Chapter 18 “I hate you”
The darkness in the small concrete room felt thicker now, like it had weight. My arms had gone from burning to numb, the ropes around my wrists slick with blood that had dried and cracked. Every time I shifted, fresh pain flared across my ribs where Scarface had driven his fist earlier. I didn’t care. Pain kept me awake. Pain kept me
Time didn’t matter anymore. Only the countdown did. Midnight was coming. Dante was coming. And there was nothing I could do except sit in this stupid black dress, tied to a metal chair bolted to the floor, and wait to watch him die.
Footsteps again. Multiple this time. The door opened without a knock.
Scarface first, then the thin man with the neck tattoo. They didn’t speak. Just walked in, flicked on the single overhead bulb—harsh white light that made my swollen eye water—and started untying the ropes on my arms. Not gentle. Not careful. They yanked hard enough that I hissed through my teeth.
“Boss wants you in the main room,” Scarface grunted. “Showtime’s early.”
My heart slammed once, hard. “How early?”
He didn’t answer. Just hauled me to my feet. My legs were weak; they buckled. The thin man caught my elbow, fingers digging in like clamps. They half-dragged, half-carried me down the short corridor, past rusted machinery and snow-dusted crates, back to the main warehouse floor.
The space looked different now. Floodlights had been set up—bright, unforgiving beams aimed at the center like spotlights on a stage. In the middle stood a single wooden chair, thicker ropes already coiled around the legs. A long table nearby held bottles of wine, glasses, a few knives laid out neatly like cutlery. Giovanni’s idea of hospitality.
They forced me into the chair. Tied my ankles to the legs first, then my wrists behind the backrest. The ropes were tighter this time. No slack. No chance of slipping free.
Giovanni appeared from the shadows at the far end of the room. Still in his wool coat, silver hair perfect, gold watch catching the light. He walked slowly, like a man with all the time in the world.
He stopped in front of me. Looked down.
“You clean up well,” he said. “Even bruised.”
I met his eyes. Didn’t speak.
He smiled—small, satisfied. “Dante called again. Twice. Left messages. He’s frantic. Said he’s ten minutes out. Traffic’s bad because of the snow, but he’s pushing through.”
Ten minutes.
My stomach dropped like a stone.
Giovanni crouched, bringing his face level with mine. “I told him the deal stands. He walks in alone, no weapons, no backup. He gives himself up, and you walk free. Simple.”
He paused. Let the lie hang between us.
“But we both know that’s not how this ends,” he continued softly. “When he steps through that door, my men will close it behind him. He’ll see you—tied, beaten, beautiful in black—and he’ll freeze. Just long enough. Then we take him down. And you watch.”
I swallowed. Tasted blood again. “He’ll fight.”
“Of course he will.” Giovanni stood. “That’s the point. He fights, he bleeds, he breaks. And when he’s on his knees begging for your life, you’ll tell him what I want you to tell him.”
He leaned closer. Voice low, almost intimate.
“You’ll say you hate him. That you never loved him. That he destroyed everything your father built. That you’re glad it’s over. Say it loud. Say it clear. If you do, I give him the quick death—one bullet. If you don’t…” He gestured to the table. To the knives. “We take pieces. Slowly. Hours, maybe days. Until there’s nothing left of him but what we leave for you to see.”
My hands clenched behind my back. Nails dug into palms.
Giovanni straightened. “You have ten minutes to decide what kind of ending you want for him.”
He turned. Walked to the far side of the room. Sat at the head of the table like a king waiting for his entertainment. Poured himself a glass of red wine. Sipped.
The guards stayed close. One on each side of me. Scarface cracked his knuckles. The thin man just watched, expression blank.
The warehouse was quiet except for the low hum of the floodlights and the occasional gust of wind rattling the broken skylight. Snow kept drifting down in lazy flakes, melting on the concrete before it could pile up.
I stared at the double doors at the far end—the only way in or out. Watched them. Waited.
Minutes ticked by. I counted them in my head. Five. Six. Seven.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Eight.
Nine.
The doors rattled.
Someone on the outside knocked—three sharp bangs.
