HIS

Chapter 44

We're taken to what looks like an abandoned factory—its age and neglect written in every rusted beam and crumbling wall. The roof is riddled with holes, the largest letting in rain that's pooled into shallow puddles across the cracked concrete floor. The air reeks of rat urine and calling it cold would be an understatement; the chill bites through everything.

We've been locked up and bound for what feels like five hours, give or take. The sun has already risen—its pale rays filtering through the jagged holes in the roof, casting eerie patterns on the grimy floor. At least they removed our blindfolds when they shoved us in here like animals. Small mercies, I suppose.

Domenico sat a few meters away from me, slumped in a rusted metal chair bolted to the floor. His hands were still bound behind his back, his ankles strapped tightly to the chair legs. For hours now—maybe five—they'd been taking turns beating him, fifteen minutes at a time, every hour like clockwork. And they made sure I watched every second. His face was a mess of blood and bruises, a deep gash at his hairline still oozing, and his right eye was swollen completely shut.

Every thirty minutes or so, drifting in and out of consciousness, Domenico manages to ask if I'm okay—if I'm holding up in this freezing cold. I know he's worried, not just for me, but for the baby. But as much as he's concerned about us, I can't stop worrying about him. He's the one being brutalized, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. We're trapped, and there's no easy way out. Still, I force a reassuring smile and tell him I'm fine—because someone has to hold on to hope in this nightmare.

My mind won't stop racing—it's true what they say: your thoughts can become your worst enemy. Watching Domenico like this tears me apart. I feel helpless, useless, like I'm failing him. The light that used to shine in his eyes fades a little more with each brutal round they unleash on him. They don't hold back—not even close. Their beatings are savage, and they've even used rusted metal poles to strike him. How he's still breathing after everything they've done is beyond me. I can't understand it, but somehow, he's still hanging on.

They know they'd never stand a chance if Domenico weren't tied down—cowards. Seeing him like this, so vulnerable and defenseless, breaks something inside me. But I refuse to let despair win. They probably think his injuries make escape impossible, but they've underestimated the wrong person. They didn't even bother searching me before tying us up, assuming I'm just some fragile doll. Fortunately, I came prepared for the worst. The joke's on them—they have no idea what I'm capable of.

I can feel the ropes loosening bit by bit as I keep working at them—slow progress, but progress, nonetheless. My mind is racing, trying to piece together how many people might be patrolling this place and who exactly is behind our kidnapping. I need answers, not just for now, but for when we make our move—because we will escape. They think Domenico's injuries make us weak, but they've overlooked me. That mistake will cost them.

My wrists are probably raw or bleeding by now—I can feel the sting of cold air brushing against the exposed skin every time the breeze slips through the cracks. Earlier, I had to relieve myself, but the cold is so intense I can barely feel anything anymore, despite the sun being up. This place is like a freezer wrapped in rust and misery.

Domenico has slipped into unconsciousness again, and it's clear his condition has worsened significantly over the past hour. The moments when he's awake are growing fewer and farther between, and that deeply worries me. His strength is fading, and I can't help but fear what that means for both of us.

Time has passed, and they haven't returned—which, for now, feels like a small mercy. Domenico's breathing has grown more labored, likely from the pain, and he needs this moment to rest, to begin healing. We're not out yet, but every second without them gives us a better chance. I'm holding onto that, because escape isn't just a hope—it's a plan.