Chapter 77: "A Cousin To Kill"
Aren found herself drifting through a dream.
In that dream, she stood alone in the center of a subterranean bunker, a thermal detonator resting in her palm.
Through her earpiece, the voice of her Operative Head exploded into her ears with a desperation she had never heard from him before.
"No! Aren! Do not prime it! This is no time to be heroic or childish! Get out of there — NOW!"
Oddly enough, Aren felt calm. Calmer than she had any right to be.
"I’m sorry, Chief," she said softly. "I’ve run the calculations. The conclusion suggests this is the only way."
"NO, AREN!" the older man roared.
For a moment, he no longer sounded like the stern commander who had trained her, criticized her, and dragged her through years of impossible missions.
He sounded like a father watching his daughter walk toward her death — and regretting too late he had ever given her this mission to begin with.
"DO NOT! I REPEAT — DO NOT!"
A faint smile touched Aren’s lips.
Even now, he was still trying to protect her. Still the closest thing she had ever had to a parent.
"Thank you for raising me, Chief," she murmured. "I hope someone’s helping the kitchen with dinner tonight in my place."
She removed the earpiece, leaving the Operative Head shouting into nothingness.
Her thumb pressed down on the ignition switch as she braced herself for the inevitable.
The explosion never came.
Instead—
SMACK!
A brutal impact smashed into the side of her face.
The dream shattered instantly.
Before her thoughts could gather themselves, another rough palm struck her from the opposite side.
SMACK!
Then another.
SMACK!
The blows snapped her head from side to side. The lingering warmth of the dream evaporated, replaced by cold air, the smell of damp concrete, and the metallic taste of blood gathering in her mouth.
Somewhere beyond the ringing in her ears, another sound suddenly cut through the haze. Strange enough, it sounded like Caio’s voice.
The sound was compressed and distorted, as though coming through a speakerphone, but the fury behind it was unmistakable.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"
His roar felt powerful enough to shake the room itself.
"STOP HITTING HER!"
Unfortunately, no matter how murderous he sounded, the violence didn’t stop. Another slap crashed straight into her face.
SMACK!
"FUCKING SHOW YOUR COWARD FACE TO ME!"
SMACK!
"FIGHT ME MAN TO MAN!"
Another blow.
SMACK!
The force sent sparks dancing behind Aren’s closed eyelids.
Through the stinging pain, realization slowly dawned on her.
’Ah...’
’They’re using me to pressure Don Caio.’
Just as the thought left her mind, she heard a man’s laughter echoed across the open room.
"HA HA HA HA HA!"
The voice sounded rich, amused, and sickeningly pleased by the situation.
"Don’t blame me, Caio," the man said. "You asked to speak to her. Unfortunately, our beautiful lady is still too deeply asleep to hold a proper conversation. So I’m letting you see her instead."
The speaker stood somewhere farther away, far enough that Aren could tell he wasn’t the one delivering the blows.
His voice was young, smooth, and polished, carrying the distinctive accent common among Borgata’s wealthy criminal elite, and it made something deep within her memory stir.
’This voice...’
’I’ve heard it before.’
’But where...?’
She searched frantically through her memories, but nothing surfaced. Every instinct urged her to open her eyes and steal a glance at the speaker, but another thought stopped her.
’No.’
’If they realize I’m awake, they’ll escalate the violence.’
’I’ve seen this before.’
’The point isn’t hurting me.’
’The point is making him watch.’
With that conclusion reached, Aren remained completely limp against the chair as the next barrage of slaps rained down upon her.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Across the city, on the opposite side of the video call, Caio was rapidly losing whatever remained of his composure.
His fist slammed into the conference table hard enough to rattle everything sitting atop it.
BANG!
Then again.
BANG!
And again.
BANG!
The wood groaned beneath the impact as blood split across his knuckles, but he felt none of it.
The sight of Aren slumped unconscious in that chair, blood smeared through her hair while some random bastard used her as leverage against him, was slowly turning his vision red.
He wanted to reach through the screen. Wanted to tear every bastard in that warehouse apart with his bare hands. Wanted to peel the skin from their bodies inch by inch.
Yet he also knew rage solved nothing.
Not while she remained in their hands.
His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths as the last scraps of reason in his mind fought their way through the fury.
At last, he forced the words out.
"...Please."
The single word scraped against his throat.
Raw.
Painful.
"Stop."
His voice broke.
"...Stop hurting her."
Silence descended over the conference room.
Around him, soldiers and capos exchanged uneasy glances. None of them had ever heard the word "please" leave Caio Sartori’s mouth.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the call, Gael Sartori felt a powerful, intoxicating thrill shoot through him.
For over a year, he had dreamed of killing his cousin. Planned it. Obsessed over it. Endured being overshadowed by him, dismissed by him, treated as lesser by him.
And now?
That same man — the mighty Caio Sartori, the untouchable golden heir everyone admired — was standing on the other side of a phone line begging for mercy.
The satisfaction was indescribable.
Smiling broadly, Gael lifted a hand to halt the men surrounding Aren.
The violence finally came to a stop.
"See, Caio?" Gael said pleasantly. "That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Had you been this obedient from the start, we wouldn’t have had to go this far."
On the other end of the call, a small measure of relief eased through Caio. It was a pitiful thing to cling to, but in that moment he would have taken any victory, no matter how insignificant.
Keeping the same agonizingly submissive tone, he forced himself to proceed with extreme caution.
"Give me an address, and I’ll come to the grid. No tactical soldiers. No capos. No capos. Just me. Exactly what you wanted."
The satisfaction in Gael’s voice was impossible to miss.
