A small favor
My mind is lost in time; I don't know how many days or weeks we've been trapped in this place.
My back is on fire, and I'm sure I have at least three broken ribs.
The boys are no better than I am.
Sandro has a fever and is getting paler by the day. They closed the wound on his leg, but I think it's infected.
The others have cuts and broken bones, but they pretend to endure the beatings every time someone comes to get me.
They didn't abuse me, which is a victory for me; everything could have been worse.
"I ran into Silas the day we were kidnapped," I say, breaking the unbearable silence.
"What do you mean? When?" Leonardo asks, confused.
"He showed up at school the day before, told me what happened, and we arranged to spend the day together," I say with a smile.
Then I look down at the sketchbook I managed to drag along.
"Did you have fun?" Sandro's question is low and surprises me.
"It was a great afternoon, fratello," I reply with a smile.
The door bangs open, and I see one of our torturers enter with a camera.
"Your family wants proof of life," he says, starting to record.
Two other men enter and drag Sandro out of the room.
"Take me, you bastard," I scream, struggling against the chains. "He's not okay, leave him alone."
My muscles scream with the effort, but if they hurt Sandro any further, they'll kill him.
The men just laugh at me and leave the room.
Then we hear the sound of two shots being fired.
"NO!" I scream, pulling desperately at the chains.
I hear my brothers calling me, but all I can hear is the sound of the shots repeating.
Sandro didn't come back after that.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened to my brother. Since that day, I haven't spoken; the men come here less frequently, only to bring water and food.
"Sorella, you need to eat," Leonardo says, but I don't move.
I'm in shock; all I want now is to hear Sandro's voice.
The boys are recovering; with the lessening of the beatings, I see that everyone is stronger.
"I'm sure they'll find us," Angelo says, giving false hope.
The door opens before anyone has a chance to respond.
"Let's go for a walk, doll," Edgar says, appearing for the second time since we were kidnapped.
He unties my chains and pulls me by the arm.
The boys beg him not to take me, but their pleas fall on deaf ears.
I'm dragged into a room I hadn't been taken to before. Upon entering, I see a table with several sharp objects.
Edgar straps me to an iron chair and sits across from me. "I hate to do this," he calmly begins to unbutton his suit. "But your family isn't meeting my terms."
I swallow hard, fear welling up in me.
"So, I need you to help me, doll. I want you to tell me what your house looks like, how many guards there are, and what the security codes are," he asks gently.
"I don't know," I lie.
"I'll help you remember," he says with a smile and stands up.
Edgar props his suit on the chair, picks up a small knife that looks like it hasn't been sharpened in years, and presses it against my thigh.
"Let's try one more time," he says, and my eyes fill with tears.
"I swear I don't know," I say, and he clicks his tongue.
The blade cuts hard into my skin; because it's not sharp, the cut is misshapen and ugly.
I cry out in pain and thrash in the chair. Edgar smiles through it all.
"You talk and I stop, that's how it works," he says simply.
"I-I don't know," I repeat, and this seems to make him happier.
I realize he's a psychopath who delights in the pain of others.
My thigh twitches spasmingly as he finishes cutting my leg, deeper this time.
Tears stream from my eyes and I sob in pain. "Did you know that if I go any deeper, I might sever your femoral artery?" he says with a grin.
"Then do it, you idiot," I manage to reply angrily.
He laughs at my courage and turns back to the table. I watch him fiddle with the various knives until he stops over a small blowtorch.
"Do you know why I chose the iron chair?" he asks, approaching me. "It heats up slowly, until it starts to burn your skin."
I pull my hands away desperately, trying to free myself.
I hear him turn on the blowtorch and touch it to the metal of the chair below my wrist.
It takes a moment for me to feel the heat, until the metal heats to the point of turning red.
I manage to lift my hand and bring it a few inches closer to the hot metal.
Edgar notices this and laughs before forcefully bringing my wrist down, making me scream.
POV: Nicco
Elena's screams are driving me crazy. It's been over an hour since they took her, and since then, every scream I've heard is worse than the last.
Angelo and Leonardo are restless, trying every way to break the handcuffs and go help Elena.
"He's going to kill her," Leonardo says desperately.
"He won't. After he killed Sandro, we're all even more valuable," I reply coldly.
"What do they want, anyway? Getting involved with the American Mafia is crazy," Angelo says, as confused as we are.
Edgar is a wealthy Don, and getting involved with another Mafia doesn't make sense unless your life is at risk.
Elena's screams finally stop, and it makes me apprehensive.
It takes about an hour for the door to open again.
A henchman carries Elena, bloodied and bruised, into our cell. This time, they don't chain her, and it tells me she's seriously injured. "You bastards, you could have killed her!" Leonardo shouts.
My bambina doesn't move; I hear faint moans of pain, even though she's passed out.
I see a blood-soaked bandage tied around her bare thigh; I also see bandages on her arms and ankles.
She has a black eye on her face and small red dots on her neck.
I hope to God my brothers don't take too long to arrive, or Elena could be dead within days.