Chapter 89 Bruised, Not Broken
Valentina
The city blurred past the windows—streetlights streaking gold across the windshield, buildings casting long shadows across pavement. We weren’t far now. I could feel it. The air was getting heavier, the silence thicker.
And then I saw it.
A Walgreens sign lit up in red and white, like a beacon.
“Pull in here,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Real quick.”
Matteo glanced at me. “What do you need?”
“A few things,” I said, already unbuckling. “Aleve for starters. But I need something else, too. Just wait here—I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t argue. Just pulled into the lot and threw the car in park. I was out the door before he even killed the engine.
The store was quiet—half-lit like it was trying to sleep with one eye open. Seven minutes. That’s all I needed. I moved fast, grabbing what I came for and checking out with the same detached efficiency I’d used my entire life to survive. No wasted time. No room for pain.
When I slid back into the passenger seat, Matteo raised a brow.
“Didn’t get distracted by lip gloss and candy bars? I’m shocked.”
“Smartass,” I muttered, digging into the plastic bag. “I had a list.”
First came the Aleve. I popped the cap, downed two pills with the bottle of water I’d grabbed, then set both aside on the console.
Next came the bandage wraps.
He watched as I tore open the packaging with my teeth, fingers already flexing in anticipation.
“What the hell—” he started.
I pulled one hand into my lap and began winding the wrap over my knuckles, tight and clean.
“I’m not tearing my hands up tonight,” I said without looking at him. “I’ve done that enough times.”
There was a pause. Then I felt it—that low, unmistakable shift in the air. I looked over.
Matteo was grinning.
Not his usual smirk. Not some cocky, sideways twitch of amusement.
No, this was a full-on grin.
Wide. Giddy. Like he’d just watched his favorite movie character walk out of the screen and into his lap.
“You need help?” he asked, eyes sparkling in a way that made me suspicious.
“Nope,” I said, switching to my left hand. “I’ve been wrapping my own hands for a long time. I can do it blindfolded.”
“Of course you can.” His voice was low, practically a purr. “Fuck, I love this version of you.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The wrap tightened around my palm, clean and sure.
By the time I finished, Matteo had already pulled out of the lot and killed the headlights as we turned off onto a more isolated road. Gravel crunched under the tires. The air outside was quieter here—thicker with what was about to come.
He cut the engine and parked, letting the silence settle like fog.
Then he got out.
I watched him come around to my side, slow and steady. He didn’t reach for the handle right away. Just paused, then opened the door with a soft click.
But this time, he didn’t offer me his hand.
Didn’t try to help me out like I was something fragile.
Instead, he leaned in and brought his knuckles gently to my cheek—just a whisper of a touch, where the pain still lived.
His voice was quieter than I expected.
“You ready, baby?”
I looked up at him.
Raised my wrapped hands.
“Yep.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. Something dangerous. Reverent. Like I was both a prayer and a warning.
He pinched my chin, angled my face toward his—and kissed me.
Not hard. Not sweet.
Just firm enough to make sure I felt it in my bones.
When he pulled back, I didn’t need to say a word.
We were done talking.
It was time to make Luca bleed.
The walk from the car was short. A few yards ahead, the earth rose in an unnatural mound, like a wound that had half-healed. Leaves and brittle branches were already scattered across the soil, disturbed and trampled.
Rosco had been here first.
Matteo crouched near the edge, brushing away more debris until he found it—a thick, rusted handle embedded in the dirt. With a grunt, he pulled it open.
A low hiss of air escaped as the trapdoor creaked upward.
The entrance to hell.
He looked back at me once, then descended without a word. I followed close, my boots hitting the steel rungs of the ladder, one after another, until the heavy silence swallowed me whole.
The bunker was dim—lit by a single overhead bulb swaying just enough to cast shifting shadows on the concrete walls. The air smelled like metal, damp earth, and blood.
At the center of the room sat a single chair. Bolted to the floor. Welded metal, no padding. Just cold steel and suffering.
Luca was already in it.
Tied down, wrists raw where he’d pulled against the restraints. Head sagging forward like his spine couldn’t support the weight of what was coming.
He wasn’t unconscious. His breath told me that.
“Looks like he’s a little worse than he was at the hospital,” Matteo said dryly, arms crossed.
Rosco—seated in the corner like he was just finishing his shift at a dive bar—grinned. “Yeah, well. He got a little frisky. Tried to throw a headbutt. Missed. But it was cute.”
Matteo didn’t look surprised. Just nodded.
I stepped forward, toward the table set up to the right. The gleam of tools greeted me like old friends. Forceps. Wire cutters. A ball-peen hammer. Some blades I didn’t recognize. Others I’d used before.
My fingers trailed lightly over the surface, not selecting anything yet. Just letting the metal hum against my skin.
Rosco whistled. “Hot damn. Are those hands wrapped? Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
“Girl’s gotta protect her assets,” I murmured, still scanning the options.
Matteo moved to the other side of the room, rustling in the paper bag he’d brought from the car.
“Brought you a burger,” he said, tossing the bag toward Rosco.
“Sweet,” Rosco grinned, already halfway out of his seat. “I’m fuckin’ starving.”
He tore into the bag with the reverence of a man at communion, unwrapped the burger, and took a massive bite before the paper even hit the floor.
Grease dripped down his fingers. His mouth full, he gestured loosely toward Luca.
“So…” he said, chewing noisily. “We gonna get this party started or what?”