Chapter 5 He Is a Psycho
ELARA
The smell reached me before the room did.
Sharp. Sterile. Wrong.
It slid into my lungs, burned the back of my throat, and settled heavy in my chest, like a warning my body understood before my mind caught up. My feet barely touched the floor as they dragged me forward. I stumbled, knees buckling, but rough hands tightened, hauling me upright again.
The door slammed shut behind us.
The sound echoed. Final.
Light exploded in my eyes bright, white, unforgiving. I squeezed them shut, then forced them open as stainless steel trays came into focus along the walls. Polished. Perfect.
Instruments laid out with cruel precision.
I didn’t need to know their names.
My heart slammed against my ribs, wild and desperate.
“No please” My voice cracked as they shoved me backward.
Cold metal met my spine. The operating table bit through my clothes, straight into bone. I tried to sit up, panic surging, but hands forced me flat.
Metal snapped shut around my wrists.
The sound rang in my skull.
Chains.
My breath came too fast, scraping my lungs raw. The ceiling swam above me, white bleeding into white.
Two doctors stood nearby.
They didn’t look at my face.
They pulled on gloves slowly, snapping latex into place. Calm. Controlled. Like this was routine.
Like I was nothing.
Just a body.
A task.
“Please,” I sobbed. “Please let me go. I swear I won’t bother you again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for five years ago. I don’t love you anymore. I swear it. Please just let me go.”
The words spilled out, tangled and desperate. I knew they meant nothing even as I said them.
Then the room changed.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
A presence.
I turned my head.
Sandro stood a few steps away.
Watching.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t react. My tears, my shaking, my fear none of it touched him. His face was smooth, carved from ice, eyes empty of anything human.
No anger. No hesitation.
That calm had always scared me more than rage.
“I don’t want to see any scars on her body,” he said flatly. “Remove the bastard. No marks.”
For a second, the words didn’t make sense.
Then they did.
The world stopped.
“Yes, sir,” the doctors answered together.
Something inside me shattered.
“No!” I screamed, jerking violently against the restraints. The chains rattled, biting into my wrists. “No, please! Sandro, don’t do this. My child my child is innocent. Please. I’m begging you.”
Tears soaked my hair, my neck, the freezing table beneath me. My stomach twisted violently, nausea and terror crashing together.
He moved.
Each step toward me was slow. Measured. Like time itself was bending to him.
His hand fisted in my hair and yanked my head back.
Pain exploded across my scalp, white and blinding.
“Don’t ever call me Sandro again,” he said quietly.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Cold. Sharp. Gone.
“From now on,” he continued, voice absolute, “you will call me Master.”
“No—please—” My head shook uselessly.
“You don’t deserve to live.”
He let go.
My head hit the table with a dull crack, stars bursting behind my eyes. Before I could breathe, he turned away.
Toward the door.
“You’re my brother’s best friend!” I screamed. “Why are you doing this to me?”
His hand paused on the handle.
Hope flickered weak, stupid.
Then the door opened.
Closed.
I was alone.
My chest heaved as I stared at the two masked figures. Their eyes were flat.
Unmoved.
“Please,” I whispered. “My name is Elara. I’m a Moretti. Ask my parents. Ask my brother.
They’ll give you anything. Please.”
The restraints burned as I pulled against them.
One of the doctors stepped closer.
Glass clinked softly.
My gaze locked on the syringe, the clear liquid inside catching the light.
“No,” I cried. “Please don’t hurt my baby.
Please”
Hands pinned my arm.
The needle slid in.
Cold spread through my vein, heavy and fast.
“No,” I whispered as the room tilted. “Don’t fall asleep, Elara. Don’t”
Darkness took me.
I screamed awake.
My body jolted upright, breath tearing from my chest. I looked around wildly.
A bed. Soft sheets. Dim light.
Not the operating room.
My hands flew to my stomach.
Flat.
Empty.
The sound that left me wasn’t human.
“No,” I whispered. “No… my baby…”
I folded forward, clutching myself, rocking as grief tore through me in brutal waves.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “Mommy couldn’t protect you.”
The door opened.
I felt him before I saw him.
Sandro stood there.
Watching.
“Why?” I asked, lifting my head. “Why are you doing this to me? I never hurt you.”
His lips curved.
“You should be grateful,” he said. “I let you live. I didn’t kill you the way I killed your brother.”
The words hollowed me out.
“What…?” My voice barely existed.
He sat beside me, close enough that my skin crawled.
Then he leaned in.
“What would you say,” he murmured, “if I made you kill your parents with your own hands?”
My body recoiled, terror flooding every nerve.
He smiled.
“Non sarebbe divertente?” he whispered.
“Voglio vedere la tua faccia dopo che avrai ucciso i tuoi genitori con le tue stesse mani.”
