Chapter 33 Locked Alone

Chapter 33 Locked Alone
She only woke to the sound of a door opening.
Her eyes snapped open, panic surging instantly. She tried to sit up, but the ropes bit into her skin, her wrists swollen and sore. Pain throbbed with every movement.
Two men entered.
One of them she recognized immediately.
The man from the rooftop.
The one who knew Leo’s name.
Another man followed behind him and bowed his head slightly. “Master,” he said. “What should we do with her now?”
The man—the master—laughed softly.
A calm, satisfied sound.
“We do exactly what we planned,” he said. “We use her as bait.”
Olive’s breath caught.
“To catch Leonardo Vescari.”
Her heart sank.
So she had been right all along.
They were never after her.
She was just leverage.
As fear and pain twisted together in her chest, one question screamed louder than all the rest—
Where are you, Leo?
The Master smirked.
Slowly—deliberately—he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. One hand rested casually on his waist while the other lifted the device to his ear, as if this were nothing more than a routine call. The second man stayed behind, his eyes fixed on Olive like she was nothing but an object—something already owned.
“No—!” Olive shouted, panic detonating in her chest. She thrashed against the ropes, the cords biting deeper into her skin as her voice echoed off the black walls. “Who are you?! Why are you doing this to me? Let me go! Please—let me go!”
Her words cracked, breaking apart under fear.
The Master’s jaw tightened.
Annoyed.
Without turning around, he lifted two fingers.
That was all it took.
The man behind Olive moved instantly. Fingers fisted into her hair and yanked her head back hard. Pain ripped through her scalp, white and blinding. Her cry turned into a sob as her eyes met the man’s cold, murderous stare—empty of mercy.
“Shut up,” he hissed close to her face. “Unless you want to die.”
She tried to scream again—
A hand clamped over her mouth, crushing the sound before it could escape.
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she struggled helplessly, her heartbeat thumping so violently she thought it might tear her apart from the inside.
Then the Master finally spoke into the phone.
“Leonardo Vescari,” he drawled, amusement dripping from every syllable. “So you finally answered.”
Olive froze.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
“I take it you got my little message,” the Master continued, voice smooth, satisfied. “About your girl.”
He began walking toward her.
The man covering Olive’s mouth hesitated as the Master reached her side. The phone was placed directly in front of her face.
A silent command.
The hand was removed.
“Leo!” Olive cried immediately, her voice shaking but fierce. “Don’t listen to him! Please—don’t come here! It’s a trap—”
The words rushed out of her, frantic and raw. She knew it. She felt it deep in her bones. If Leo came here, he wouldn’t walk out alive.
The Master chuckled softly and pulled the phone back to his ear.
“Heard her?” he asked lightly.
Then his tone changed.
Cold. Sharp. Deadly.
“Come here, Vescari. Bring what I asked for,” he said. A brief pause. “Or I’ll return her to you in pieces.”
Another pause—longer this time.
“A corpse, to be exact.”
The call ended.
Silence slammed into the room like a physical blow.
Olive’s body trembled uncontrollably.
The Master turned to his men. “Untie her.”
Her heart lurched.
The ropes were cut from her wrists first. Blood rushed back into her hands in painful waves, needles of fire shooting up her arms. She stared numbly at her skin—red, bruised, deep lines carved into her flesh from hours of restraint.
Fear hollowed out her chest.
Leo is coming.
For her.
When they finished untying her, the men stepped back, watching her closely, measuring every movement like predators waiting for a mistake.
“Make sure she doesn’t leave this room,” the Master ordered casually. “Not until Vescari arrives.”
The door opened.
Then closed.
They locked it, making sure she doesn't escape.
Olive collapsed against the couch, her legs giving out beneath her.
Her hands shook as she held them up in front of her face, red marks still burning—proof of how powerless she had been. Her breathing came out shallow and uneven, her chest tight with terror and guilt.
This is my fault, she thought numbly. He’s coming because of me.
She pressed her palms to her face and cried silently, forcing herself to breathe—even as her heart screamed with fear for the man walking straight into death, just to save her.
Hours dragged by in cruel slowness.
When Olive finally glanced at the small watch still strapped to her wrist, the numbers blurred before settling—8:03 am. Morning had come and gone without mercy. She hadn’t slept at all. Her head throbbed from thinking too much, her stomach cramped with hunger, and the skin around her wrists and ankles still burned faintly where the ropes had been.
She pushed herself up from the couch, legs stiff and unsteady.
Even untied, her body felt wrong—weak, sore, shaky, like it was still bracing for pain that hadn’t arrived yet.
She walked to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
A hollow sigh slipped from her lips. Of course it was. She rested her forehead against the cold surface for a moment, eyes closed, then turned away. Slowly, she paced the room, counting steps without meaning to. She pressed her palms against the walls, knocked softly, then harder, hoping—irrationally—that one section might sound hollow.
Nothing.
This room wasn’t just secured.
It was designed.
A place meant to hold people who were never supposed to leave.
Her fingers brushed the wall again when—
The door opened.
Olive froze.