Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  He doesn’t lock it. I’m chained to the bed.

  “Hey!” I scream. I don’t know if the basement was really worse than this. At least there I wasn’t chained. “Fuck you,” I mutter to no one.

  Staring at the ceiling, I wonder if I’ll starve. I’ve gotten used to the hollow feeling in my stomach, the eternal gnawing, but it weakens me, body and mind, and that scares me.

  I jerk hard when the door opens and Ivan enters. I’m lying naked as the day I was born, cuffed, vulnerable, and still his gaze doesn’t wander. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no way to interpret his lack of expression. He’s holding a tray in his large paws and when the scent of bacon reaches my nostrils, my stomach growls loud enough for him to hear it.

  Putting it on the side table by the set of armchairs, he then comes up to me. “You will be fed,” he says in his grave voice. “You can move freely in this room. You will not try to escape.” His eyes dart to the windows and I crane my neck to follow his gaze, my heart speeding up at the thought of trying. “There are cameras and guards everywhere and you will go back to the basement and to your earlier regime. Even the smallest defiance will cost your brothers a finger. An attempt to escape will cost them a limb. Let me know if you have understood these instructions.”

  My eyes tear up and I swallow hard as I nod. “I understand,” I whisper. “No defiance. No attempts to—” My heart sinks like a rock. “To escape.”

  He nods and hauls up a key, uncuffing the still cuffed hand, the collar, and my feet. My arm is heavy and uncooperative as I move it. I rub my wrist and sit up as I hold Ivan’s gaze. Without another word, he turns and exits the room. This time the door locks. Holding my breath, I wait for the catch, for someone to come back, laugh cruelly and chain me up again. When I realize it’s not happening, I dart out of bed, snatch the shirt off the floor and pull it over my head, locate my panties, sniff them and then put them on as well. I want a shower so bad, to get rid of any trace of Salvatore, but I can’t control the overwhelming urge to devour that enticing smelling food.

  The day passes slowly. The only break from the monotony is when Ivan comes with lunch, collecting the breakfast tray, then dinner, collecting the lunch tray. I think I’m going to go crazy. A carrot has been dangled before me, an initial feeling of hope, and it’s almost worse to have it gradually pulled away as I realize I’m just as bad off as before.

  I shower twice, long hot showers, the shampoo and soap are expensive brands with a masculine scent that I recognize from the monster. I’m his captive. Now I even smell like him. After the second shower, I toss the panties and rummage through the now unlocked drawers to see if there is anything else to put on. There are boxer shorts. They are much too big, but if I fold the waistband they stay up, hanging low on my hips.

  Finally, I’m so bored that I almost wish for Salvatore to come back. I pace the room back and forth. Examining his cruel set of toys, dragging my fingers across the canes, the long and short whips, some with tails, other looking more like riding crops, and the shackles, I fight the nausea at the thought of him using them on me. I have no illusions. I know he will. He’ll force me. Tie me up. Make me plead. Make me bleed.

  And I’m not going anywhere. I will protect my brothers at all costs, even if it means my life is forfeit.

  I will never, ever ask Luciano Salvatore to fuck me, though. Never.

  As fog settles over the lawn and the sun disappears behind the treetops, I’m beginning to get worked up. No one shows. I don’t have a watch, but I feel the hours pass by, my inner clock telling me the evening is over and that it’s getting late. I’m so frustrated I could cry. What does it gain him to have me here? He can have any woman he wants in a moment’s notice, with just a flick of his finger.

  When a key finally rattles in the lock, I’m so frustrated that I’m boiling. Slowly dying in the basement was better than this shit. The lines were drawn, I knew my fate. Now I don’t know anything. Hope has sparked and died, and it’s killing the remains of my spirit.

  Salvatore enters, tall, dark and brooding, his gaze oozing danger. I take a step back, wary, but then I can’t hold it together anymore.

  “You suck at taking a hostage,” I scream.

  He slams the door closed and locks it, then he takes a long stride, and grips around my throat, shoving me all the way back until I connect with the wall. He looks me over, his nostrils flaring. I am hypnotized by his black eyes, then my gaze darts to his shirt sleeve, which has a large stain of what is clearly blood, and I freeze in horror.

