Chapter Four

Alessia's POV

No one answered my question.

Father broke the silence first, his tone impatient. "Here we go again. Every time acting like we're trying to harm you. It's just a trial. Rocco found you the best doctor in Valentia. What could go wrong?"

Mother released Chiara's hand and glared at me. "Are you playing games again? Wasn't the Viktor incident embarrassing enough? Go get ready and don't be late."

Rocco pulled a key from his pocket—silver with a Lamborghini logo—and set it on the coffee table, pushing it toward me. "When you come back, it's yours."

I stared at the key. Once he'd given me a car—a black bulletproof sports car, license plate 0824, my birthday. The glass was custom-made for me. It was his first gift, the first evidence I thought he loved me. Later Mother told me to give it to Chiara because Chiara wasn't safe. I gave it up. Now Rocco was using a new car to coax me into compliance—like coaxing a dog that wouldn't get on the operating table.

"Okay," I said.

No one noticed how empty that okay sounded.

The whole family took me to the hospital—or rather, they were taking Chiara's hope there.

Mother held Chiara's hand the entire way, repeatedly confirming Dr. Ferretti's contact was saved. Father drove, eyes in the rearview mirror fixed on Chiara, making sure she stayed calm. Rocco sat in front, quietly listening to Mother describe how Chiara would recover after the trial succeeded, her tone carrying certainty that good news was coming.

Five people in the car. Four with only one topic: Chiara.

I sat in the corner of the back seat, watching street scenes retreat outside the window. No one spoke to me.

The car stopped at an unmarked gray building in the suburbs.

Father didn't turn off the engine. Mother rolled down her window. "Don't cause us trouble."

Chiara never looked up at me.

Rocco carried my bag to the front steps, like setting down stored luggage.

The door opened. A man in a white coat emerged—Dr. Ferretti, around fifty. He nodded toward the car. "Mr. Benedetti, Mr. Vitale, leave her to me."

Chiara looked up then, gazing at Ferretti through the window. Their eyes met for less than a second—too familiar, like acquaintances who'd met many times pretending to be strangers in public. Then they looked away as if nothing had happened.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something.

"Let's go." Rocco had already turned back to the car.

The door closed, engine sound faded. They had to rush to Rossi Bay—the ocean suite was booked, vacation couldn't wait. As the taillights disappeared, I still stood on the steps, suddenly wanting to laugh. Even when sending me to die in Chiara's place, they arranged it as the first stop of their vacation.

Ferretti said behind me, "Follow me."

He led me to the innermost room—white tiles, stainless steel table, disinfectant and chemical smells mixed together. A nurse used leather restraints to secure my wrists and ankles, then left.

Ferretti approached with a syringe containing murky dark red liquid.

No anesthesia, no explanation.

The moment the needle pierced my neck, it felt like molten lead pouring into my veins.

Pain exploded from the injection site, like red-hot wire threading through every inch of my body. My spine arched, restraints cut into my flesh, my mouth released the hoarse wail of a dying animal. My bones were burning, organs convulsing, every cell screaming.

First day I vomited blood four times. Second day the dosage increased, liquid turned dark purple, I lost consciousness. Third day an injection in my spine—my entire spinal column felt ripped out and shoved back in. I bit through the rubber guard, my tongue split by my own teeth. Fourth day I started hallucinating, eyes swollen shut.

Five days. Not one person came to see me.

I was like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board. Except the butterfly was dead and I was still alive—still in pain.

On the fifth evening, as the last injection was pushed in, my heartbeat slowed. One beat. Another beat. Like a clock running dry, swinging farther away.

Then I couldn't hear anything anymore.

After death my soul floated out of my body.

I found myself standing beside the table, looking down—blue-purple lips, sunken eye sockets, bruised black around the needle marks. Burns and bruises overlapped on the arms, whip marks showing from the collar, blood on the steel table dried dark brown.

So this was what I looked like dead.

Much quieter than when alive.

Ferretti panicked when the heart monitor flatlined. He slapped my face, compressed my chest, pried open my eyelids—pupils dilated. He stumbled toward the phone, fingers trembling as he dialed Mother's number.

"Mrs. Vitale, something happened. Alessia, she has no heartbeat—"

On the other end came waves and Chiara's laughter, Father saying something in the background. Mother's voice was languid, clearly impatient. "Dr. Ferretti, are you trying to scam us? I've seen all you doctors' tricks."

"No, please listen—" Ferretti's voice was already breaking.

Father's voice cut in, tone cold and hard. "Doctor, I don't care what happened. Just tell me—was the trial successful?"

Then came Rocco's voice, colder than Father's, like an ice-tempered blade. "Dr. Ferretti, if Alessia's trial isn't successful, I'll let you experience the Benedetti family's methods first."

The other end fell into brief silence, only waves crashing remained.

Ferretti's hand holding the receiver trembled violently. After hanging up he stared at my corpse and suddenly cursed. "Damn it, why did she have to die? I was counting on this money to buy a house in Valentia."

But fear quickly drowned frustration. He frantically wheeled over a gurney and dragged me to the abandoned basement storage like medical waste, haphazardly covering me with broken boxes and moldy sheets. As he closed the door, rats scurried in the corner.

He rushed back to the operating room and frantically cleaned up—medical records, data, personal items all stuffed into his briefcase. In his panic his passport fell out. My soul drifted over and saw the name under the photo: Robert Hayes.

No one knew this so-called trial was nothing but conspiracy orchestrated by Chiara herself.

All to hold onto our parents' love and seize the position of Mrs. Benedetti.

I returned to that stinking storage room, keeping watch beside myself, watching my corpse get gnawed by rats, skin rotting and oozing pus, maggots burrowing in and out of wounds. One day, two days, ten days. Time lost meaning in the darkness.

Until the thirteenth evening, voices finally echoed in the hallway.

"Where's Dr. Ferretti? Why isn't he here?" Father's voice, tinged with dissatisfaction.

"Is the trial even finished?" Mother raised her voice. "We don't even know if it was successful. Chiara's still waiting."