Page 53 of Blood Heir

“I’ll stay,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Monte grins, nodding approvingly like I’ve passed some twisted loyalty test. “Good girl,” he purrs.

His words make my stomach churn.

I clench my fists at my sides, biting down the scream in my throat as I watch them drag Fioretta inside.

God, what have I done?

^^^^

The leather couch sticks against the back of my thighs as Monte pulls me closer, his arm heavy around my shoulders. His lips brush against my neck, hot breath fanning over my skin, but I barely register it. My eyes stay fixed on Fioretta.

She’s stripped down to nothing but her bra and panties, her arms yanked up, wrists tied to the beam above her head. Her skin’s flushed and streaked where the rough rope bites into her. She isn’t struggling anymore—not physically—but the rigid set of her jaw tells me she’s fighting in every other way.

Gustavo circles her like some sick animal. His eyes roam her bare skin with open hunger, licking his lips like she’s a meal laid out just for him.

“Now Serevin is eating well! Look at you,” Gustavo says with a twisted grin, voice sticky with mockery.

Monte chuckles low in my ear. His hand slides over my waist. “We could have an orgy right here, you know.” His tone is smooth, like he’s suggesting a game instead of something vile. His lips trail down to my collarbone, and I flinch.

I can’t do this. I can’t breathe.

I turn my head away, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. My eyes dart back to Fioretta. She isn’t crying. That’s what gets me the most—how she just stands there, chin lifted, as if daring them to go further. But her cheeks are red, her skin gleaming under the wine that’s already been poured over her.

Gustavo uncorks another bottle with a pop that sounds deafening in the tense air. He steps forward and casually empties it over her head. The dark red soaks through her hair, staining her skin as it drips down her neck and onto her chest.

“Cheers!” Monte calls, raising an invisible glass. His laugh is sharp, echoing off the walls.

Gustavo grabs a bowl of chips from the table nearby and crushes them in his fist before tossing the crumbs over Fioretta like confetti. The oily crumbs stick to the wet sheen on her skin. The entire display is absurd—grotesque and childishly cruel.

Gustavo grabs Fioretta’s chin, tilting her face up so their eyes meet. “I heard you lost your memory,” he sneers. “But I had to test it out myself. You actually believed I was your friend. You have no friends, Fee. You’re a sad, stuck-up bitch who nobody likes. You think you’re better than everyone. You and my stupid cousin Serevin.”

For a moment, the room stills. I hold my breath.

Then Fioretta’s lips part, her voice flat but sharp enough to slice him in half. “You have a small dick, don’t you?”

Gustavo freezes, eyes widening in disbelief. His face shifts—confusion to rage in half a second—and then he slaps her, the sound so loud it rings in my ears. Her head jerks sideways, strands of wet hair whipping across her face.

I can’t look. My chest tightens. My fingers clench against my thighs as I lower my gaze, shame prickling my skin.

Monte laughs, fully entertained. His hand leaves my waist, and he stands, stretching lazily as if warming up before joining the show.

He strolls toward Fioretta with a predatory grin. Each step echoes. She lifts her chin again, refusing to cower, even as her cheek blooms red from Gustavo’s slap.

“You've got quite a mouth now,” Monte drawls, circling Fioretta like a wolf scenting blood. “Serevin must be rubbing off on you.”

Fioretta raises her chin despite the bruises darkening across her cheek. She glares down at him. “You’re smaller than him, too,” she sneers, voice hoarse but sharp.

Monte’s grin doesn’t falter. His eyes glint with a cruel kind of amusement as he gestures to Gustavo, who releases Fioretta from the hook in the ceiling. Meanwhile, Monte reaches for a nearby figurine resting on the side table—smooth, solid, heavy—and without warning, slams it across the side of her head.

The dull crack echoes through the room.

Fioretta crumples to the floor instantly, a groan slipping from her throat.

Before I can even move, Gustavo steps in, boots colliding with her stomach. Monte joins him. Their kicks land again and again—gut, ribs, back.

“She won’t remember a thing after this,” Monte mutters, kicking again for good measure.

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