Chapter 2

The putrid heat of the cartel prison faded into the cold, sealed vehicle and the monotonous hum of the engine.

I had no idea how much time had passed, no idea how far I'd been transported like a piece of discarded cargo. My brain was too exhausted to think.

Until a bone-chilling cold tore through the stale air, rushing down my tattered collar.

The car door jerked open.

Sudden weightlessness. The bodyguards hauled me out of the armored SUV's back seat like dead weight, dragging me forward half-suspended.

The rough concrete vanished. Replaced by soft, handwoven Oriental rug.

My shattered right leg dangled uselessly, the mangled stump leaving a long, horrifying trail of blood across the plush fibers.

Through scattered vision, I surveyed my surroundings numbly.

Glittering Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Polished marble columns. This was New York. The Castello estate. Everything exactly as I'd left it six months ago.

Yet I couldn't stop shivering—this place felt colder than Carlos's water cell. Bone-deep cold.

The click of heels on marble, approaching.

Thalia descended the spiral staircase in an elegant rush, wearing a pristine silk gown.

The orphan adopted by the previous Castello godfather. The executioner who had forged evidence of my betrayal six months ago and sent me to hell.

"Jesus... Cordelia?"

Thalia stopped before me, hands flying to her mouth. Those beautiful amber eyes instantly welled with tears—shock and heartbreak perfectly performed.

"Oh god, what did they do to you... it's okay, you're home now."

Her voice broke as she crouched down, reaching out as if to gently touch my face.

But the moment her hand blocked Leander's view, those perfectly manicured nails dug viciously into a still-bleeding whip wound on my collarbone.

"Hss—"

Sharp pain made me recoil like I'd been electrocuted.

Pure conditioned reflex from prolonged abuse. I scrambled backward frantically, my broken body slamming hard into the column behind me.

Thalia let out a startled gasp, as though I'd violently shoved her. She tumbled onto the carpet, clutching her wrist with a delicate tremor.

"Cordelia!"

Leander's sharp rebuke cracked down.

He strode forward, yanking Thalia up and pulling her protectively behind him. Then he looked down at me, eyes cold as arctic ice.

"Seems hell didn't teach you anything." His voice was glacial. "Learn your place."

I stared at him blankly, offering no defense. My throat could only produce ragged, wheezing gasps.

My muddled brain flashed unbidden to six months ago—the blood-soaked wool carpet, Thalia's innocent face, and Leander's frigid verdict:

"Give her to Carlos. Let her see what a cartel boss can do."

The Cordelia who would have screamed her innocence was dead. What remained here was just a breathing shell.

My silence seemed to tighten the air further.

"Leander, please... don't be so hard on her."

Thalia gently tugged at Leander's sleeve, her voice soft and sorrowful. "She's been through inhuman torture. Aggression is a normal trauma response. I don't blame her."

That was her specialty—using pure magnanimity to make me look like an unreasonable lunatic.

"The floor is cold, Cordelia, let me help you up..."

She crouched down again, this time extremely close. The suffocating designer perfume masked everything.

At an angle no one else could see, her hand didn't probe—it struck with surgical precision, clamping onto the shattered knee of my right leg. Where only a thin layer of rotting flesh covered broken bone.

In a voice only I could hear, glacial and dripping with bone-chilling malice, she whispered in my ear.

"You should have died in that cell, you broken bitch."

The next second, she applied pressure, her nails gouging deliberately into the fragmented bone.

"AHHH—!!!"

The agony of nerves being shredded erupted through me.

Something in me snapped. Like a cornered animal driven to desperation, my defenses collapsed completely.

I surged upward, using every ounce of remaining strength to knock Thalia aside, my body convulsing and writhing wildly on the floor, throat releasing silent shrieks of pure torment.

This time, Thalia flew backward for real, her forehead cracking hard against the solid wood edge of the coffee table. Blood trickled down.

"Cordelia! Have you lost your mind?!"

Seeing the blood on Thalia's forehead, Leander's patience shattered completely.

He moved like an enraged panther, displaying the brutal suppression of a mob boss. He wrenched my flailing hands behind my back, slamming me down onto the carpet.

To completely neutralize my feral resistance, he dropped one knee heavily, his hard kneecap pressing mercilessly, crushing down on my lower abdomen.

All air punched out of my lungs.

Extreme terror crystallized in a tenth of a second into the coldest phantom pain. That position, that deadly weight...

Six months ago, Carlos's men had stood exactly like this in their filthy, heavy boots, stomping this exact spot, over and over, until they crushed the two-month-old child in my womb into pulp.

My struggling stopped dead.

Like a rubber band snapping, I went completely rigid.

No screaming. No fighting. I just lay there motionless on the carpet, jaw hanging open at an unnatural angle, making soundless retching noises like a broken bellows, vacant eyes staring straight up at the glittering chandelier, pupils completely unfocused.

My corpse-like response seemed to disturb him. Leander's crushing pressure froze abruptly.

He looked down at my lifeless face, and something jarringly hesitant flickered through those typically ruthless gray-blue eyes. His knee lifted as if shocked.

But the next second, hearing Thalia's pained sobs, he straightened quickly, releasing my hands with disgust, adjusting his cuffs to forcibly mask that momentary lapse.

"Lock her in the dungeon." His voice was cold and hard, devoid of warmth. "No one gives her food or water. Let her reflect on her behavior."

The bodyguards roughly hauled me up by the arms.

As they dragged me past Thalia, I saw her leaning against a maid, dabbing at the blood on her forehead. But when our eyes met, her mouth curved into a victor's smile.

Reflect.

The heavy iron door of the dungeon slammed shut before me. Biting darkness swallowed everything instantly.

I felt nothing. No anger. No hate.

Before that bare, moldy metal bed frame, I simply crawled toward the coldest corner on pure animal survival instinct, using both hands and feet.

I curled into the smallest ball possible, my frostbitten hands clamping spasmodically around the mangled stump of my leg.

Reflect. He wanted me to reflect.

But there was nothing left to reflect on. No thoughts. No reasons. No self.

As long as I stayed quiet, I wouldn't anger anyone.

As long as I stayed in the corner, I wouldn't get beaten. Maybe the pain would stop.