Chapter 5

Roksana’s POV

“Have your seat,” Santiago De-Luca spoke.

His voice was thick, low, carrying that heavy, suffocating authority you simply couldn't say no to.

I walked over to the sofa across from him, my steps slow and agonizing, each movement sending a dull, agonizing throb through my lower back from the brutal fall at home.

I sank onto the cushions, every nerve ending screaming. His eyes remained glued to me, stripping me down as he assessed every inch of my frame, making me feel small, entirely stripped of any remaining dignity. I buried my gaze in my lap, my fingers tightly entwined.

“The name?” he asked, and I snapped my head up to look at him.

He didn't even fucking know the name of the woman who had just been sold to him like livestock.

“You should probably ask the people who sold me to you,” I shot back, instantly regretting the defiance when a sharp, crack whipped against my back. A raw, piercing wince tore from my throat.

I glanced back in sheer panic to see two towering men in black standing behind me, a heavy leather belt gripped in their hands.

I forced my head back to the front, my entire spine stinging as if it had been doused in liquid fire.

“Your name?” the man before me repeated calmly, crossing one leg over the other as he took a slow drag from a brown weed.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat, and another vicious stroke slammed into my back.

“Arghh!” A strangled sob ripped from my lips. It felt like my flesh was literally being ripped open and rubbed raw with chili pepper.

I stared up at my supposed husband, hot tears streaming down my face as the crushing, suffocating weight of my reality caved in on me.

Would I even survive a single week living like this?

“Name?” he repeated, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke.

“Roksana,” I choked out, biting down so hard on my lower lip I tasted copper, desperately trying to muffle the fresh wave of pain exploding across my back.

“Good girl.” He gave a slight, dismissive nod, picking up a crisp sheet of paper and a pen from the low table and pushing it towards me.

Pressing my lips into a painful, trembling line to fight off the agony tearing through my spine, I grabbed the contract, my eyes raking frantically over the words.

Disbelief crawled through my veins. Was he actually serious right now?

Full rights to my body? Full rights to my life? Forever? 

Excuse me?

He’s expected to have complete tabs on my entire existence while I wasn't even allowed to breathe a word about his business?

Hell, I didn't care about his mafia dealings, but he wanted ownership of me? Forever? It sounded less like a marriage and more like an eternal, inescapable cage.

I forced my chin up, blinding rage momentarily cutting through the terror and pain in my chest.

“Rights to my body? To my life? What is this, a prisoner sentence?” I scoffed, my voice shaking.

He didn't even flinch, lazily rubbing his temple as if my utter despair was nothing more than a mild annoyance to his afternoon.

“Ain’t you my wife?” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm.

“Your wife? You mean the same wife you bought with your blood-stained money?!” I spat.

He lifted a single hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guards raise his belt again, and I flinched, my gaze snapping back to Santiago in sheer panic.

“I won’t be signing this. I’m not a slave!” I hissed, anger surging through my veins, hot and desperate.

I’d rather die right here, right now, than spend the rest of my breathing days as a plaything for this cold-blooded monster. Never!

A low, mocking chuckle escaped his throat. He dropped a heavy tablet onto the table, tapping the screen. A familiar audio clip echoed from the device.

I looked down, my eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror as a video began to play. Allison. Along with Mateo? Mateo?!

I rubbed frantically at my eyes, staring at the screen as if the colors would change. Mateo... fucking Allison? Wasn’t Mateo supposed to be my boyfriend?

What the hell was Allison doing with him? Why were they wrapped around each other in such an intimate, embrace?

My head snapped back to the words Allison had casually dropped earlier today. Was Mateo the one she had fled with? She ran away with my boyfriend? What kind of sick, twisted nightmare had I stepped into?

“Wanna sign? Or should we make this a lot more fun?” I watched a cold, cruel smirk curl across his face.

My stomach plummeted. Allison. Mateo. When did this happen? Allison was supposed to marry Santiago De-Luca, but she blew up his wedding and vanished, and she ran straight into the arms of my man?

“You signing or not?” an impatient, ice-cold voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, snapping me violently out of my trance.

With shaking, trembling fingers, I reached out and picked up the pen, my hand hovering uselessly over the dotted line.

Was I really about to sign away my entire life, my entire freedom? For Mateo and the sister who stabbed me in the back?

I slowly dropped the pen back onto the table, lifting my chin with a defiant, tear-streaked glare.

“And if I don’t sign?” I challenged, my voice cracking.

His dark gaze locked onto mine, dead and unyielding. “I’d have a lot of fun breaking you, Senorita.” He chuckled softly, and the sound made my heart slam against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“I’d just make things a hell of a lot harder than they need to be. Starting with your precious sister. Why not start by hunting down the little rat who fled my wedding with my own cousin?” he remarked, a cruel, mocking smirk playing at the corner of his stoic mouth.

Cousin?

“Mateo is a De-Luca?” I blurted out before I could stop myself, a horrified frown twisting my face.

“Still close enough to get killed for running off with my bride. Now, I’ll give you exactly one minute. You sign that piece of shit paper, or they pay the price,” he concluded smoothly, leaning back into his chair as if he were discussing the weather.

I bit down on my lip until it bled. What choice did I have? My panicked gaze darted around the giant, sterile luxury of the room. If I signed... maybe I could figure out a way to escape later.

With a shaky, tearful exhale that felt like my last, I picked up the pen. I forced my signature onto the paper and dropped the pen like it was burning my skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, standing up. His frame towered over me, massive, overwhelming, casting a dark shadow that swallowed me whole.

“To the room,” he barked at the guard.

Before I could even react, one of the massive men stepped forward, grabbing me by the waist and yanking me roughly over his shoulder.

A sharp, agonizing shriek tore from my throat as the pressure slammed directly into my wounded back.

The guard marched down the hall, hauled open a heavy door, and threw me onto the mattress. A heavy groan escaped my lips as I curled into a tight, pathetic ball.

A moment later, the door clicked open again. Footsteps echoed softly against the floor. I sprang up instantly from the bed, panic clawing furiously at my throat like a wild animal.

“What are you doing here?” I mumbled, my voice trembling, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.

“What husbands do,” he shrugged casually.

I watched in silence as he stepped closer, pulling off his watch, shrugging out of his tailored suit jacket, and discarding it until he was left in a stark black shirt and trousers.

Intricate, dark ink crawled up both of his forearms, disappearing beneath the tight fabric of his sleeves.

Then, he uttered the single word that completely knocked every remaining ounce of air straight out of my lungs:

“Strip.”