Chapter 2 - The Breathing in the Dark
The cold air of the hidden cell clung to my skin like frost. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm echoing the metallic drips of moisture somewhere in the subterranean depths beneath the Rossi estate.
When the sound of that ragged, shallow breathing reached my ears from the pitch-black corner behind the bolted hospital bed, every drop of blood in my body froze.
“Grace?” I whispered, my voice cracking, tearing through the silence.
I spun around, my boots scraping against the concrete floor. My hands, still clenched white around her wedding ring, reached out blindly into the gloom. My fingers brushed against cold iron bars and peeling plaster, searching for a light switch, a cord, anything.
A soft, whimpering intake of breath answered me. It was fragile, barely human, like a bird trapped in a suffocating cage.
I found the wall panel, slapped my palm against the toggle switch, and fluorescent overhead tubes flickered to life with a harsh, buzzing hum. The blinding glare made me squint, but when my eyes adjusted, the sight before me shattered my soul.
Tucked into the far corner, wedged between the iron frame of the bolted hospital bed and a damp stone wall, was a figure draped in a stained, oversized white sheet. Her hair, once long and radiant, was matted and tangled. Her face was deathly pale, sunken cheeks shadowed by deep, violet bruises of exhaustion and malnourishment.
And her belly—heavy, swollen, nine months pregnant—distorted the fabric of her makeshift gown.
“Julian?” a voice rasped, so dry and broken I barely recognized it as my wife’s. She pressed her hands over her eyes, shrinking away from the light as if it were a physical blow. “No... no, please. Don’t let her hurt me again. I took the medicine... I was good. Please...”
“Grace!”
I dropped to my knees, sliding across the dusty floor, and threw myself in front of her. I reached out, my hands hovering desperately, terrified that if I touched her, she would shatter like glass.
“Julian?” She lowered her trembling hands a fraction of an inch, her bloodshot eyes peering through her tangled hair. When she saw my face—not a hallucination, not a trick of her fading sanity, but me—a sob tore from her throat that sounded like tearing metal. “You... you came back. You came back for us.”
“I’m here. I’m right here, sweetheart,” I choked out, wrapping my arms around her emaciated frame, pulling her carefully against my chest. She was shaking so violently I could feel every bone in her back. I buried my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of dust, stale medicine, and her lingering, familiar vanilla. “I’m sorry. God forgive me, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
She clutched the lapels of my jacket with fingers that were little more than skin and bone, her knuckles bruised and scabbed.
“Your mother...” she gasped, her words tumbling over one another in a frantic, paranoid rush. “She locked me down here the week you left for Europe. She said... she said you found a new life, that you sent word you were never coming back for a mafia bride. She brought me food once a day. She told me if I ever screamed, she’d let the baby die inside me.”
Every word she spoke poured liquid fire directly into my veins. The rage building inside me was no longer a human emotion; it was an apocalyptic force.
“She told me you left,” I whispered, my voice dropping into a deadly, chilling register. “She put your wedding ring in the empty crib upstairs to make me think you abandoned our child.”
Grace flinched, staring up at me with horror in her eyes. “She... she took my ring on the third day. She said I didn't deserve it anymore.”
Before I could answer, a heavy metallic clang echoed from the top of the concrete stairs outside the cell door.
Clack. Click.
Heavy footsteps began to descend into the subterranean dark.
Grace froze, her eyes widening in sheer terror as she clawed at my chest. “She’s back. Julian, she’s coming! If she finds you here, she’ll kill us both!”
I slowly stood up, letting Grace sink back against the wall. I reached inside my coat, my fingers wrapping around the cold, steel grip of my custom Sig Sauer pistol. I pulled the slide back with a sharp, crisp clack, chambering a hollow-point round.
The footsteps stopped just outside the heavy steel door.
May you like
A smooth, chillingly calm voice cut through the damp air of the corridor.
“I told you months ago, my son,” Elena Rossi’s voice echoed, cold and devoid of maternal warmth. “You should have stayed in Europe. Some doors are better left unopened.”
