Alya
I guess even if Hule and I had our ups and downs, I knew I still needed him. He was a real jerk most of the time, but he was the only one. Because if the others tried, Hule would teach them a lesson. Getting used to him being my shadow since kids made this whole new atmosphere like getting caught in a spider's cobweb thick enough, you could not feel your limbs. I was on my own now. Honestly, I always had been even when I tried to pretend otherwise. I clung to scraps of connection with the other guards, exchanging words when I could, if I wasn't being tortured with training or left to rot in my cell.
But those moments were hollow. Loneliness had a way of sinking into your bones, becoming part of the rhythm of your days. Weeks would pass like smoke through the bars, intangible and silent, but I held on. Somewhere in me, I always knew I'd get out. That belief, burned into me since I was twelve, kept me from unraveling because it was a routine. My routine I was familiar with.
So when I say I'm trying not to panic while staring into the eyes of a maniac, I mean I'm hanging on by threads, each second scraping at me. My heartbeat isn't just loud. It's riotous, like a warning bell tolling through my chest. I try to convince myself this was an error in the system, that I'll be punished like always for some imagined failure, that I would get isolated in my cell at the end of the day.
But no. This time is different. Siege isn't coming. And James Carrizo sensed that too.
So I bluffed. Because as time passes in a blur, getting sunken into his eyes which is unsettlingly turning brighter every second it slowly turns into a picture of a crazed man. Even if he was to try to draw this image he's attempting to imitate, there was not enough paint to cover the feral look in his eyes. If I was to survive another day, I had to convince myself Siege was coming or make myself look less weak. Meaning I had to learn a new routine. A warning would have been helpful, but life was structured with no warnings.
"Are you hungry?" the maniac suggested, turning his back to me as he strides to the seat at the end of the table, the moment shattering.
No, I wasn't hungry. I was desperate. My eyes flicker to the fish staring at me with glassy eyes, lifeless and accusing. The skin, half-charred and half-raw, peeled slightly at the edges, released a sour, metallic scent that made my stomach clench. The knife beside it glinted under the low amber light, all clean lines and cold intent. It looked almost expectant.
I could try.
People bare their true selves when danger brushes against their skin—not with words, but with instinct. The way their eyes sharpen or shatter. The twitch of a hand. The coil of a body preparing to run or strike. Fear strips away the mask. And fear never lies. The thought unfurled through me, slow and hot, igniting something deep in my limbs.
"I'm allergic to fish," I replied, my hand reaching the knife without hesitation, the handle cool and smooth beneath my fingers, grounding me in a decision I already made.
My heart didn't race. My breath didn't shake. Everything narrowed to him. The stretch of his side. The vulnerable side just beneath his ribs. In one swift movement, I lunged, blade angled sideways and precise towards that soft target. The blade, as predicted met resistance, its edge sinking in with a sickening slip that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room. The sound was visceral, wet and sharp, a sound that tasted of iron and fear, too loud for the quiet that had swallowed us. The air seemed to hold its breath before he moved. He turned, catching my wrist in a fluid motion, as if he had been expecting it. As if he had been waiting. I stared into his eyes and, for a moment, I could feel the pulse of the room around us: the faint hum of the lights overhead, the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, the muted ticking of a distant clock counting the seconds we both held our breath.
His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. Almost amused. "So that's how this is going to go."
He stepped in closer, the edge of the table pressing against my hip. I could smell the faint trace of cologne on him; something dark and woodsy, with tendrils of smoke curling through like a half-remembered sin. His shirt darkened beneath the point of my blade, a delicate line of blood unfurling like ink on parchment. But he didn't look at the wound. He only looked at me.
"I was wondering when you'd try." His words settled into the silence like stones dropped in still water. My pulse thudded loud in my ears, but I didn't back away. His grip tightened on my wrist, but instead of pressing harder, he pulled me toward him, the force shocking enough to make my head spin. I stumbled, the knife sliding away from his side as he turned to slam me into the table. The edge caught me hard across the spine, knocking the air from my lungs in a gasp that felt like drowning. I struggled, gasping, but his hands were everywhere—his fingers tightening around my jaw, forcing my head back, his grip on my throat just tight enough to make me feel the edge of suffocation. His breath was a warm, suffocating presence in my ear, and I could feel the weight of his body pinning me there, immobilized.