  “There are better—” He licks his lips, his expression turning cruel. “And there are worse occasions to be mouthy with me. This is not a good time!” He shoves away from me and looks me over. “Didn’t I fucking tell you to get naked when I’m here?”

  “I—I didn’t have time,” I whimper, my voice fading on the last word as I yank the shirt over my head and quickly pull down the boxers. His eyes narrow, then he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bed.

  “Hands on the mattress, spread your legs. Stay.”

  “What are you—”

  “And don’t fucking talk to me!”

  I scramble to get into position, my heart beating wildly. When I see him head straight for the rack filled with his torture tools my stomach churns and I have to clench my mouth shut not to beg him. No pleading, or one of my brothers will lose a finger.

  He unlocks the barred gate keeping it all in place and tears a whip with tails off its holder, then he comes at me with death in his gaze. I can barely breathe.

  “I’ve had—” He breathes heavy. “A really shitty day.” He flicks his arm and fire hits my ass. I scream.

  Salvatore’s breaths get heavier as his whip scorches my backside. I bury my face into the mattress, my screams getting hoarser until I can’t even produce a sound. It takes me several moments to realize he’s stopped. Grabbing my ass cheeks, spreading them, he pushes his rock-hard bulge to my pussy and grinds against it. His hands come around to my breasts, grabbing them tightly, pinching the nipples until they peak and shoot arrows of distress to between my legs. It’s as if he knows because a hand glides along my stomach and dips in, finding my clit. I fight it, I try, but resisting his skilled fingers is impossible. My pussy swells and opens to him as my heart slams harder in my chest. My skin burns hot, my thighs tremble, and when he pushes his fingers inside me, I can’t stop the throaty whimpers that erupt. I rock against him, lost in the whirlwind of pain and pleasure, and that’s when he stops and leans in close, his chest against my back.

  “One day, Chloe. One day, you’ll yield to me with no protests left on your pretty lips.”

  A cry rips its way through my chest because I know it will happen. He’ll break me, and I’ll give up all hope of freedom, of a life.

  Every night, with whiskey on his breath, he hurts me. He ties me to a disgustingly indecent cross, my arms and legs spread, and makes my skin burn hotter than Hell. Palms, whips, canes. He doesn’t stop until my screams turn to whimpers of complete defeat. That’s when he puts his hand between my legs and caresses me until my pussy pulsates with a need for a release he never allows me. His pants bulge, but he never undresses.

  I’ll make you beg for it, he said.

  Never. Never. Never. I repeat it as a mantra, day and night, wet and swollen as I clench my thighs, lying on my side because my back is on fire.

  Every morning he’s gentle, dragging his fingertips from my throat, down along my chest, circling and flicking my nipples until they peak, until I have to fight to keep my breathing under control, across my belly and then between my legs. He teases my clit with skills that have grown during our time together, as he has gotten to know my body. He’s naked, erect, there’s hunger in his gaze. My insides scream at me to give in, to beg him. Mount me! Fuck me, you fucking monster! I arch and sweat breaks out on my body as he holds me on the brink of release. I’m terrified of losing control. He has promised to hurt my brothers if I come, and he’ll only let me come the day I
fall to my knees and plead with him to take me, fully and completely.

  He has driven me into a near-constant state of arousal and as the days turn into weeks, my humiliation grows, because I want that cock so fucking bad. I’m empty and aching. His whips hurt, but the growing need for him to fill me is a new kind of torture I had never imagined.

  I hate him so fucking much, and I ache for every patch of his skin.

  Chapter 14

  Luciano

  My captive blossoms. She’s being fed. She’s clean and smells of peaches. She has sweet curves again, an ass I can grab, her breasts coming back to their mouthwatering selves. With her renewed energy, the delicious defiance has returned to her gaze, even though it’s gone as soon as she has pulled the shirt over her head. She plays games. She’s still plotting. My demise, I assume.

  One late night the shirt stays on and I raise an eyebrow as I look her over. I’m just about to tell her to get the fuck out of it when she speaks.

