Page 11 of Until You Break
His grin widened. “Careful. I reward defiance differently.”
He stepped in. The wall pressed my spine. His thumb smeared spit across my cheek. “Next time, make it count. Because now I decide how you touch me.”
His hand shot to my throat. The leather of his sleeve rasped my jaw.
“You’re not a threat,” he murmured. “You’re a kitten. Do you want to claw,ragazzo? Shred me with those pretty little nails? Go on. Try. I’ll break every finger while you purr for more.”
My skull knocked against stone. His thumb pressed over my pulse. His scent clung. Clove, leather, smoke.
“Your vein does that when you’re scared.” His thumb lingered. “Makes you honest.”
He squeezed just enough to narrow the world. Breath hitched.
Then he let go.
I fought the sting behind my eyes. He wanted tears, wanted silence he could own. I pressed my lips together until they hurt, refusing to give him either.
My knees buckled. I crumpled.
Behind me, a low chuckle. Then his footsteps, unhurried, and the door closing.
The sound trailed long after the lock snapped shut.
I bit my wrist. Knocked my head once against the wall. Dragged nails over skin.
I slammed fists on the door. “Let me out! You’ve got the wrong guy!”
Silence.
Hours passed. A tray slid through with bread, a boiled egg and water. The scrape of metal made me jump, certain eyes were on me.
Later, I curled on the bed. I pulled the blanket tight. It carried someone else’s scent. My eyes stayed wide. I tried to sketch in my head. Instead, all I saw was his. Damiano’s mouth, the cold glint in his eyes, his thumb smearing spit across my cheek.
Mama’s voice rose like smoke, warning, soft and desperate. Papà’s came sharper, both echoes scraping over me. I remembered her jasmine perfume. His hand heavy on the back of my neck when he wanted silence. The Bellandi name burned louder.
Sleep clawed at me. My chest ached with the wrong kind of heat. I kept replaying what he’d said until the words felt etched under my skin.
When I finally drifted, it wasn’t peace. Just flashes: red light, Mama’s hand over mine, Papà turning away, Damiano’s shadowcovering the room. I woke gasping, throat raw, the strip light unchanged.
In the corner, a red dot blinked. A camera. Watching. Recording. My stomach turned. I dragged the blanket over it, but the dot glowed through, stubborn as a heartbeat.
“Are you listening?” I whispered. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The dot blinked once. Shame crawled up my neck. Who was watching? Damiano himself? Strangers? The whole family? Even alone, I wasn’t alone. I pressed my forehead to the wall instead.
I covered the lens with my palm, then dropped it away in defeat. Whoever watched had my begging face already.
The tray was gone.
And in the hush, my pulse kicked against my throat like his thumb was still there. Hunger gnawed, wrists ached, the strip light drilled into my skull.
I was still here.
CHAPTER 4
DAMIANO
I left the cell with my pulse heavier than I wanted to admit. He’d pressed under my skin without permission. That was the problem with fire, you don’t choose what it lights. Emilio Valenti wasn’t meek, wasn’t soft, wasn’t something to fold; he was flint, striking where most men learned to go quiet. The thought repeated until I pressed it down where it could wait.