"Open your mouth," he said softly, the sound deceptively calm, edged with a darkness that couldn't be missed.
I barely registered the words before he was shoving something cold and slippery against my lips—the fish. The very same fish that had been sitting untouched on the plate, its glassy eyes still glaring at me, unblinking, as if it could understand what was about to happen. I tried to turn my face, to twist away, but his fingers dug into my jaw, forcing my mouth open.
"No," I gasped, the word barely escaping before he shoved the first piece past my lips.
"You tried to kill me," he said, not angry, not surprised. Just stating it, like the weather. "The least you can do is eat."
I gagged as it slid down my throat, the texture all wrong, too soft, too slippery. Another piece was shoved between my lips before I could protest, the taste lingering—salt, fish, and the bitter edge of his control. My vision blurred, my body starting to tremble, but I couldn't escape him, couldn't get away from the relentless force of him pushing more into my mouth.
"That's it. Chew." he whispered as I began to choke, the first signs of anaphylaxis making everything spin. My limbs began to tremble, the tremors small at first but then spreading, rippling beneath my skin like waves. My throat was closing. I could feel it. Each breath was a fight, shallow and ragged, my chest tightening with the slow, creeping grip of panic.
I tried to push him back, my hands scrambling against his chest, but he didn't budge. His grip remained steady on my jaw, forcing it open again. Another bite. Cold, wet. Forced between my lips. I gagged and coughed, tears blurring my vision. A noise escaped me—something between a gasp and a sob—but it didn't stop him. He watched me with detached intensity, like he was studying something. An experiment. A test.
I clawed at his hands, my vision dimming at the edges now. My tongue was swelling, my lips tingling and numb. The sensation was growing—faster than before. Too fast. My lungs weren't expanding fully anymore; I was gulping air and getting nothing.
He finally let go of my face, stepping back just enough to let me slump sideways against the table, my knees buckling under me. I hit the floor hard, cheek pressed against the cold tile, the taste of fish and bile clinging to the back of my throat.
My breath came in tiny wheezes, like trying to suck air through a pinhole. I could hear my pulse hammering in my ears, feel the sweat slick across my skin.
And above me, he crouched slowly, level with my face.
"You should've used the knife better," he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. "You had your chance."
My vision shimmered. The room swayed. But somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the suffocating haze creeping into my skull, something sharper stirred.
Not fear.
Refusal.
He was still crouched beside me, too close, too sure of himself. That smug quiet in his voice, the way he watched me unravel like it meant nothing—it lit something inside me. A dying ember flared.
I shifted slightly, just enough to mask my hand groping across the floor. The knife; it had fallen. Somewhere near. My fingers brushed metal.
There.
In one jerking, half-blind motion, I grabbed the handle, twisted my body, and swung. Not clean. Not aimed. But wild—desperate. The blade sliced across something—his forearm, maybe his shoulder—I couldn't see clearly, but I felt the resistance, the way his weight shifted back, the hiss of breath between his teeth.
The impact was weak, but it made him flinch—a split-second of surprise before he regained his composure.
"Damn you…" I rasped, my voice a hoarse whisper, but the fire in my chest was real. "I won't—"
The words were cut off by a painful cough, my body shuddering with the effort, but I didn't stop. Not until I felt his hand grab my throat again, lifting me slightly off the ground, his fingers squeezing tighter this time, cutting off what little air I had left.
His gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the rising swell of my face—the blood already bruising my lips, my eyes watering with the struggle. He could see it, the fight in me, and that sick, calculating look deepened in his eyes.
"Enough," he muttered, just before my chest caved in, and my body gave way. The light in the room fractured, the edges blurring as everything around me began to melt into a dark haze.
