Katarina POV: A hostage at Giordano's villa
I hadn’t seen Maribel in days.
Not a sound. Not a scream. Not a whisper through the vents.
Just silence. That sick, suffocating kind that crawled under your skin and stayed.
I was curled on the cold tile floor, back pressed to the bed frame. The room smelled like stale perfume and disinfectant. My wrists were raw from being yanked around. My lips cracked. My knees ached.
Maribel could be dead. And maybe that would be my fault, too.
I swallowed hard. “No. Not again.”
“She’s dead,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling. “And it’s my fault.”
I had to get out. Before they buried me alive with her.
That night, the hallway light clicked on—soft and low. The knock came softly. Then the door clicked open.
That guard. The one with the twitchy hand
