Page 67 of Corrupting Lily

“Fine,” I say, rising as I pat Dante on the shoulder affectionately. We head out of the hall and towards the foyer, where the two brothers wait silently.

“Dante will marry your sister. You have my word. We will formally finalize the arrangement later. For your sister's sake, and my wife and Holly, time is of the essence,” I say, holding my hand out to Elio and then Enzo, who shake it and even smile.

“To mark the occasion and to let you know that we are as serious about this as you are, we have a gift. However, it might be in a worse state than it originally was. It was necessary, though, to get what we needed,” the eldest brother says as they walk outside and point to the gate, where another unmarked black SUV waits.

I order the gates to open, and the car pulls up beside us. The brothers walk to the vehicle's rear as the boot lifts automatically.

We follow them, and the first thing I register is the smell of burnt flesh, sweat, urine, and feces. The source of the stench lies curled up in the fetal position, naked and battered, on a clear plastic sheet in the trunk. He is unconscious, and judging by his condition, he must be close to death. I lean forward, and it is only when I see the tattoo on his neck that I realize who this is: Rocco.

While I am upset that I was not the one inflicting this pain, I can’t help but smile at the pure fucking torture these two have put him through. He no longer has any fingernails or toenails, on the ones still attached to his body, which aren't many. Large chunks of his hair are missing, as are patches of his scalp and an entire section of his right ear. His legs sport severe burn marks from hot pokers meeting the flesh repeatedly, the reason behind the burnt flesh smell. His genitals are swollen as if he has been repeatedly punched in that area. Fuck. This was a thorough job. Anyone would have given these two what they wanted if this was what they were in for.

“I’m impressed,” I say honestly, stepping back as I dip my head, the two guards nearby springing into action. They grab the edges of the plastic as they haul him out.

“We thought that once you saw this, you would want him back,” Enzo says wearily, finally speaking as he holds his phone out to me.

Matteo, Dante, and Nero close in as I push play.

My heart sinks when I see it is my Lily strapped to a blood-splattered wall, her back facing us. Rocco approaches her from behind. She is still in the yellow bikini, except it is dirty, and the body it barely covers is bruised and cut. Fuck. She was hurt. They hurt her. He hurt her, I think, glancing at the fucker now lying on the floor feet from us. The asshole pulls on her bikini top string, loosening it and throwing it onthe floor before he squeezes her breast hard. Hard enough that Lily should wince, but she doesn't, her glazed-over look telling me she has checked out.

“Don’t pass out,piccola puttana. When we are done here, I’ll treat you to a different kind of beating,” he threatens, grinding himself against her rear. Utter fucking rage engulfs me, only made worse as the video continues. My free hand balls into a fist, and the men beside me stiffen as the first lash of the whip hits her already scarred skin, tearing the flesh apart to let the blood escape. Still, she does not make a sound, but by the sixth one, she can’t anyway, as she loses consciousness, her head lolling to the side awkwardly. He continues, only stopping on the twelfth lashing when someone off-camera enters, the recording ending at that point.

“Call Doc Warren. I want him on standby,” I instruct Nero as I return the phone to Enzo, who looks confused.

“Dying would be too easy for him. My doctor is skilled at keeping pieces of shit like this uncomfortably alive. I will make sure he is on the brink of death for a long time. Until I am satisfied, which may be never,” I explain, an impressed glance exchanged between them.

“Now. Let’s go get our women back.”

Chapter 41

Lily

“Why the fuck isn’t she better yet?” Johnathan. A voice I hoped never to hear.

“He lashed her pretty hard, multiple times. Look around, this room isn't exactly made for recovery. The sores are infected. If you want better than this, take her to a fucking hospital,” Doctor Maserow says, his voice calm despite the clear agitation in Johnathan’s tone.

Doctor Maserow is the only doctor here at ‘the pharmacy.’ This is likely why he can speak to Johnathan that way. However, I doubt he is actually licensed. During my conscious moments yesterday, I witnessed him remove a liver from a girl no older than twenty. She screamed as they restrained her, her bruised and battered body attesting to what she had endured before arriving here. And then there was silence. They at least gave her anesthesia before they started cutting into her. Apparently, these bastards were expanding their operations to include black-market organ sales. It was sickening, and the hurling I had done split some of the stitches. Yet, again. The slap to my facefrom him indicated his irritation that he had to waste time stitching me up while he could be harvesting innocent women's internal parts.

“I do not understand why we need her. I have seen better. A new one came in just yesterday. She has the same features. Why don’t you take her instead, and I’ll cut this one up? She looks like she might have a good heart.”

Damn. He spoke about me as if I weren’t an actual human being. But this is what happened in this place I call hell. Doctor Maserow viewed all the women here as currency, either sold at auction to the uber-rich highest bidder or pimped out until they were used up and broken. When they no longer added value, they were cut up and their parts sold off to those with enough money to bypass any organ donor list by buying what they needed illegally. No matter how it was attained. It was vile, and so far, I've witnessed four such operations, due to my hospital bed being positioned opposite the makeshift operating table. This medium-sized room is the only one designed for both operations and treatment. I suppose because treatment usually never occurred. I was an exception, thanks to Johnathan.

Initially, when the fever set in, I thought I was hallucinating these atrocities. However, as bouts of awareness became more frequent, thanks to the antibiotic drip I was finally put on yesterday, I realized this was indeed reality. While I hated Johnathan, and his presence nearby made me want to hurl again, it was only at his insistence that I was given such a luxury. Had he not walked in on Rocco whipping me, I might have met my end that same day. Since then, I have not seen Rocco. But I’m not deluded. His motives are self-serving. He wanted the USB, and he wanted to restore me to the position I held before. Weak. Small. Before I met Dominico. Before I discovered myself.

“She has something of mine. I need it back.” I can hear that Johnathan is irritated by having to explain himself.

The smell of cigar smoke becomes stronger, telling me he has leaned forward, and the feel of his gaze on the side of my face sends my heart into overdrive. The last thing I need is for him to think I am awake. But then the smell fades and I recognize the sound of the heel of a shoe grinding into concrete, indicating he has snuffed his cigar out. It was no wonder this place was so unhygienic if people were smoking in here.

“Besides, she tolerates pain better than anyone I have ever met. She is unique like that, and I have very particular preferences when it comes to fucking. This one can handle it.”

Now, that was no lie. Johnathan was into knife play and had a selection of jeweled carving knives specifically for it. One of them even had my name engraved on the blade. He carried it in his inner suit pocket, occasionally taking it out to twirl in his hand like a sick reminder. He wanted me back because he was obsessed with my lack of emotion regarding what he did to me. No matter how far he went, I never made a sound or screamed—a behavior sculpted by my childhood and the man I called father. His abuse shaped it. That made him angry, and I knew that was why he wanted me. He wanted to see me break under his inflictions. But I just couldn’t submit to him like that. It felt like if I did, I would truly be dead. The fight in me would be truly gone.

The doctor tuts, and then I hear them walk away. When I am sure I am alone, I peel my eyes open. It is easy to fool them since I am on my stomach. They are so confident in either their security or in the belief that I wouldn’t be foolish enough to move that they never bothered restraining me.

I look up at the wall, the time nearing six. It must be night since I can’t hear the birds.

I carefully feel around under my dirty hospital mattress for the scalpel I managed to swipe from one of his assistants' trays yesterday.She had parked it close to my bed, assuming I was unconscious. My hand touches the cool metal, and I carefully feel for the handle before circling it and pulling it out.

I close my eyes, willing myself to be strong as I slowly roll onto my side. It is so painful that by the time I complete that small action, I have broken out in a sweat, and my heart is pounding in my chest.

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