I fought to stay conscious, but the world felt as if it were spinning faster than I could keep up with. The last thing I saw was his face before the darkness closed in, pulling me under.
I woke in pieces. The first thing I registered was the bed. Too soft. Too clean. It cradled me like a secret, like I belonged there, and it made my skin crawl. The contrast was a slap in the face.
This wasn't the cold tile. This wasn't the table slamming into my back or his hand crushing my throat. This was... luxury. Sheets smooth as silk, a pillow soft enough to swallow my head whole, and air that smelled like nothing—no blood, no salt, no fear. Just sterile calm. It made me sick.
My throat... God, my throat. It burned like someone had stripped it raw with sandpaper and salt. Every breath scraped against it like a dull blade, every swallow a scream I didn't have the strength to let out. His hands. The fish. The choking. His voice, calm like ice water poured down the spine. My body rejecting everything it had been forced to take in. My own pulse hammering louder than thought. Fingers down my throat, a cold metal edge pressed to my ribs, someone muttering medical orders too fast to follow. Vomit. Bile. Darkness again.
I shifted, groaning as fire licked through my muscles. Everything hurt. My body felt wrong. Violated. Like it wasn't entirely mine anymore. Weakness sank into my limbs like a sedative, but I forced my eyes to open. The room was dim. Muted sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that moved with the faintest breeze from an open window. A glass of water sat on the nightstand. Untouched. Condensation clung to the sides like it had been sitting there for hours.
Waiting for me.
My head turned, slow, like dragging it through mud. And then I saw him. Standing in the doorway like he'd been waiting. Like this was just the next scene in his little performance and I was the main act crawling back to consciousness. The light behind him haloed his silhouette, but I didn't need to see his face to feel the weight of his gaze. He didn't speak. Just watched.
"You're awake," he said. Just like that. Like I'd taken a nap.
I stared at him, lips parting, my voice emerging as a cracked whisper.
"You…"
That's all I could manage. Not a question. Not even a full accusation. Just that one syllable loaded with all the horror and rage clawing inside me.
He moved toward me, unhurried. Calm, like he had all the time in the world. He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at me like I was a puzzle missing a piece.
"I had them pump your stomach. You were going into anaphylaxis."
His voice was maddening. Not regretful. Not proud. Just factual. Like he was telling me it might rain tomorrow.
"No shit, you did that to me." Forcing myself to sit up straighter, as I glared at him.
"Yes." No hesitation. "I did."
I stared at him, my body aching, trembling, lungs still struggling to keep up. And he just stood there, casual in his ruin. But I stabbed him first. I wanted to study him. And maybe… that's why he did it. A test for a test. Poison for a blade. We weren't playing victim and monster anymore. We were something worse. Something mutual. His voice is soft, measured.
"I wasn't finished with you," he said after a pause. "So I kept you alive."
I wanted to lunge at him, to scream, to tear his face open with my nails. But I couldn't even sit up. My body was a traitor, limp and sluggish under the weight of the drugs or the trauma—maybe both.
He turned to leave. Paused at the door. "Rest," he said, without turning around. "You'll need your strength."
The door clicked shut behind him. Soft. Final.
I stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding. The taste of fish still lingered like a curse at the back of my throat. My lungs wheezed with every shallow inhale. So that's how he reacted to danger. If I would even be considered that. I hadn't intended to kill him, I only wanted to wound him, test the waters, gauge what kind of monster I was dealing with. But now, brought low and held in the palm of his hand, my pride stings more than the pain. The agony of being in this position only fueled a growing, bitter resolve. Fuck finding out why Siege and him had them going out for each other's blood, because the next time—and there will be a next time—I won't settle for merely drawing blood. I'll make him feel every moment of his undoing, each breath a curse, each heartbeat a torment. And when his body finally fails him, when that flicker of defiance fades from his gaze, I'll be the last face he sees, the last thing that crosses his fading consciousness, as his soul slips away into the abyss.
The door had barely clicked shut behind him when it flew open again, shattering my thoughts as I stiffened instinctively, but the person who entered wasn't him.
