of Viktor’s name, but once that’s gone I’m left only with determination.
“I’m not afraid,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”
He nods, then twists the key in the lock before pushing the door open. “Then come and claim what’s yours.”
The room is dark, with only the light of a few lamps casting a muted, yellow glow. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of blood, piss, and unwashed male, but manage to keep my breakfast down as I look around. The walls are lined with implements of torture, each one likely holding the story of someone’s suffering, phantom drops of their blood worked into the metal and wood.
A surgical-style table takes up the middle of the room with rust-colored stains left in the metal, straps and buckles hanging down the sides. It’s a torture chamber, pure and simple—a place to punish traitors and enemies, and extract answers from prisoners of war.
The old Elena would have gagged at the evidence of someone’s torture, turned away and avoided taking in the truth of what belonging to this world means. But the woman I am now—the mafia queen whose edges have been sharpened and honed to razor-like points takes it all in. This is where I want to be, where the real work happens. This is where our enemies are brought to take their final breaths.
Diego closes the door behind us, and I turn to find that we aren’t alone. On the far side of the room is a chair with more of the buckles and straps attached to it. They’re holding a man captive, his hair turned strawberry-colored from blood, his face a mass of mottled bruising. His clothing has been stripped away, and his body is a tapestry of black, purple, and red wounds … of the violence my husband and his men have inflicted.
“Wake up, pendejo,” Diego bellows, startling him an out of his stupor.
He raises his head and I catch sight of his face, revulsion and hatred welling up in me so fast I almost choke on it. His face is nearly unrecognizable—his nose broken and twisted, his lips puffy, his left cheek marked with a furious burn—the image of a charred, black cross entwined with barbed wire seared into his skin. But it’s his eyes that remain the same—narrow blue slits that burn into me with derision and lust. He grunts around a dirty gag splitting his lips, and I know he would call me every foul name in the book if he could.
“Viktor,” I hiss from between my teeth. “You told me he was dead.”
“No,” Diego replies, his hands falling onto my shoulders from behind. “I told you he was taken care of … and he has been. My first instinct was to beat him to death with my bare hands. My men wanted to extract his teeth one by one and cut off his balls before feeding them to him. None of us was willing to let him get away with what he did to you without paying for it with his life. But then I realized … his life doesn’t belong to me, gatita. He might have betrayed me and killed some of my men, but he violated you. He took you from your home and subjected you to unspeakable abuse. It’s the reason he’s still alive … because it’s only right that you be the one to make him really pay.”
Diego’s words hypnotize me out of my anger and into a new place I’ve recently discovered. A place where my dark side comes out to play. My blood rushes and my skin tingles at the thought of having Viktor at my mercy, helpless to defend himself against my twisted impulses.
“You marked him,” I say, indicating the cross branded into his cheek. “That’s the mark of shame … everyone who looks at him will know that he betrayed La Familia. That means you intend to leave him alive.”
“Yes, only because men like this need to be made an example of. Executing someone who offends us is a handy way to ensure they won’t do it again … but turning them into the shame of the mafia world is the best way to make sure others think twice before crossing us.”
I nod slowly, understanding his philosophy even if part of me rebels at the idea of leaving Viktor alive. But then, Diego never said he has to be left in one piece.
“You’re still owed your pound of flesh,” he murmurs against my ear, sweeping one arm toward the