Redemption / MADE MEN BOOK 2

Sinister Confessions

Isabella

It's been hours—perhaps days—since I have been questioned. The only breaks in the monotony are when one of Aslanov's men escort me to a grimy bathroom or bring me food - his food. I can taste it, he cooked it. His presence loomed over me as I relieved myself, the humiliation and fear merging into a toxic cocktail that left me trembling. After that brief respite, I was thrown back into the cold, unforgiving cell.

Second time he has put me in a cell.

If this man doesn't kill me, I'll kill him.

I've spent countless hours counting the tiles on the floor, running my fingers over the rough concrete walls, searching for any possible escape. There is none. Now, I lie in the cot, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks and stains with my eyes.

I replay Aslanov's words in my mind, his accusations cutting deeper than any knife. The more I think about it, the more the questions gnaw at me: Who framed me?

And I slowly start to lose hope that there is any human emotion left in this man.

I shift uncomfortably on the floor, my body aching from the prolonged confinement. Every muscle is sore, every joint stiff. I force myself to sit up, leaning against the wall for support. 

I close my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to find some semblance of hope. But it's hard. Every time I close my eyes, I see Aslanov's face, twisted with rage and betrayal. I hear his voice, dripping with venom, accusing me of crimes I didn't commit. I feel the icy water closing over my head, the suffocating darkness threatening to pull me under.

Another trauma. Like I did not already have enough.

A sound from the hallway breaks through my thoughts. I listen intently, straining to hear any hint of what might be happening outside my cell. Footsteps echo, growing louder, more deliberate. My heart races, a mixture of fear and anticipation coursing through me.

The door swings open with a loud creak. Aslanov steps inside, his face pale and contorted with pain. Blood is running down his arm, his blouse soaked in crimson. He looks like a wounded beast, dangerous and unpredictable.

I push myself against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible, my heart pounding in my chest. His eyes lock onto mine, filled with a mix of fury and desperation.

"Stitch me up," he orders, his voice strained and commanding. He throws a first aid kit at me, the metal box clattering to the floor at my feet.

I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight. I glance at the kit, then back at him. My mind races, rethinking my choices. Helping him could be my way out, a chance to earn some semblance of trust. But then, a wave of defiance surges through me.

"No," I say, my voice booming through the cell, surprising even myself with its strength.

Aslanov's eyes narrow, his face contorting with a mixture of pain and anger. He takes a step closer, towering over me. "What did you say?" he growls, his voice low and menacing.

"I said no," I repeat, my voice steadier this time.

For a moment, the cell is filled with a tense, suffocating silence.

And I already regret my answer.

Then, Aslanov's face twists into a snarl, and he lunges forward, grabbing me by my hair and pulling me to my feet. His grip is like iron, and I can feel the heat of his blood seeping through his shirt. I hiss in pain.

"You think you have a choice?" he hisses, his breath hot against my face. "You will do as I say, or you will regret it."

Despite the fear coursing through me, I summon every ounce of courage I have left. "No," I say again, my voice firm. "Give me one reason why I should help you." I whimper.