CHAPTER 23
CHRISTIAN'S POV
The way her face feigned innocence—so clean, so practiced—a naïve man would have believed her without question. Believed the softness. Believed the calm. Believed the lie.
But not me.
I had dined with kings and queens, devils and gods, the obscenely wealthy and the starving peasants. I had watched men smile while planning executions and seen tears shed with daggers hidden behind them. I knew that a person could offer you two sides of the same coin without ever flipping it—both faces false, both polished for survival.
That look on her face?
It wasn't going to fool me.
The restaurant hummed around us—cutlery clinking against porcelain, low laughter spilling from nearby tables, the hiss of something frying in the kitchen. A waitress passed by, perfume trailing behind her, oblivious to the tension tightening the air between us. Brenda sat across from me, posture perfect, shoulders squared, but her hands betrayed her. They clutched her purse like a lifeline, knuckles whitening, fingers tightening and loosening as if she didn't even realize she was doing it.
"Why do you ask?" she said, lips curling into sarcasm. "Wished I'd have nightmares?"
Her voice was steady. Too steady.
But her eyes flicked—just once. Quick. Sharp.
The way she held herself told me everything. She was uncomfortable. Not afraid—no, Brenda Belair didn't scare easily—but unsettled. Probably because she wasn't over me yet. Probably because my presence disrupted whatever carefully stacked version of peace she'd built without me.
"I doubt you'd have nightmares," I countered coolly, leaning back in my chair, gaze locked onto hers, unblinking, "considering that you had company yesterday."
I watched her closely. I was hunting for something—nervousness, guilt, hesitation. A crack.
Instead, I found confusion.
Real confusion.
Brenda was a businesswoman. An affluent woman. People like her knew how to play their cards right. Emotions? Those were currency—used, spent, controlled. For her, deception should've been a walk in the park.
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
Her brows knitted together, breath hitching slightly as if the words genuinely didn't register. The noise of the restaurant faded for a split second, replaced by the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Yeah right!" I scoffed, pushing my chair back. The scrape against the tiled floor was loud—too loud. Heads turned. I didn't care. "It was nice running into you."
I turned around before she could say anything else. I couldn't stand being lied to. Couldn't stomach it. I already had enough problems on my plate—the biggest one being BRENDA BELAIR.
Elijah kept staring at me the entire drive home.
The city lights blurred past us as night settled in, heavy and thick. He dipped his burrito into sauce, took a bite, chewed slowly—and kept staring. Kids had a way of seeing through silence, of noticing when something sat wrong.
"Okay, that's it," I sighed, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "What do you want to know?"
"The pretty woman," he said carefully. "When is she going to visit again?"
I shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. I honestly didn't know. And that uncertainty tasted bitter.
"I'm not sure, champ. Like I said earlier, we're no longer friends, so…" I trailed off. "It's difficult to say."
His face fell instantly. The light drained from it.
And that hurt more than I expected.
"Last time she came over," he said softly, "she told me about her kitchen. I want to go there."
"Her kitchen?" My brows furrowed.
"Yes," he nodded eagerly, then hesitated. "The one where she cooks for people. Serves the less fortunate. She promised she'd take me with her."
His voice cracked at the end.
I hated seeing my boy like that. Elijah was lively, exceptionally bubbly—always laughing, always curious. For him to look that disappointed meant he'd truly been holding onto that promise.
I wished things were different. God knows I did.
But what I saw yesterday replayed in my mind like a fucking videotape—on loop, merciless, unrelenting.
THE DUNGEON
The air down there was damp, heavy with iron and rot. Stone walls swallowed sound, turning screams into echoes that lingered long after mouths closed. No matter how much pain Massimo inflicted on Santiago, the bastard wouldn't budge. Not a word. Not a plea.
I watched him get battered—each blow precise, brutal, methodical. Every drop of blood that escaped him felt like it was sealing his resolve instead of breaking it, pushing him deeper into silence.
Massimo's right fist slammed into Santiago's gut. The sound was dull. Wet. Santiago doubled over, choking on a groan.
"Speak up, you bastard!" Massimo hissed, eyes blazing. That fire—raw and violent—only surfaced when he was truly angry.