  “Salvatore.” She swallows so hard I hear it. “I need—” Chewing on her lip, she shuffles her feet and inhales raggedly.

  “Get fucking to it. I’m not a patient man.”

  “I need something to do. Please! My insides itch. I need music, books, I need to work out. I’m going crazy. I don’t know why I’m here, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been here—”

  “Three months, four days and,” I glance at my wristwatch, “about nine hours.”

  She gasps, and then tears well up in her eyes. “If you give me something to do, I’ll consider your proposal,” she blurts out.

  ‘Consider’. Bullshit. She tries, but she can’t hide the deceit in her voice. “It’s not a proposal. You will bend. Now get out of that fucking shirt and stand with your back to me.”

  Chloe gives out a hoarse sob, then she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, throwing it before my feet. “I’ll never, ever give myself to you. You’ll have to rape me, over and over, and every time you do, you’ll hate yourself a little more. In the end your self-loathing will spill over on me and you’ll see me as the source in your fucked-up mind, and you’ll kill me.” She looks me straight in the eyes and there’s an unwelcome twinge in my chest at the dark desolation, and yet fiery determination in her otherwise so clear blue gaze. “And I’ll welcome death, Salvatore. I’ll never welcome you between my legs. The only thing I look forward to is the day you kill me.”

  She looks away, presenting her battered backside. The swelling has abated during the day, but the bruises, in various shades, get new additions every night. A black haze of rage fills my mind, clenches around my soul and my whole being. I grab her upper arm in a vice grip and yank her with me to the other side of the room, toward the Saint Andrews cross, snapping the shackles into place. Wrists and ankles. I forget all about her pleasure, about my plan, about making her plead for me to take her. She pleads for me to kill her. I’ll show her death. I’ll fucking show her merciless pain.

  My pulse roars in my head as I let loose the nine-tailed whip on her. She screams until her voice breaks, then she writhes and whimpers, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t plead. When I break her skin, when fresh blood glistens on her battered back, I finally stop. We both breathe heavily. She hangs limp, unable to stand on her feet anymore. Her wrists are angry red and chafed.

  “Fuck!” I roar and throw the whip across the room. I’m not turned on. Not in the least. I punished this girl the way I punish everyone who tries to fuck me over. Like I punished the doctor. Like I punish the people who cross me, the people who defy me.

  My head spins as I stagger out of the room. With sweaty hands, I call Ivan. I have no idea what time it is. I didn’t check. I don’t care.

  “Sir?” he says groggily, clearing his voice.

  “Take care of the girl,” I growl.

  “Take—Shoot her?”

  “No. For fuck’s sake. Are you brain dead? She needs some fucking care. I-I can’t.”

  “Yes, sir. Is she in your room?”

  I sneer and disconnect, heading straight for the liquor cabinet. It feels as if my stomach content will make an appearance as I pour a tumbler full of whiskey and drain it. Then I refill, grab the bottle and escape to the now-empty bar at the other end of my mansion. The rooms are silent, these walls witnesses to parties, laughter, screams, and blood.

  You’re a monster.

  I’ve heard that so many times. I’ve always reveled in the epithet. Tonight, I am a monster. It’s not just a word. Tonight, I’ve become someone even I didn’t see coming.

  I don’t go to her the next night. I fucking can’t. I can’t look her in the eyes. I’m sick, and she knows it. I don’t want to see her profound knowledge that something in me is broken beyond repair. I’ve shown her too much and she’s way too clever for her own good.

  I bury myself in work. It’s business as usual. Day after day passes. Ivan gives me funny looks that I avoid, but the elephant in the room grows bigger with each passing moment.

  Finally, he breaks the silence. “Sir… the girl…”

  “Give her something to do.”

  A brief look of surprise crosses his features. “What do you mean?”

  “Books, music, a TV. Let her fucking into my gym.”

  His eyebrows shoot up but then he nods. “Is she to stay in your room?”

  I push my fingers through my hair and spin the chair around, looking out into the garden. “Let her use the whole wing.”

  He inhales. Exhales. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all,” I say, my back still toward him.