She was a vision in soft curves and wild dark curls, her hair cascading down in loose waves that framed her face like shadows dancing on velvet. Her smile hit me like a slap—I wasn't ready for something that warm, not in this place. Her skin glowed with health, a rich warmth untouched by the cruelty of this house. She wore a loose black dress that clung to her like it had been made for her alone. Her lips were painted, glossy red, her lashes long, and her eyes—God, her eyes—shone like she'd just stepped out of a dream I didn't dare have anymore.
"Hey," she said gently, voice like honey and summer rain. "You're awake."
I blinked. My throat still burned, my limbs shook under the weight of everything that had happened. She stepped closer, not too fast, not invasive like she knew not to startle me.
"Don't try to talk," she said, holding up her hands, her smile never fading. "Your voice probably feels like glass shards. I brought you some ice chips—doctor said it'd help." She crossed the room and perched on the edge of a low chair by the bed, her presence light but grounding. She held a small glass bowl in her hands, the ice clinking gently as she offered it to me.
I stared.
"You don't have to take it," she added quickly, her smile dimming just a notch. "I know… it's probably confusing."
Confusing wasn't the word. This woman looked like she belonged in a sun-drenched villa on the Amalfi coast, not this house where my lungs had nearly collapsed on a tiled floor. She watched me for a beat, then let out a small breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"James is... my friend," she said softly after a beat, as though sensing the suspicion that had been growing between us. Her gaze flickered to the door, like she was listening for his footsteps, but there was no sound, just silence. "I came to check on him," she added. "He hasn't been himself lately."
I couldn't help but scoff at the idea. James Carrizo didn't seem like someone who needed checking on. He was the storm, not the victim. But I bit my tongue, not trusting my voice enough to say anything that would betray the bitterness rising in me.
"Yes. I know you probably think you have no reason to trust me, but you don't have to worry. I'm not here to make things worse. I just wanted to check on him... and, well, I guess now, you too."
The way she spoke, the way she carried herself—it all felt so normal, so real. I wanted to throw her words back at her, to tell her that I didn't need anyone's sympathy, least of all hers. But I stayed silent. Her eyes stayed on me, unwavering, understanding something I didn't have the strength to say aloud. Then, gently, she leaned back in her chair and offered the bowl of ice chips once more. "Take them if you need them. You don't have to thank me. I'm just trying to make this place a little less... awful for you."
The sting of her words was undeniable, giving me the urge to snap at her for thinking I needed her help but instead, I took the bowl, not out of gratitude, but because the tremors in my hands were telling me I needed to, whether I liked it or not. The cold against my lips was a small comfort, but it was enough for now.
"My name is Fleory Moretti," she said, her voice threading through the silence, "You're Alya, right? Siege Corginei's daughter."
She smiled again, but this kind didn't quite fit her face; it was tight, metallic, rehearsed. The kind people wear when they recognize the name, not the person. I knew that look. I've seen it too many times. The same expression people give me when they find that information out. And beneath it, I could feel her watching me; measuring, guessing, wondering just how much of Siege I carried under my skin.
The name Moretti pinged somewhere in the back of my mind, quiet at first, then louder. Second only to the Carrizos in power, the Morettis weren't just another old-money dynasty playing dress-up in mafia politics. They were the politics. Embedded deep in the Nosa Costra, their influence stretched like veins through every major city in southern Italy, pulsing under the surface. Police forces, judges, arms deals, high fashion, blackmail—if it had power, they had a hand in it.
And Fleory? She wasn't just a Moretti. There were rumours that James Carrizo and her were to be engaged. An union that would solidify their dominance. The fact that she was here, smiling at me like we were strangers at a dinner party in a normal setting, made my skin crawl. Nothing about this felt accidental.
"You were unconscious for six days," she then mentions, my eyes snapping to her.