"I told you," Santiago coughed, spitting blood onto the floor, "we didn't do nothing! Even the virgin knows!"
"Do not take the Virgin of Guadalupe's name in vain, Santiago."
My voice cut through the room as I stepped out of the shadows. My hands were in my pockets, fingers twitching, itching to do far worse than Massimo ever would.
"Leave him to me." I gestured toward the door.
Massimo hesitated, then obeyed.
Perfect.
Just me and Trejo's filth.
I circled Santiago slowly, boots scraping against stone. He followed my movement with terrified eyes, chest heaving, wrists bound so tight his fingers were already swelling.
"We could make this a whole lot easier," I murmured, kneeling beside him, leaning close enough for him to feel my breath. "You talk… and I let you go."
I smiled at his ear.
"I'm not like Massimo," I whispered. "He's much nicer than I am."
"I told you fucks—we did not do anything!" he screamed.
The sound pierced straight through my skull, blooming into a headache. Without hesitation, I grabbed his hair and wrapped my hand around his throat. My grip was firm, calculated. I applied pressure—slow, controlled—watching his panic ignite as his air supply vanished.
His face darkened. Veins stood out. His body thrashed uselessly.
I released him just before he lost consciousness. He collapsed forward, gasping violently, lungs burning as he sucked in air like it was his first time breathing.
Men like us were built for pain. Conditioned for it. Torture wasn't about violence—it was about patience.
I walked over to the table. Knives. Tools. Objects meant for cars, not flesh. I selected a small, sharp penknife, turning it between my fingers. An ugly, satisfied smile stretched across my face as imagination did the rest.
I returned to him.
"Massimo!" I called out.
He appeared almost instantly, tying his hair into a messy bun.
"Hold his left hand out."
Santiago's breathing went feral.
"What—what are you doing?" he cried. "What are you going to do?"
The fear in his eyes was deafening. Louder than any order, louder than any scream.
Now… the real fun began.
The moment the blade met flesh, his scream tore through the dungeon—raw, animalistic, unrestrained. It echoed off the stone, rattled the walls, clawed at the ceiling. The way he convulsed, the way his body betrayed him—it fed something dark inside me.
"Imagine the pain you're feeling," I said calmly, watching him unravel. "That's just one nail. We've got nine to go."
I grinned. Slow. Deliberate.
"But we can stop this," I added. "If you tell me the truth."
"I already—" he sobbed, tears streaking down his bloodied face. "I told you—we didn't attack you!"
I continued anyway.
Nail after nail. His screams faded into hoarse whimpers, then into broken pleas. His resolve shattered, piece by piece, yet the information I needed refused to surface.
"Tell me where Trejo is," I demanded, my patience thinning, voice sharpening, "and you'll walk out of here breathing."
By then, I knew. Whether they attacked us or not was irrelevant. What mattered was Trejo. And Santiago was wasting my time.
The session went on until his body finally gave up. He slumped forward, unconscious, broken, the dungeon swallowing what remained of him.
When I stepped out, my shirt was soaked, heavy, stained.
"Give him two days of rest," I told Massimo coldly. "Then we continue."
BRENDA'S POV
The whole encounter with Christian at the restaurant felt like an episode of The Real Housewives of whatever city you wanted to name—dramatic, performative, emotionally exhausting. The kind of interaction that leaves you smiling on the outside while unraveling on the inside.
I told myself it didn't matter.
I told myself it was nothing.
But asking about my night—that question—wasn't supposed to gnaw at my thoughts. Yet it did. It settled somewhere deep, burrowed itself into the quiet corners of my mind. His approach had been sarcastic, sharp around the edges, like he was baiting me. Like he wanted a reaction, a crack, something he could hold onto and use to prove a story he'd already written in his head.
The office didn't help.
The day was idle—too much time to think, too much silence to replay his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at me like he already knew the truth.
"I'm calling it a day," I announced, grabbing my phone and bag.
Greg looked up from his desk, studying me longer than necessary. The pity in his eyes irritated me—but it also hurt.
"Are you okay?" he asked when I reached the door.
