Chapter Three

Alessia's POV

Rocco personally delivered me to Viktor.

Viktor's men gripped my arms and shoved me into the black SUV. Forty minutes of driving, not a single word spoken.

The convoy stopped at a gray building. As I was dragged out, I realized Rocco had come along. He and Viktor stood by the Maybach. Viktor offered a cigar. Rocco took it. They smoked leisurely, exchanging low words. Rocco even smiled—faint, brief, but I saw it clearly.

The cigars burned out. Rocco flicked ash from his cuff, patted Viktor's shoulder, got in his car, and drove away. He never once looked at me.

The iron door closed behind me.

Viktor stopped before me, looking down coldly. He didn't know I was Alessia. He thought I was Chiara—the woman who'd stolen from him and vanished for two years.

"Where are they?" His voice froze the basement. "The blood diamonds, the codebook, my late wife's ring—where did you hide them?"

I had no idea what he meant. No one had told me what Chiara took. Rocco hadn't said. Father hadn't said. Chiara never would. I'd been thrown into a trial I knew nothing about.

"I don't know."

Viktor's expression didn't change, but the ice in his eyes cracked. He leaned close. I could smell his cold cologne.

"One more chance," he said. "Hand them over and I'll spare your life for Rocco's sake." He paused, lips curling mockingly. "You've got nerve—sleeping with your own brother-in-law. You've made the Vitale family a laughingstock."

I could tell him I wasn't Chiara. But Rocco had delivered me here, my parents wanted me gone, and no one cared if I'd survive. What good would explaining do?

"I really don't know."

Viktor straightened and gestured to his men. "She doesn't want to talk. Help her remember."

The first three days: psychological torture.

The basement had no windows. I judged time by interrogation intervals. They came in shifts asking the same question. I gave the same answer. Each response earned a slap or my hair yanked back, forcing me to stare into that blinding bulb. No food, just enough water to stay conscious. They wouldn't let me pass out. Unconscious meant no pain.

Viktor came occasionally. He never touched me, just sat smoking, watching with bone-cold eyes, waiting for a trapped animal to gnaw off its own leg.

Day four: they got serious.

The whip cracked across my back. Pain exploded—not a line but a sheet of fire. Skin split, blood soaked through my shirt and stuck to wounds. When air hit, fresh agony followed. I bit through my lip but when the cigarette pressed into my arm, I shrieked. Burning flesh filled the sealed basement.

Viktor stood in the corner, hands in pockets, expressionless. When his men paused he said: "Continue. Don't let her die too quickly."

Day six: he changed tactics.

I was tied to a chair, eyelids forced open with tape, facing a screen—footage of Chiara and Viktor having sex. The woman wore my exact face, smiling, seductive, tangled with Viktor.

"Look closely," he said, voice venomous. "This is what you look like being a whore. Can't remember? Let me help you."

"I'm not—" Pain exploded from my ribs. Bone cracked like kindling, then a second, a third. Tears poured from my pried-open eyes—not from pain but absurdity. I was bearing another woman's sins while she lay in her soft bed, treasured by everyone.

On the seventh day, Rocco bought me out with three underground casinos.

When I was dragged home, my back was lashed raw, arms covered in burns, three ribs broken, every breath like swallowing glass.

Rocco's face darkened—not with concern but anger. "What did you say to Viktor? He told the Brennan family about Chiara. They're calling off the engagement. Do you know how much damage you've caused?"

I had no strength to answer.

My parents came running. Mother's gaze swept over me once.

"What if Viktor had killed you?" Mother shrieked. "Who would do the drug trials for Chiara? You'd be dead—what about Chiara?"

"If it weren't for Chiara, why would Rocco trade three casinos for you? Three casinos! Is your life worth three casinos?"

I leaned against the doorframe, broken ribs like blades in my lungs. No one helped me.

Father took a call. When he hung up, his face broke into a smile. "Good news—the lab confirmed it. We can proceed in one week!"

Mother clutched Chiara's hand. "That's wonderful darling! You'll be well soon."

One week from now, an experimental drug would be injected into me to test Chiara's path to recovery. I had less than a month to live.

I thought back to our birth. Chiara came first, crying loud and clear. At that moment the family received news of a major deal. Everyone said she brought fortune.

Fifteen minutes later came my turn—the delivery room lost power. Mother hemorrhaged, her heart stopped, I was stuck in the birth canal. When the doctor pulled me out I was blue, not breathing, like dead flesh. They pressed my chest once, twice, three times before I squeezed out a weak cry. Mother had been dead three minutes before they brought her back.

From that day on, Chiara was treasure. I was curse.

For twenty-five years I'd tried to prove I was worthy of love too. Now I was finally tired.

Fine. I could finally give them what they wanted.

Still, I couldn't help wondering—when I died, would they be sad? Even for a second?

Never mind. Whether they loved me didn't matter anymore.

The trial day came quickly.

That morning Mother held Chiara's hand planning their future. "Once you're better, Mama will find you a family even better than the Brennans."

Chiara glanced at Rocco—brief and greedy, confirming some unspoken promise. Rocco said nothing, only lowered his gaze.

Father announced cheerfully, "Once we send Alessia in, we'll vacation in Rossi Bay and wait for good news."

I stood in the corner, bandage seeping dark red. No one looked at me. No one asked if I hurt. They were discussing which hotel to book.

"If I die..." My voice sounded unfamiliar. So soft, so flat, like a leaf falling on a noisy table. "Would you be sad?"