closed around it tightly and she held onto it for a second before maneuvering her bound wrists as best she could and working it into the rope. It wasn't easy—her hands were stiff and the rope was tight and the angle was awkward—but she was patient. She breathed through the pain and she kept working until the knot gave and the rope loosened and she pulled her wrists free.

She nearly groaned at the relief of it.

She sat forward immediately and moved to Rico's wife, finding the knot at her wrists and picking it apart. When it finally came loose the woman flexed her hands slowly, a sharp breath escaping her.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Lucia was already on her feet, moving toward the door. There was a small gap near the hinges, just wide enough. She pressed her eye to it and held still, watching. The hallway outside was dim. She could make out the bottom of the staircase at the far left. No feet. No movement. No voices close by.

She pulled back and looked at the woman behind her, who had risen to her feet and was standing with her jaw set and her eyes clear and steady.

Lucia held up the key.
"Brace yourself," she said.
Rico's wife straightened her spine and gave a single nod.