"Yeah," I said quickly. "Never been better."
The lie tasted bitter. Thick. Heavy.
And he knew it. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened. Still, he didn't press. He just nodded. And I walked out before the truth could spill out of me instead.
My phone had been ringing nonstop by the time I slid into my car.
"Do you really have to blow up my phone?" I snapped as I answered.
"Chile, please!" Nella shot back. "I wouldn't have if you stopped shoving your phone down your ass!"
I huffed, lips pressing together to contain the laugh that threatened to escape.
"How are you with your big ol' head?"
"You know I'm fiiiine," she sang. "But how are you though? You eating good? Getting enough sleep?"
"Yeah…" I hesitated. "I guess."
"Don't guess and get that food down your stomach!" she roared. "You gon' lose all your curves and be bones and all!"
Her laugh exploded through the phone—ugly, loud, completely unladylike. And somehow, it wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. Nella's laugh wasn't pretty, but it was the most satisfying sound in the world. It reminded me that joy still existed somewhere.
"Oh—and I didn't get to thank you properly for yesterday," I added. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."
"Yesterday?" she asked.
Something shifted. The amusement drained from her voice so fast it made my chest tighten.
"Last night," I said lightly. "At the club. Duh."
"Brenda…" she said slowly. "I didn't go to no club. And I haven't seen you for the past three days."
I laughed, but it sounded wrong. Hollow.
"Quit playing, Nella. But for real—thank you."
Silence swallowed the call.
Heavy. Deafening.
And then it hit me.
It wasn't her.
If she didn't bring me home… then—
"If you didn't bring me home, then…" My voice trailed off.
I hung up before she could respond. Panic crept in, cold and sharp. My only goal was getting home—now.
The house greeted me with stillness.
"Damn cameras," I hissed.
They were off.
All of them.
I didn't remember switching them off. That realization made my stomach drop. My heart pounded as I moved through the house, every shadow suspicious, every creak too loud. I searched everywhere—drawers, closets, corners—half-expecting to find something stolen… or worse, something planted.
But everything was exactly where it should've been.
Untouched.
"Well… thank you," I muttered under my breath. "I guess."
To the stranger who wasn't even there—but had somehow been very there.
"I'm sorry I haven't been here for some time," I said softly. "I've been really busy."
"You gotta stop overworking yourself," Kenny replied, smiling as she reached up to caress my cheek. "You're gonna get sick."
I nodded.
But the truth was—I hadn't just been busy.
I had been crying myself dry.
After eating, Kenny passed me her plate, greens wiped clean. Everyone else waited patiently for the cheesecake. Laughter floated around the atmosphere, warm and familiar.
"So tell me," Kenny said, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Tell you… what?"
"Oh come on," she giggled. "I'm talking about that delicious white meat you came with last time!"
I stiffened—but I smiled. Controlled it. Mask on.
"He's on a business trip," I lied smoothly. "Bulgaria."
"Good," she said. And then—she started tearing up.
The contradiction startled me.
"How is that good news if you're crying?" I asked, panic threading through my voice. "Kenny… what happened?"
She removed the fleece blanket from her thighs and handed it to me. Took a deep breath. I felt it coming before it happened.
"Kenny," I warned softly.
Shaking, she stood.
One step.
Then another.
Four steps forward.
Then back to the wheelchair.
My vision blurred instantly. My throat closed.
She could walk.
"When did this happen?" I cried, hugging her tightly. "How? Why didn't you tell me?"
"It was a week ago," she said through tears. "After my appointment, I just… tried. And by God's grace, I walked to the bathroom by myself."
Her voice trembled with disbelief.
"I called the doctor because the miracle was too big," she continued. "He examined me and told me to take small steps every day. My legs aren't fully strong yet—but I'm getting there."
She grabbed my hands, eyes shining.
"After all this time, Brenda… I can walk again. I can rebuild my life."
That was it.
I broke.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on like she was proof that hope still lived in this cruel world. That something could heal. That not everything was taken.
At least…
At least there was good news today.
And for the first time in hours—maybe days—I let myself believe that pain wasn't the end of the story.