Page 6 of His Savage Ruin
Focus, Alessia.
Survival first, complicated feelings later.
I test the zip ties around my wrists again, feeling the plastic bite into my skin. They're tight, professionally applied. Whoever tied these knows what they're doing. The chair I'm bound to is heavy, bolted to the floor—no chance of tipping it over or dragging it anywhere useful.
My eyes are adjusting to the dim light seeping under the door, and I can make out more of my surroundings now. The space feels like a converted warehouse—concrete walls, industrial fixtures, nothing designed for comfort. Cold, impersonal, a room meant for control rather than living. No windows that I can see, just the single door he disappeared through.
But I'm not completely alone.
Voices drift from somewhere beyond the door—male, speaking in low tones that suggest they think I can't hear them. I strain to catch fragments.
"...boss says no one touches her..."
"...just water and food..."
"...wait for orders before anything..."
So I'm protected, at least for now. Whatever Matteo Romano wants from me, it requires me to be alive and unmarked. That's something, I suppose.
I catalog everything I can see, every detail that might be useful later. Two guards, from the sound of it, probably armed. The door opens outward—I caught that when they entered. Industrial lighting overhead, controlled by switches somewhere I can't reach. The faint smell of motor oil and something chemical, like cleaning supplies.
Of course, this is professional—I figured that out the second I saw Matteo Romano's face. But knowing something and feeling its full weight are different things. Here, trapped and alone, the reality of what I'm truly up against settles into my bones.
The thought makes my stomach clench. How long before someone realizes I'm missing? Don Emilio expects me back for the memorial, but that was probably hours ago now. He'll assume I ran, maybe. Or he'll start asking questions I can't afford to have answered.
Either way, I'm on my own.
Like always.
The familiar weight of isolation settles over me like an old coat, and with it come the memories I've been trying so hard to keep buried. Forty-five days of playing the grieving widow, of spinning lies and maintaining facades, of living in constant fear that someone will discover the truth.
And now I'm here, in the hands of Lorenzo's enemies, and all those carefully constructed lies might finally be crumbling around me. The sound of the door opening snaps me back tothe present, back to the warehouse room and the zip ties cutting into my wrists. I blink hard, pushing away the memories, the phantom taste of blood and fear.
Two guards enter, different ones from before, but cut from the same cloth. Armed, professional, utterly impersonal in the way they look at me. One carries a bottle of water and what looks like a sandwich wrapped in paper. The other keeps his hand near his gun.
They approach carefully, like I'm a wild animal that might bite. Given my recent attempt to take off their boss's finger, that's probably fair.
"Eat," the first guard says, setting the food and water on a small table just within my reach. His voice is gravelly, accent somewhere from the East Coast. "Boss says you need to keep your strength up."
I eye the offerings with suspicion. "How thoughtful of him."
The guard shrugs. "He wants you healthy."
"For now."
"For as long as it serves his purposes."
Honest, at least. I can respect that more than false comfort.
They retreat to positions by the door, clearly intending to watch me eat. Or try to, anyway—the zip ties make it interesting. I manage to get the water bottle to my lips, but the sandwich requires more dexterity than my bound hands can manage.
"Little help?" I ask, holding up my wrists.
"Boss says the ties stay on."
"Then I guess I don't eat."
They exchange glances. These aren't decision-makers, just soldiers following orders. But they're also clearly uncomfortable with the idea of their boss's "guest" starving on their watch.