Giovanni raised his glass in a mock toast. “Right on time.”
Scarface moved first. Walked to the doors. Unlocked the heavy padlock. Pulled one side open.
Cold air rushed in. Snow swirled.
Dante stepped through.
He looked like hell.
Hair damp with melting snow, coat open, no tie, shirt untucked. No visible weapons, but his hands were fisted at his sides, knuckles white. Eyes wild—scanning the room, finding me in seconds.
Our gazes locked.
Everything stopped.
His face—God, his face. The fury, the fear, the raw, gutted pain when he saw the bruises, the blood, the ropes, the black dress like some twisted funeral outfit.
“Liliana,” he breathed. Voice cracked.
He took one step forward.
The doors slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked.
Four men stepped out from the shadows—armed, rifles up. Not pointed at him yet. Just ready.
Dante didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at them. Only at me.
Giovanni stood slowly. Set his glass down.
“Moretti,” he said pleasantly. “Welcome. You’re punctual. I appreciate that.”
Dante ignored him. Kept his eyes on me.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, rough.
I nodded once. Couldn’t speak around the knot in my throat.
Giovanni laughed softly. “She’s alive. Bruised, but alive. As promised.”
Dante’s jaw clenched. “Let her go. Now.”
Giovanni spread his hands. “That was the deal. You for her. But first… we talk.”
He gestured to the table. “Sit. Have a drink. We can be civilized.”
Dante didn’t move.
Giovanni’s smile faded. “Or my men can make you sit. Your choice.”
Dante looked at me again. Something passed between us—silent, desperate. Then he walked forward. Slow. Deliberate. Stopped in front of my chair. Close enough I could smell the cold and smoke on him.
He crouched. Brought his face level with mine.
“Hey,” he whispered. Only for me. “I’m here.”
Tears burned my eyes. I blinked them back.
“Don’t,” I managed. “Don’t do this.”
“Too late.” His voice broke. “I’m not leaving without you.”
Giovanni cleared his throat. “Touching. But time’s up.”
He nodded to Scarface.
Scarface stepped forward. Grabbed Dante’s shoulder. Yanked him back.
Dante spun. Fist connected with Scarface’s jaw—hard, fast. The crack echoed.
Chaos.
The guards rushed. Dante fought like a man with nothing left to lose. He took down one with an elbow to the throat, kicked another’s knee sideways. But there were too many. A rifle butt cracked across his back. He staggered. Another hit to the ribs. He went to one knee.
They dragged him up. Forced him into the chair across from me. Tied him the same way—wrists behind, ankles to legs.
Blood trickled from his lip. He spat it onto the floor. Looked straight at Giovanni.
“You wanted me,” he said. Voice steady despite the pain. “Here I am. Let her walk.”
Giovanni walked over. Stood between us.
“Not yet,” he said. “First, we settle the score.”
He turned to me.
“Your turn, Liliana.”
My heart hammered so hard I thought it would crack ribs.
Giovanni crouched again. Spoke low, only for me.
“Say the words. Hate him. Never loved him. Glad it’s over. Say them. Save him the suffering.”
Dante’s eyes were on me. Wide. Pleading. Terrified—not for himself. For me.
I opened my mouth.
The words stuck.
Giovanni waited.
Dante shook his head once. Small. Desperate. Don’t.
But I had to.
For him.
I swallowed. Forced my voice out.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
Dante flinched like I’d stabbed him.
Giovanni smiled.
“Louder,” he said.
I looked at Dante. Saw the heartbreak in his eyes. The acceptance. The love.
“I hate you,” I said again. Louder. Voice cracking. “I never loved you. You ruined everything. I’m glad it’s over.”
The lie tasted like acid.
Dante closed his eyes. Head dropped forward.
Giovanni stood. Satisfied.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
He turned to Scarface. “Make it quick. One shot.”
Scarface pulled a pistol. Racked the slide.
Dante lifted his head. Looked at me one last time.
“I love you,” he said. Quiet. Certain. “Always did.”
The gun rose.
I screamed.
“No!”
The shot rang out.