"Come to the old meatpacking plant on Fourth Street. Moretti District."
Bound to the chair, Aren’s attention sharpened instantly.
’Wait. That doesn’t sound right.’
If she were truly inside an abandoned meat-processing facility, the air would carry certain scents no amount of time could erase — old blood soaked into concrete, rusting metal, stale iron, the lingering scent of rot embedded deep within the walls.
Yet, she caught absolutely none of that.
The air around her was sharp and chemical, heavy with chlorine, sulfur, and industrial disinfectants.
More than that, she could feel a faint vibration traveling through the concrete floor and up the legs of the chair: a deep mechanical thrum pulsing with remarkable consistency every four seconds.
’This is a water treatment facility.’
’Or a filtration plant.’
’Definitely not a meatpacking plant.’
A knot tightened in her chest.
’Oh no.’
’They’re feeding him the wrong location.’
’They’re going to turn him into frozen meat by Monday.’
Despite the alarm surging through her, she remained motionless. Information was still more valuable than action. For now, listening was the better weapon.
Through the speaker, Caio’s voice came again, confirming the location.
"The meatpacking plant? On Fourth Street?"
"Midnight sharp," Gael replied smoothly. "Arrive late, and you can prepare to receive a corpse at your front door."
Satisfied with the exchange, he ended the call before Caio could push for more details. Gael knew his cousin far too well. Given enough time, Caio could turn a conversation into an interrogation, and an interrogation into an advantage.
Better to leave him desperate, blind, and running toward the wrong destination.
The line went dead.
Silence settled across the vast room, broken only by the measured click of polished shoes against concrete.
Gael approached Aren at an unhurried pace, each step echoing faintly through the facility. Stopping in front of her, he reached down and gripped her chin, turning her face from side to side as though inspecting a valuable purchase.
After a moment, he released a regretful sigh.
"Such a waste," he murmured. "A pretty face like this getting smashed up because of you, Caio." His lips curled into a sly smile. "Though I suppose that pretty face belongs to me now."
Several feet behind him, Daria finally stepped forward. Her expression remained obedient, but her eyes lingered on the fingers touching Aren’s chin a fraction longer than necessary.
"What would you like done with her, Boss?" she asked. "Should I get rid of her?"
Gael’s smile widened slightly.
"Not yet."
The answer seemed to disappoint Daria.
"Why not?" she pressed. "Once Caio Sartori arrives, he’ll be dead. She’s the Lombardi heiress. Keeping her alive could turn House Lombardi against us. Against you."
Gael folded his arms and studied the unconscious girl before him.
"The fact that she’s the Lombardi heiress is exactly why she stays alive. After Caio dies, she becomes useful."
His gaze sharpened thoughtfully.
"Don Gian is weak. Emotional. Desperate. With her in our hands, there are plenty of opportunities. Access agreements. Political leverage. Perhaps even the entire Lombardi district."
He paused, then chuckled.
"And frankly, this isn’t the first time Caio has slipped through my fingers. I’d rather keep an insurance policy nearby in case my dear cousin finds another miracle escape."
Daria lowered her head.
"...Understood."
She shifted uneasily before asking,
"What do you want me to do with her for now?"
Gael’s eyes drifted over Aren again, and this time there was nothing strategic in his gaze.
It was something uglier.
Filthier.
Hungrier.
"Bring her to the observation deck upstairs. In the meantime..." His smile turned predatory. "Until I become the next Sartori Don, I suppose I can entertain myself a little with this pretty doll."
A flicker of tension crossed Daria’s face before she buried it immediately.
"Yes, Boss."
"Good girl." Gael patted her shoulder casually, the way one might reward a loyal dog. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cousin to kill."
With that, he strode out of the room with a group of men trailing behind him, leaving several others with Daria. The instant the door shut with a metallic boom, the atmosphere inside the pump room changed.
The pleasant obedience vanished from Daria’s face completely.
She spun toward Aren and crossed the room with startling speed. Before any of the remaining guards could react, her hand lashed out.
SMACK!
Aren’s head snapped to the side.
SMACK!
The second strike landed even harder.
SMACK!
The third echoed across the room.
"This bitch," Daria hissed through clenched teeth. "Nothing but a spoiled personality and a pretty face! Everywhere she goes, everyone’s looking at her! Everyone’s talking about her!"
One of the guards winced. "Whoa. Easy."
Another shifted uneasily. "Daria, calm down. You heard the Boss."
"Yeah," a third added. "Damage the merchandise and we’re all getting buried."
For a moment, Daria looked ready to ignore them. Then reason finally overcame emotion. She stepped back with a furious exhale, though the hatred still burned openly in her eyes.
"Fine."
Her gaze remained fixed on Aren.
"But get this bitch upstairs before I lose my patience and smash that face into minced meat."
She pointed sharply at the ropes securing Aren to the chair.
"And don’t get sloppy. She looks harmless, but she isn’t. Don’t loosen those restraints. Don’t fiddle with them. If you give her even half a chance, you’ll die without understanding what happened."
The guards exchanged amused glances, more entertained than warned.
"Sure," one replied dismissively.
Another snorted. "You don’t need to tell us twice."
Together, the two men moved forward. Gripping the chair itself, they lifted Aren exactly as she was — bound hand and foot, secured tightly to the wooden frame — and carried her toward the stairwell leading up to the observation deck.
Throughout it all, Aren remained limp and motionless, her eyes closed and her breathing slow beneath the sedative. Only inside her head did her thoughts continue to move.
’...A cousin to kill?’
’Ah... I remember now.’
’Gael Sartori.’