  Ivan doesn’t speak. The door falls closed and I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I should just grant her wish and do her in? I haven’t raped her. At least not what I’d consider rape. But her prediction is coming true anyway. Loathing builds in me, a darkness I haven’t felt since I was a child, since I lost both my parents in a senseless fucking work accident. A fire consuming the textile fabric, no escape routes, no repercussions for the management. I lost my sister Bianca too, only for a year, but to me it was an eternity. She was no more than fifteen when she went and married a ten-year older man. She’s always been calculating, always known what she wants out of life.

  Jackie Russo turned out to be a really good person, a rock she could cling to. I ended up in the system. Five-year-old Luciano–a foster kid–hungry, dirty, abused, subject to leery hands between my legs, harsh slaps, belts across my back, words of disgust. I remember each and every one of the assaults.

  Bianca saved me as soon as she could and took me in as if I was her kid, but the damage was done. I had closed off everything. I know I died there. In the hands of strangers. Not in flesh, but in soul. The sins I’ve committed since, the lives I’ve destroyed, it’s all on them, on the original monsters.

  Obviously, I took my revenge. But torturing someone to their dying breath feels only fleetingly good. There’s no sense of completion after. No peace. There’s never peace. The war is never won, every victory temporary until the next disaster strikes.

  And it always does. I’m on the road to Hell, one mayhem at a time, paving the path I travel with suffering and blood, with crushed hopes and bodies.

  There’s never peace. There’s no escaping.

  I should just kill her and get this over with. I’m worse of a fuck-up than I ever knew and there are exactly three people in the world who see this as clearly as I do in this moment.

  Luciano Salvatore, Ivan Sokolov, and Chloe Becker.

  I’m not doing Ivan in. He’s been my most loyal man for the last twenty years. I need him more than I care to admit.

  But Chloe, she has got to go.

  Chloe

  My memories of that night are fuzzy when the sun shines, but in the dark night, in my dreams, they are mercilessly clear and I’ve woken up crying time and time again, my heart slamming against my ribcage, afraid to listen in the dark, to open my eyes and see if he has returned.

  My entire backside was on fire. Everything hurt. Even my t
eeth hurt from my jaw having been clenched so hard. Tears, snot and saliva had wet my cheeks, my chin and my chest. It felt as if I’d been cut open. I had nothing left but a wish for death. Killing yourself isn’t easy when you’re shackled and I hoped I bled enough, that I’d bleed out and die.

  Then Ivan came and carefully let me loose. I fell and he caught me, hauling me up over his shoulder, carrying me to bed. Neither of us spoke. We shared a profound knowledge that what Salvatore had done to me had passed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. But what was there to say on the matter?

  The doctor came. For the first time I felt truly sorry for him. With my eyes squeezed shut, gritting my teeth to breathe through the pulsating waves of agony, I listened to the two men.

  Ivan’s deep growl. “Give her something for the pain.”

  The doctor’s stutter. “I-I don’t think I should. It didn’t go down well last time.”

  “I’ll fucking beat you to a pulp if you don’t, you little weasel!”

  Ivan’s roar made me flinch, and wrought sobs out of the doctor. Then a prick of a needle, and I soared. For a little while free of all shackles.

  It’s been three days. Tall, blonde Rose returns. She washes me, changes the bandages.

  Her fingers trace my shoulder, her touch lighter than a feather.

  “You’re going to scar,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry he did this to you. You had such beautiful, smooth skin.”

  The realization makes my stomach clench. I’ll forever see the signs of his brutality every time I look in the mirror. I’ll always be reminded. I bury my face in the pillow and mumble the eternal question that has no answer, “Why does he do this?”

  Rose doesn’t answer. The answer is in the silence between us, the silence in this house. No one but the monster knows.

  On the fourth day, it’s Ivan who comes instead of Rose. I greet him with a faint smile. It’s been a long time since I tensed up when I saw the bulky blond man. He’s carrying a large bag that he drops on the floor, then he disappears and returns with a giant TV that he rolls in on a bench with wheels. I cross my legs, perched in the middle of the bed, and take in this new development. A little seed of excitement tries to set root in my chest, but I quell it. I don’t dare to hope for anything.