The Rotting Wife in the Don's Dungeon

Dorian Falco's forbidden obsession, his stepsister and secret lover, had been brutally violated.

When Camilla was found by the Falco family's security detail in a slum alleyway, she lay crumpled in a puddle like a broken doll.

Shredded fabric clung to her skin, mixed with mud and filth. The harsh white beam of a flashlight swept over her, exposing the savage fingerprints, bite marks, and vicious bruises covering every inch of her body.

The man who ran this city like his personal kingdom lost his fucking mind.

In his rage, Dorian dragged me into the manor's dungeon and ordered my execution by "the wheel."

He threw me to a dozen of the family's most depraved enforcers, letting them take turns tearing me apart with endless beatings and brutality.

"Whatever Camilla suffered, you'll pay back a thousand times over."

I collapsed on the freezing floor, clutching desperately at his pant leg, sobbing. "I love you—I would never hurt her! You know I wouldn't! Please, Dorian, please believe me!"

All I got was Dorian's cruelest sneer.

"What's the matter? Jealous that Camilla gets the real thing, so you hired gutter trash to ruin her?"

He grabbed my chin violently, his gray-blue eyes burning with cold fury. "You like playing dirty? Fine. I'll make you filthier than she ever was."

He locked me in that blood-stained underground cell for seven days and seven nights.

Those blood-soaked thugs, given carte blanche by the Don, whipped my spine with belts and chains, violated me without restraint. I screamed and begged in the darkness, choking on Dorian's name until my throat shredded.

My wounds festered in the damp air, blood seeping into the rough cracks of the floor.

Seven days later, Dorian returned from his private Sicilian villa with a recovering Camilla, finally remembering his legal wife was still locked in the dungeon.

"Camilla's finally back on her feet. You lucked out, Saoirse."

He stood outside the heavy iron door, his voice dripping with mock generosity.

"Crawl out here and get on your knees. Kiss Camilla's shoes and beg her forgiveness, and maybe—maybe—I'll let you live."

Silence. No answer.

Because three days ago, I'd already died in that cell.

Dorian walked into the Falco Estate with his arm around Camilla's waist. The cold, empty foyer made him frown.

"Where the hell is Saoirse?"

He yanked his tie loose. "Didn't I tell her to be at the goddamn door when we got back? Acting like a proper wife for once?"

Seeing the Don about to explode, the family's second-in-command stepped forward carefully. "Don... you locked Donna Saoirse in the basement. Seven days ago."

Dorian went still, the memory surfacing.

That day, Camilla had vanished for an entire night in the shopping district—no security, no protection. When they found her at dawn in the slums, she was barely clothed, her body marked with evidence of savage assault.

Dorian held her against his chest, his knuckles white around his Glock.

"Camilla, baby," he kissed her forehead, his voice like ice, "tell me who the fuck did this to you."

Camilla sobbed into his shoulder, but her trembling finger pointed straight past the crowd—at me, standing there with hot tea in my hands, concern written all over my face.

"Her... Saoirse..."

The accusation hit me like a physical blow.

I hit the ground, panic flooding through me.

"No! Dorian, no—it wasn't me! I love you, I would never—how could you think I'd ever hurt you like this?" I crawled toward him, reaching for his hand, but he jerked away like I was diseased.

His face went dark.

"Camilla wouldn't hurt a fly, and she doesn't lie. But you?" His lip curled. "You vicious bitch. You couldn't stand watching her have what you'll never get, could you?"

My blood ran cold. Three years of loving him, sacrificing everything—and none of it had ever mattered to him.

Dorian's boot caught me in the ribs, knocking me flat. He slapped me hard enough to split my lip.

Still seething, he ordered his men to drag me to the basement and called in over a dozen cleaners and low-level muscle.

"She wants to know what Camilla went through? Show her."

I collapsed to my knees, arms wrapped around my stomach, every shred of pride gone. "I'm pregnant, Dorian—two months. Please, for the baby, just listen to me. Just once!"

But I'd forgotten the one brutal truth: this marriage was a business deal. Dorian didn't love me. He didn't give a damn about the child I carried.

A cruel smile twisted his face as he stepped on my shoulder, grinding me into the floor.

"You think I'd let Callahan trash like you birth a Falco heir?"

He scoffed. "Besides, after the way you clawed your way into my bed, who knows whose bastard that is anyway?"

"You're jealous Camilla has me, so you got some lowlifes to wreck her? Perfect. Let me show you what hell looks like. Lock her up. Nobody touches that door without my say-so."

The iron door slammed shut, sealing me in my nightmare.

The men, flush with blood money, stopped holding back. Predatory eyes locked onto me.

They beat me with belts, cracked my bones, used me however they wanted. I screamed Dorian's name into the void, begging, pleading—but nothing came back.

My agony only made them laugh harder.

Time bled together. Pain faded into numbness. Wounds rotted and wept. And the life I'd tried so desperately to protect—the last piece of my pathetic love—dissolved into dead blood that ran down my thighs.

It pooled on the concrete, staining the floor red.

On the fourth night, the iron door creaked open. In the darkness, rough rope coiled tight around my throat.

With a sickening crack, everything stopped.