My mind becomes a swirling mess of disbelief and denial. Six days. A week had passed, and he still wasn't here. The silence between us stretched so long I could almost feel it suffocating me. Why isn't he coming? I couldn't even voice out the question. I couldn't let her know how badly it twisted inside me, how that aching void of uncertainty was gnawing at my insides, growing larger every minute. I could feel the ice against my lips, the coldness doing nothing to numb the crushing weight in my chest. My hands were trembling again, and I hated it. Hated how weak I felt, how exposed. I took another chip, but it barely even registered as anything more than a distraction, something to keep my mind busy for a moment longer. Fleory was still smiling, that tight, almost clinical smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was watching me, waiting, measuring.
"If I guess correctly, you're here to ask me where he might be?"
The pieces clicked together in my head, one after the other, all of it now making sense. Fleory wasn't just here to make small talk, to offer ice chips or fake sympathy. She wasn't just some woman trying to put on a nice face for someone like me. She had a purpose. A motive. And that motive was exactly what she'd just hinted at—she wanted something from me. She wanted answers, and she thought I had them. She thought I knew where Siege was.
She needs me to trust her.
Trusting her would be the worst mistake I could make right now. It would be handing her and James leverage, giving her a piece of me that I couldn't afford to lose. I didn't know where Siege was. Hell, I wasn't sure I even knew where I was at the moment. My entire world was off-kilter, and all I could do was try to stay upright in the chaos. And Fleory... Fleory had been sent here to get information, to worm her way in and pry whatever she could out of me. She wasn't fooling anyone.
"Well, I heard rumors that he's been moving through the back channels of the Carrizo territories, but I can't say for sure. You might want to check with Hule about that—he's the one who always gets the details." I joke, rolling my eyes.
Getting answers out of Hule would be a start. But it wasn't going to be easy. The man was stubborn. Loyal as hell, too, if you could call it loyalty. Hule had his code, and he followed it with a fierce kind of devotion that was as unshakable as stone. He had never once betrayed Siege, not even when the world was burning around them.
"Hule?" she asked, like the name didn't quite register. I couldn't help but scoff internally. What? Did James Carrizo not fill her in on the details?
"My friend that's probably fighting for his life in one of your friend's warehouses." I explained, already growing tired.
"Ah," she murmured, breaking eye contact entirely, her voice suddenly... off.
Ah? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did they kill him? My chest tightened, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot about the pain gnawing at me. The room seemed to tilt, the uncertainty hanging heavy. They wouldn't—they wouldn't dare.
"What does that mean?" I asked, the calmness in my voice betraying none of the sudden panic that surged in my chest.
"Your friend escaped last night."
What.
The words barely registered before the panic took hold. Cold and vicious. Hule was alive. That should've been enough to ease the pressure in my chest, but instead it made everything worse. If Hule had escaped, and I was still here—alone—then the truth was as clear as daylight. Siege hadn't come for me.
It wasn't just about Hule anymore. It wasn't just about the fight for survival, the lies, or the threats. It was about the silence. The same silence that I had known my entire life. Siege had never cared about me, had never once given any indication that I mattered more than his thirst for power, more than whatever his twisted vision of loyalty was. It was all just noise—empty gestures, hollow words, a way to keep me close when it suited him and distant when it didn't. I had always been a part of the plan, never the priority. And now, at this moment, it was finally clear. Siege never intended to save me. Siege wasn't going to come. And suddenly, I hated myself for believing it, for clinging to that foolish hope for so long. It wasn't just Siege that had abandoned me. It was my entire life. The weight of that truth crashed over me like a tidal wave. Siege had only cared about Hule. Not his daughter. Not me. Not the one who had always stood in the background, invisible in his eyes. A part of me had always known this, had always suspected it but hearing it now, in the cold, cruel reality of it all, made it final.
The truth was brutal. I was alone. My chest tightened, my breath shallow, and I could feel the ache in my bones. The kind that had been there for years. The emptiness. The endless cycle of reaching for someone who would never reach back. What did it mean, then? If he could leave me, just like that, what was I even fighting for anymore? A ghost clinging to someone else's war.
I had been a fool. In the end, Hule was the son he could never have, and I was the daughter he never wanted.
