Ch 17: The Fatal Descent
Marco didn’t call out. He began to move. He checked behind the desk. Then crouched, looking under it. His gaze lifted, scanned the room, passed over the wardrobe, then snapped back. He stood and took a step toward the wardrobe. Another.
Elena's body trembled, shaking the wooden frame.
His smile widened. He reached out and pulled the door open just enough to see inside. His eyes met hers.
"Found you," he breathed.
Marco's hand shot in, tangling in her hair. He wrenched—a brutal yank that felt like her scalp was tearing. A soundless scream tore at her throat as she spilled onto the floor.
"Look what I found, Silvio." He didn't take his eyes off her. "Our little mouse was nesting in the boss's suits."
"She heard us?"
"Seems she did." Marco kept his grip on her hair, dragging her to her knees. "The boss isn't here, topolina. So why are you here all alone, hmm?"
Elena scrambled, pushing weakly at his wrist, her legs kicking.
Silvio caught one of her flailing ankles. His grip was like a vice. "She's going to be a problem."
"She's already a problem." Marco leaned down, his face inches from hers. The smell of cigarettes and cheap wine washed over her. "What did you hear, huh? What did those little ears catch?"
Elena shook her head frantically, tears streaming. She tried to sign, but Marco caught her wrist and slammed it against the floor.
"No," he snarled. "No more of that."
Silvio shook his head. "I thought the office was empty."
"Right." Marco's jaw tightened. "So we can't leave her here. If Boss comes back, she'll tell him we were in his office."
"She can't say anything," Silvio said. "She's a mute."
"She can write. She can point." Marco's grip on her wrist tightened. "We need to find out what she knows. And find those papers. She might even have them."
"Hey. The Zurich files. What did you do with them?" Silvio's voice pitched.
Elena shook her head desperately. Zurich didn't mean anything to her. She had no files. She had taken nothing.
"She's lying," Silvio said. "Look at her. Guilty as hell."
"She'll talk." Marco produced a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He tore a strip with his teeth. "But not here. Boss might come back early. We take her somewhere private."
The thought of being taken from this room unleashed a deeper terror. If Kazimir came back and she was gone, the transgression would be hers. He would see an empty room, a broken command. He would assume she ran. Or worse, that she was with the enemy.
And Marco knew it. She could see it in his smile.
Elena fought harder, a wild thrashing born of pure panic. It earned her a backhand across the face that cracked her head against the floor, leaving her ears ringing.
"Hold her."
Silvio pinned her legs. Marco slapped the tape over her mouth, then bound her wrists. They hauled her to her feet.
"Move," Marco hissed, propelling her toward the door.
They led her down a narrow, disused servants' staircase that smelled of mold and rat poison. They emerged in a part of the mansion's underbelly she had never seen—a low-ceilinged passage, lit by bare, flickering bulbs. The air was cold and damp.
Marco stopped at a heavy, rust-spotted metal door. He produced a key ring and unlocked it.
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The room beyond was a storage cellar—forgotten furniture under dusty sheets, wooden crates, old wine racks. A single bulb cast sickly yellow light on the concrete floor.
In that light stood two other men. Older, with thick necks and vicious eyes. They leaned against a crate, smoking.
"Took you long enough," one grunted, looking up.
"Had a complication." Marco shoved Elena forward. She stumbled to her knees on the rough concrete. "She was in the office. Hiding."
The older man's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't the office empty?"
"It wasn't. She heard us talking." Marco circled her crumpled form. "So now we have two problems. Find the papers she stole, and find out what she knows."
"Does she have them on her?"
"Haven't searched her yet. But we know she's a little thief." Marco crouched in front of her and peeled the tape from her mouth with a slow pull, causing Elena to gasp in pain. "Where did you put them, topolina? The Zurich papers. The family files."
She shook her head, her entire body wracked with tremors as she mouthed: 'No, please! I don't—I don't—'
"Please what?" Marco reached out and tore the front of her grey wool dress from neckline to waist.
The cold cellar air hit her skin.
The men's eyes fastened on her, their stares like grimy hands.
"Gotta search her," Silvio said, his voice too eager. "She might have hidden something under her clothes."
