Chapter 35: Salvatore
Chapter 35: Salvatore
She was asleep beside me—bare, warm, soft from the night before. Her back rose and fell with her breathing, her face tucked into the pillow, mouth parted like she was still whispering my name.
I hadn’t moved in a while. I didn’t want to. Just watching her breathe felt like proof I hadn’t dreamed it all. That she had let me kneel. That she had come back to me. Not the girl she used to be, but the woman she was now—sharp, wounded, goddamn magnificent.
I felt full. Peaceful, even.
Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I almost ignored it. I should’ve ignored it.
But I didn’t.
⸻
\[1 New Message — No ID\]
No subject. No caption. Just a file. I opened it.
The footage was grainy. Night vision, maybe. Low resolution. The kind of thing someone records when they know it’ll hurt more than it helps.
She was on a bed.
Alone.
Captivity.
And she was touching herself.
Not like someone seeking pleasure. Like someone trying to remember what being human felt like. Her hand moved between her thighs, slow and tense, her jaw tight, her eyes squeezed shut like she hated needing the only body left she could trust—her own.
Below the video, a message.
“Even in chains, she knew what she was. You really think she’s yours?”
I stopped breathing.
Something inside me fractured.
I wanted to puke. I wanted to kill. I wanted to grab whoever sent this by the throat and make them eat the phone they used.
I hadn’t even realized I was squeezing the phone hard enough to crack it until Eden stirred.
“Salvatore?”
Her voice, soft and sleep-rough, was a knife in my chest. She rolled over, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
I stood too fast. The chair scraped. I gripped the edge of the dresser, staring at the wall. Trying to breathe.
“What happened?” she asked again, sitting up now. “What’s going on?”
I turned toward her. My jaw felt like it was wired shut.
“Don’t make me tell you,” I said. “Please. Don’t make me show you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you treating me like I’m glass? I can take it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
She threw off the blanket and stood, bare and unflinching. “Salvatore. Show me.”
I handed her the phone.
She watched. I watched her.
At first, nothing.
Then rage.
It crawled over her face like a shadow. Her mouth hardened. Her fists clenched. And when she looked up at me again, it was like we were back in that basement—with a man bleeding between us and a truth too heavy to carry alone.
Our fury matched.
Like heat and oxygen.
“They want a war,” she said quietly.
“They’ll get one.”
We didn’t speak for a few seconds. Just breathed. Just boiled.
She exhaled, sharp and clean. “Tell Leo and Gio to meet you in the kitchen.”
I nodded, already pulling up the group line.
⸻
When Elio and Gio arrived, I didn’t even let them speak.
I had already poured coffee I wouldn’t drink. I had the phone ready.
Eden stood by the table in my hoodie and nothing else, arms crossed like she’d kill the next man who looked at her wrong.
“This better be—” Elio started.
“Shut up and sit down,” I said.
Gio sat. Elio stayed standing.
Eden held up the phone. “You don’t want to see this.”
“I’m not watching it,” Elio said, shaking his head. “You’re my sister.”
Gio didn’t say anything. He just took the phone.
When the video ended, he didn’t look away. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, staring at nothing, jaw flexing.
Eden took the phone back.
“I have BPD,” she said.
Gio looked up, confused.
“Do your own research,” she snapped. “I’m not explaining it to you right now. Just know this video isn’t what it looks like. I was in a cage. My brain was trying to survive. And I’m not ashamed of what I did to feel something other than despair. But someone sent this to break me—and to break him.”
She looked at me.
I could barely breathe.
I was used to controlling chaos. But this? This was worse than blood. This was humiliation used like a bullet. This was someone weaponizing her trauma just to see if I’d flinch.
I was still flinching.
I needed help. Not to process. To strike.
And I knew someone sick enough to help.
“Stay here,” I said. “I’m calling Apollo.”
Eden frowned. “Who’s Apollo?”
Elio groaned. “Oh, fuck.”
Gio leaned back. “The hacker? That lunatic?”
“I don’t need sane,” I said. “I need someone who likes mind games. Who lives for psychological warfare. And that’s Apollo.”
⸻
He arrived an hour later.
A black hoodie, tight jeans, combat boots. Curls tied back. Tattoos peeking out of his sleeves. He walked in like he already lived here, a tablet under one arm and a wild gleam in his eye.
“Did someone call for divine intervention?” he said, grinning.
“Apollo,” I warned.
He held up a hand. “Right, right. Murder mood. Got it. Who do I need to violate?”
He walked into the kitchen and laid his tablet on the counter, booting it up. Then he looked at Eden.
“Oh.” His grin widened. “You’re the one.”
Eden squinted. “Do I know you?”
“Nope. But I’ve seen pictures. You’re prettier in person. Scarier, too. I respect that.”
She blinked. “Are you on something?”
“Just intelligence,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
I handed him the phone. “Find the source.”
He plugged in, muttering to himself in Spanish and Python as he hacked.
“Whoever did this isn’t dumb,” he said. “They bounced this file through more proxy servers than I bounce rent payments.”
“Apollo,” I warned again.
“Relax, I got it. Nothing is untraceable unless it’s me.”
Three minutes passed.
Then he stopped, whistled low, and turned the screen.
Sender: A. Ellis
Location: Coral Gables
Device ID: Eden’s mother
The room fell silent.
Eden didn’t move.
But her hands clenched.
Gio whispered, “What the fuck?”
Apollo leaned back, hands behind his head. “I mean, sending your own daughter’s trauma tape? That’s art. Sick art, but still.”
Eden didn’t look at anyone. She just stared at the name on the screen. Her throat moved, but no words came out.
I stepped closer. Not to fix it. Just to be near her.
“You okay?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
But the answer was already burning in her eyes.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Just stared—like if she looked hard enough, she could erase the letters from the screen. Like maybe it would all unwrite itself.
Anika Ellis.
Her mother.
I reached for her slowly, but she stepped back.
Not from me. From the air itself. Like it had turned toxic.
“She sold me,” Eden whispered.