A soft tremble rattled the glass on the nightstand. At first, I thought it was nothing, just my own unsteady hand brushing against it, maybe the lingering effects of adrenaline, exhaustion, or everything in between. But then came the second shiver. Stronger this time. Deliberate. Like the house itself had taken a breath. Then another sound. Distant. Muffled. A thud that rolled beneath the floorboards.It didn't sound like a door closing. It didn't sound like footsteps or staff. It sounded like something forced open. Like something broken.
I tried to push myself upright, wincing as pain twisted through my ribs like a blade. Every movement felt heavier than it should. My body didn't want to listen anymore. I wasn't sure if it was the bruises or just the weight of everything. Maybe both. Another tremor, closer now. Then shouts. Orders. Urgent. Sharp. Wrong.
Russian.
My blood ran cold.
They were speaking Russian.
My first instinct was denial. There was no way. That language didn't belong here. Not in Carrizo's estate. Not inside these perfectly constructed halls built on arrogance and legacy.
I sat up fast, ignoring the pain that lanced through my ribs. The ache I had learned to live with was nothing compared to the sudden dread icing my veins. This wasn't a raid. This was a siege.
My father's men.
My stomach turned, nausea rising up like bile as the walls of the room closed in. Of course. Of course he sent them. My father. The man who left me to rot behind Carrizo's walls.
Footsteps thundered toward the room. My head spun to it, expecting salvation but it was James who burst through the door. His eyes were wild, gun half-raised, scanning the room, eyes falling on the other person in the room.
"Fleory!" he shouted, not even glancing at me. I felt something inside me snap, silent and clean. Like a string pulled too tight for too long. My throat ached, but I said nothing. Not a single damn word. Because it didn't matter. None of it ever did.
The world tilted again as I pushed myself off the bed, my hand pressing against my temple to stop the spinning, stepping past him without looking back, my body screaming at me to sit down, to lie down, to stop moving. But I couldn't. I wouldn't. Might as well get it over with.
I limped into the hallway as smoke drifted through the broken windows. The walls were scorched. The air tasted like copper and cordite. My vision dimmed at the edges, flickering like a dying bulb. It all felt unreal—too vivid and too distant all at once.
The enemy, the ones I had called my own at one point, rounded the corner. I once believed they'd protect me. But when they saw me, they didn't hesitate. Pistols raised in perfect, brutal synchrony. Not even a flicker of recognition in their eyes.
I didn't run. I didn't scream.
This was it, then. The grand finale to a story that was never mine. I closed my eyes.
Took one last deep breath. But before the bullets hit, a hand caught my arm and ripped me backward, hard, back into the room. My body slammed into the floor, the air forced from my lungs as someone shouted over me in Italian this time. Sharp, fast, authoritative.
I turned, barely able to process. James Carrizo. He stood there, his arm still stretched out where he'd yanked me from the jaws of death. Face twisted in fury, not at me but at what I represented.
Collateral.
A liability.
He didn't look at me like a person. He looked at me like a problem that needed solving. The door slammed shut. And then the walls exploded.
A hail of bullets chewed through the wood and stone behind the door. It was like the air itself tore open, filled with gunpowder and heat and death. My blood felt thick, like molasses. My skin went cold. I tried to speak, but only a whisper of breath came out. Why had he saved me?
Why was anyone saving me?
I lay there, the room spinning around me, gunfire echoing like thunder. My heartbeat was a drumbeat in my throat, growing louder with every passing second. The light overhead flickered once, twice, before fading. Everything ached. Not just my body. My soul.
I could hear Carrizo shouting, distant and muffled now, like he was standing on the other side of a storm. Orders barked into his comm. None of it mattered. Because in that moment, the truth slammed into me harder than the bullets ever could.
I was nothing. I was no one.
The world didn't stop for me. No one did.
The numbness spread from my limbs to my chest. My heartbeat slowed, thudding dully in my ears like footsteps echoing down an empty hall. My vision narrowed to a pinprick of light. And when, before the darkness swallowed me whole, I felt it.
Relief.
Because if this was the end, at least the waiting was over. I let go. And the world went black.