It was the excuse, flimsy and grotesque. The pretense that allowed the hunger to be called duty. The spy narrative that Dante had planted—watered with the Hale incident, nurtured with whispers—now blooming into this.
The first blow was the back of Marco's hand, a sweeping strike across her ribs. Pain stole her breath.
"Where are the Zurich files?" Marco asked, his voice almost conversational. "Dante needs them back. Family documents. You had no right to take them."
Family documents. The phrase was absurd. She had never seen a Zurich file. She didn't even know what Zurich meant. She was a girl from nowhere, and they thought she was a spy?
His hand, now curled into a fist, drove into her side. A choked cry was punched out of her.
"What did you hear in the office?" Another blow. "Who do you work for?" Another. "What did Kazimir tell you?"
The violence became a rhythm. Marco stepped back, and one of the others took his place. A slap across her stomach that made her vomit bile. A knee driven into her side as she curled up. The questions kept coming—Where are the papers? Who sent you?—and her silence, her only possible response, was taken as defiance.
They didn't touch her face. They didn't grab her limbs in ways that would leave obvious fingerprints. This was a lesson to be carried internally, a secret rot inside her. The places a high-necked dress would cover.
Through a haze, she heard their voices.
"Do you think she really knows nothing?"
"Doesn't matter. Dante wants the papers. She was in the office. She must have moved them."
"Then we bring back what we can. Starting with what she knows."
The words were a distant buzz. The reality was the pain, a universe of it, expanding with every impact. She lost count. She lost time. She became an empty vessel, her mind fleeing to a high, dark corner of the cellar, leaving the broken thing on the floor behind.
Then the violence shifted. The questions stopped. The pretense of interrogation melted away, leaving only raw, ugly intent. Hands not just striking now, but grabbing, groping, pinching through the torn remains of her chemise.
No! Not this!
The fabric tore further. Cold air, then hot breath on her skin. The weight of a body, smelling of sweat and tobacco, pressing her into the floor.
She was gone then. What remained was the shell.
Hands everywhere. Laughter. A belt buckle pressing into her hip. A mouth against her throat. Fingers digging into her thighs, her breasts. The grinding weight of a man's arousal through his trousers. The groping went on. Different hands. Different weights. The same crushing degradation.
When they were done, they left her there. Not all at once. Marco remained.
He crouched beside her, his face sweaty and satisfied. He leaned close.
"Let's be clear, topolina. If you tell anyone about this—about us being in the office, about what you heard, about our little chat—then we'll say you seduced us. That you're a little whore who couldn't keep her legs closed. That you offered yourself to keep us quiet about the documents you stole." He paused and smirked. "Who do you think they'll believe? Us? Four loyal soldiers? Or the mute spy who already got caught stealing?"
He patted her cheek. Then he stood.
"Little spy." He straightened his jacket. "Clean yourself up. The boss will be home soon."
The metal door clanged shut. The footsteps faded.
Silence. A thick, heavy silence.
She didn't know how long she lay there. Time had become meaningless. The cold of the floor seeped into her bones, a welcome numbness after the fire of the violence.
Slowly, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees. Every muscle screamed, a deep, throbbing ache that made the world swim. She retched.
But she had to move. If Kazimir found her like this, it would be proof of everything they said.
Gritting her teeth against the waves of nausea and pain, Elena forced herself to stand. The room tilted violently. She leaned against the armchair and waited before staggering to the door.
The journey back to the office was a blur. She hugged the walls, holding the ruined dress together with a claw-like hand. When she stumbled back into Kazimir's office, it was as she had left it—the skewed chair, the disordered desk. She didn't have the strength to fix it.
She went to the wardrobe. There, on the floor, was a man's black sweater. She pulled it over her destroyed clothes. It swam on her, the sleeves past her fingertips, the hem to her thighs. It smelled of him. It covered everything.
She walked to her chair and sat down. Then she folded her hands in her lap and stared at the wall.
She felt herself pull away toward the ceiling. The body in the chair was no longer hers. The real Elena existed somewhere above, watching the girl below.
The Elena in the chair sat motionless. The Elena near the ceiling watched.
Neither waited for rescue.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/4/26