Chapter 89

Chapter 89
~Valentina~

The medicine Remi gave me eventually settles into my system, and the stabbing pain that had been twisting through every inch of my body softens into something dull and heavy, like my muscles are wrapped in bruised stone. I lie there for a long while, breathing slowly, feeling the soreness spread from my ribs to my back and down my legs, and even though the pain is still there, I begin to notice the way my heartbeat steadies and my breathing evens out.

It feels strange to have a moment of quiet inside me, especially after everything that has happened, and for a moment, I almost allow myself to sink deeper into the mattress, wishing I could stay hidden here forever, tucked beneath the blanket where no one can touch me or hurt me again. But that small sense of comfort fades quickly the moment the door opens, and Isabella steps inside.

She stands near the foot of the bed with her arms folded, watching me as if she has been waiting for the right moment to speak, and after a brief pause, she says, “Come on, it is time for dinner.”

Her words float across the room gently, not forceful or demanding, but I still feel my stomach tighten at the thought of leaving this room and facing Santoro again. I close my eyes for a moment before whispering weakly, “I would rather starve.”

Isabella’s footsteps soften as she moves closer, and when she speaks again, her tone shifts, and I hear something like concern hidden beneath the controlled cadence of her voice.

“You need your strength.” She does not need to explain further because we both know what she means: that being weak around Santoro is not some small inconvenience; it is an open door for him to take advantage of again, to humiliate me or hurt me simply because he can. Still, the words feel heavy in my chest, and I turn my head to look at her slowly.

“For what,” I murmur, “to remain a prisoner?” I do not try to hide the bitterness because it spills out naturally, the way blood spills when a wound is opened. Isabella stiffens slightly, looking at me without speaking.

Eventually, she looks away and says quietly, “I will not force you, but I will remain here until you come with me.” Her voice is firm but patient, and somehow that makes it even harder to fight. I feel my shoulders sag as I sigh, defeated by my own exhaustion more than anything else.

I begin to sit up slowly, wincing at the way my body protests, but I push through it because I know what will happen if I refuse. Santoro does not need excuses to punish people, but he certainly enjoys having them. As I shift around, pulling myself upright, a thought surfaces without warning, soft at first but growing in my mind with every passing second until it presses against my chest.

“Where... Where is Damian?” I ask quietly, almost shyly, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, a wave of guilt washes over me. I think about how I lashed out at him, how the anger and fear inside me twisted every emotion into something sharp and cruel, how I accused him of destroying my life. Even if he did bring me here, even if he is responsible for everything that has gone wrong, there had been a moment earlier when he carried me, when he looked at me like he genuinely cared whether I lived or died, and I cannot pretend that moment did not affect me. I cannot pretend I did not feel something pull inside me as he walked out of the room...

Isabella glances at me with an expression I cannot quite read before saying, “He left for another mission a few hours ago.” I do not expect the disappointment that hits me when she says it, a heavy feeling that sinks into my stomach and makes my chest feel tight. It surprises me so much that I do not even try to hide it.

Isabella seems to notice because she adds, “But he should be back by now, so he will join us for dinner,” her voice careful, as if she is trying to reassure me in a way I did not ask for but desperately wanted. I remain silent, unsure how to respond without revealing too much.

There is another moment of quiet before I hear myself speak again, my voice softer this time, almost hesitant. “Isabella,” I murmur, and she looks at me with raised brows. “How did you end up working for Santoro? You seem like you are the only person here who has a conscience.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a moment I think she might react angrily, but instead she lets out a long, exhausted sigh, the kind of sigh that carries years of unspoken memories.

“I owe Santoro my life,” she says finally, her tone calm but stripped of any warmth. “I consider this job me paying off a lifelong debt.” I stare at her quietly, trying to understand what kind of life leads a person into this kind of loyalty, a loyalty that forces them to stand silently while their boss nearly beats a girl to death.

Her answer settles heavily inside me, and I ask, “So that means you have to do things even you do not agree with.”

A faint muscle twitches in her jaw as she answers, “It is not just me.” She says it simply, but the weight behind her words is obvious, and as soon as she says it, a thought emerges with startling clarity.

She could also mean Damian.

She could mean all of them.

Before I can ask anything else, Isabella nods toward the door and says, “Let's go. The Don will get angry if we are late.” She steps closer to me, her movements cautious as she scans me

“Are you able to stand and walk?” The concern in her voice catches me off guard, as if it leaks out of her accidentally before she can stop herself.

I look at her for a moment, searching for any trace of cruelty or deception, but all I see is fatigue and something almost sympathetic hiding in her eyes. Maybe it really is true, that she and Damian and even Angelo are simply following orders, trapped in their own ways just like I am. The thought is strange, unsettling even, because it complicates everything I thought I understood.

“Yes,” I mumble, pushing myself upright, feeling a sharp pull in my ribs that makes me wince. I force myself to stand, swallowing the soft whimper that tries to escape my throat as my sore muscles throb under my weight. Isabella steps closer, ready to catch me if I fall, but I steady myself before she needs to.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and for the first time since I met her, her voice holds a softness that feels almost human, almost kind. She turns toward the door and motions with her head, silently telling me to follow. I take a slow breath, trying to brace myself for whatever waits outside the safety of this room, and then I begin to walk beside her, every step sending a faint pulse of pain through my body.

As we reach the doorway, I pause for a moment and glance back at the small room behind me, the room that has been my only refuge in this nightmare. For a terrifying moment, I wish I could turn back and lock the door and stay there forever, away from Santoro, away from the eyes of the people who follow him, away from the memories that claw at my mind. But Isabella is already waiting in the hallway, watching me with an expression that tells me hesitation will only make things worse.

So I take a deep breath, step out of the room, and let the door fall shut behind me.

Because in this place, even the illusion of choice is better than none at all...