Chapter 17 “Don’t come”
The bare bulb overhead buzzed like a dying insect. Hours had passed since the call—maybe more. Time dissolved in the cold concrete room. My wrists were swollen, purple bruises blooming under the zip ties. Every shift sent fresh pain shooting up my arms, but I welcomed it. Physical pain was easier than the ache in my chest.
The door opened without warning.
Two men entered this time. Scarface and another—taller, thinner, with a shaved head and a tattoo creeping up his neck. They didn’t speak. Just grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet. I stumbled, legs numb from sitting.
They dragged me down a short corridor, past rusted machinery and broken crates, into a larger space—the main warehouse floor. Dim floodlights cast long shadows. Snow had drifted through a broken skylight, dusting the concrete white.
In the center stood a man.
He was older than the others—late fifties, silver hair slicked back, expensive wool coat over a tailored suit. Gold watch. Rossi family crest on his pinky ring. He watched me approach with calm, almost clinical interest.
The men shoved me to my knees in front of him. The cold concrete bit through my jeans.
He crouched slowly, bringing his face level with mine.
“Antonio’s daughter,” he said softly. His voice was cultured, almost gentle. “Liliana Caruso.”
I stared back. Didn’t blink.
He tilted his head. “You have his eyes. The same fire. The same stubborn jaw. I see him in you.”
I spat in his face.
The saliva hit his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Just wiped it slowly with a silk handkerchief from his pocket.
Then he backhanded me.
Hard.
My head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across my cheekbone. Copper flooded my mouth—blood from a split lip.
I tasted it. Swallowed it.
He smiled—small, cold. “There it is. Antonio’s temper.”
He stood. Gestured to the men.
They yanked me up again. Dragged me to a metal chair bolted to the floor. Forced me down. Tied my ankles to the legs. Left my wrists bound behind the backrest.
The Rossi boss—Giovanni Rossi, I realized—circled me slowly.
“You’re prettier than your father,” he said conversationally. “Softer. But the same pride. It’s a shame, really. Pride gets people killed in this life.”
He stopped in front of me. Leaned down.
“Your guardian is coming,” he said. “Dante Moretti. He thinks he can trade himself for you. Walk in here alone, like some hero from a bad movie.”
My stomach clenched.
Giovanni smiled wider. “He’ll arrive tomorrow night. And when he does… you’ll watch him die. Slowly. In front of you. Piece by piece. So you understand what happens when someone takes what belongs to the Rossi family.”
Fear—real, ice-cold fear—flooded me for the first time since the abduction.
Not for myself.
For Dante.
I shook my head. “Don’t.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hurt him.” My voice cracked. “Please.”
He laughed—low, amused. “Please? From Antonio Caruso’s daughter? That’s new.”
I hated the sound of my own begging. Hated the weakness in it. But the image of Dante walking into this trap—alone, unarmed, for me—twisted something deep inside.
“He doesn’t deserve this,” I whispered. “Whatever grudge you have… it’s with my father. Not him.”
Giovanni studied me. “You love him.”
I didn’t answer.
He reached out. Touched my swollen cheek—gentle, almost tender. I jerked away.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “The Moretti boy has finally found something worth dying for. Pity it’s too late.”
He straightened. Turned to Scarface.
“Make sure she’s alive when he arrives. Bruised is fine. Broken spirit is better. But no permanent damage. Yet.”
Scarface nodded.
Giovanni walked away. Coat flapping. Footsteps echoing until silence swallowed him.
Scarface and the thin man stayed.
They didn’t speak at first. Just watched me.
Then Scarface stepped forward.
He backhanded me—open palm, casual. My head rocked. Fresh blood trickled from my lip.
“Boss said bruised is fine,” he said.
The thin man laughed.
Scarface hit me again—fist this time. Knuckles to the jaw. Stars burst behind my eyes.
I tasted more blood. Spat it onto the floor.
He grabbed my hair. Yanked my head back.
“You think you’re tough?” he hissed. “You think spitting makes you brave?”
He slapped me—harder. Cheek burned. Eye watered.
I didn’t cry out. Didn’t beg.
I stared at him through swelling lids.
He hit me once more—across the other cheek. The chair rocked.
Then he stepped back. Breathing heavy.
“Enough,” the thin man said. “Boss said no permanent damage.”
Scarface spat on the floor near my feet. “She’ll break before he gets here.”
They left.
The bulb flickered.
I sat in the dark, head throbbing, blood drying on my lip and chin. The zip ties cut deeper every time I shifted.
But the physical pain was distant now.
All I could think about was Dante.
Walking in here tomorrow. Seeing me like this—bruised, bound, bleeding.
He’d lose control. He’d fight. He’d die.
And I’d watch.
Because of me.
Because I ran.
Because I believed Sophia.
Because I let doubt win.
Tears came then—silent, burning. They mixed with the blood on my face.
I whispered into the empty room.
“I’m sorry.”
To Dante.
To my father.
To myself.
The bulb flickered again.
Footsteps returned.
Scarface this time. Alone.
He crouched in front of me. Held up my phone—screen lit.
“Moretti’s calling again.”
He pressed it to my ear.
Dante’s voice exploded through the speaker—frantic, furious, terrified.
“Liliana—talk to me. Please, baby. Tell me you’re okay. Tell me what they did.”
I swallowed blood. Throat raw.
Scarface pressed harder. “Speak.”
Dante kept talking—voice breaking. “I know you’re hurt. I can hear it. Just say something. Anything. I’m coming. I’m coming for you. I swear. Just hold on.”
I closed my eyes.
Tears slipped free.
“Don’t come,” I whispered.
Dante went silent.
Then—hoarse, desperate. “What did they do to you?”
I shook my head—even though he couldn’t see. “Don’t come. Please. They’ll kill you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to care,” I choked out. “You have to live.”
“Liliana—”
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “For running. For believing her. For everything.”
“Baby, no—”
Scarface ripped the phone away. Ended the call.
He smirked. “Sweet. Very sweet.”
He left again.
The room went dark—bulb finally burned out.
I sat in blackness.
Bruised. Bleeding. Broken.
But still breathing.
And still loving him.
Even now.
Even here.
Even as the hours ticked down to tomorrow night.
When Dante would walk in.
And everything would end.