MONTARO

CHAPTER 4: The First Cut

The truth.

The word echoed in the silence he left behind. He was gone as soundlessly as he had arrived, the door closing, the lock turning with that same, definitive finality. But the space was no longer empty. It was saturated with his presence, with the chilling calm of his threat.

'You’ll bleed until you see the truth.'

I stood rooted to the spot, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, the raw skin of my wrists stretching and stinging. It was a physical anchor to the surreal nightmare I was in. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't raged. He had simply stated a fact, as if predicting rain. That was the true measure of his power. His certainty was absolute.

The fear that had frozen my blood began to thaw, replaced by a simmering, incredulous anger. Who was he to speak to me of truth? He was a butcher, a monster who hid behind a suit and a billionaire's portfolio. The truth was that my family had protected its own. The truth was that his wife had been a threat. The truth was that he was a madman, drowning in grief and lashing out at the world.

I repeated these truths to myself like a mantra, building the walls back up around my shattered heart. But his eyes… those storm-grey, ancient eyes… they had held no madness. Only a cold, terrifying clarity.

Sleep was impossible. I spent the rest of the night pacing, my mind racing through scenarios, escape plans, and counter-arguments. I was a strategist. This was just another negotiation, albeit one where my bargaining chips were my own life and sanity.

When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the impregnable window, it revealed the same opulent prison. A short while later, the lock turned again, and Pixie entered, once more carrying a tray. This time, it held a simple breakfast: toast, a boiled egg, a small pot of coffee. The scent was maddening. My stomach clenched with a hunger I'd been too traumatized to feel.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, her voice still soft, her movements deliberately unhurried.

I ignored the question. "He was here."

She didn't look surprised. She simply set the tray on the desk and nodded. "I know."

"What does he want from me?"

"He wants you to understand," she said, meeting my gaze. "It's all he's wanted for five years."

"Understand what? That he's a murderer?"

"Understand why," she corrected gently.

Before I could retort, a different man appeared in the doorway. He was younger than Dante, with a similar build but a completely different energy. Where Dante was a closed fist, this man was an open hand. He wore a impeccably tailored navy blue suit, no tie, his crisp white shirt open at the collar. His hair was a shade lighter than Dante's, and his face, while handsome, lacked the harsh lines of grief and vengeance. His eyes, a warmer hazel, scanned the room and landed on me with a look of cautious curiosity.

"Pixie," he said, his voice smooth and educated. "I see our guest is awake."

"Mr. Maxwell," Pixie said, and I detected a subtle shift in her posture, a slight nervousness that hadn't been there with me or even when speaking of Dante. "This is Camila."

Maxwell Montaro. The brother. The one who handled the legitimate side of the empire. The conscience, according to the information I had of him back home. I straightened my spine, facing him. An ally? Or a more refined enemy?

"Miss Toreslanda," Maxwell said, stepping fully into the room. He didn't come too close, maintaining a respectful distance. "I trust you were… made as comfortable as possible last night?"

"Comfortable?" I let out a sharp, brittle laugh. "I was kidnapped after watching my family be slaughtered. I was thrown into a van and brought to this... this mausoleum. My father disowned me on a live video feed. Forgive me if my standards for comfort have been somewhat revised."

A flicker of something—pity, perhaps—crossed his face. It was quickly masked by a professional calm. "I understand this is a difficult transition."

"A transition?" I took a step forward, my anger finding a new target. "This isn't a corporate merger, Mr. Montaro. This is a war crime."

"It's a reckoning," he corrected, his voice still calm, but with an undercurrent of steel. "One that was a long time coming. My brother… Dante… he is not a man who acts without cause."

"Your brother is a terrorist."

"My brother is a man who had everything taken from him," Maxwell countered, his jaw tightening slightly. "And your family,your father, your brother,...were the ones who took it. They didn't just kill his wife, Ms. Toreslanda. They tortured her. They made him listen to it over the phone for six hours before they finally put a bullet in her head and blew up the car to hide the evidence."

The air left my lungs. The image from my father's study—the burned-out car, the caption—flashed in my mind. I had seen the official report. Tragic accident. I had never seen, never been allowed to see, an autopsy report. I had never heard this.

"That's a lie," I whispered, but the conviction was gone from my voice.

"Is it?" Maxwell's gaze was relentless now. "Why do you think he did this? Why do you think this… extreme… response was necessary? Do you think a simple bullet would have driven a man like Dante to this?"

The foundation of my truth was cracking, and he was driving a wedge into the fissures. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the horrific picture he was painting. "My father would never…"

"Your father would, and he did," Maxwell interrupted, his tone final. "We have evidence, Miss Toreslanda. Dante has spent five years compiling it. He isn't going to kill you. Not until he's shown it to you. Not until you kneel before the facts and admit what your bloodline has done."

With that, he turned and left, his exit far less dramatic than his brother's, but somehow just as effective. He hadn't threatened me. He had simply presented a darker, more horrifying version of reality and left me to drown in it.

Pixie was still there, watching me. She didn't speak.

"I don't believe him," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

"You don't have to," she replied. "Not yet. But you should eat. You'll need your strength for today."

"Why? What happens today?"

She just looked at me with that same, infuriating pity. "The bleeding starts."

An hour later, Niro came for me. He didn't speak, just gestured for me to follow him. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, but I held my head high. I would not let them see me break.

He led me not to a dungeon or a torture chamber, but to a sleek, modern office. It was a twin to the rest of the house—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the violent beauty of the valley, dark wood, and minimalist furniture. Dante sat behind a large, empty desk, looking more like a Fortune 500 CEO than a crime lord.

He didn't acknowledge my entrance. His attention was on a slim, silver laptop. Niro pushed me into a chair facing the desk and then took up a post by the door, a silent, scarred sentinel.

The minutes stretched out. The only sound was the soft tap of Dante's fingers on the keyboard. It was a power play, a way to make me feel insignificant, to heighten my anxiety. I recognized it, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. I sat perfectly still, my gaze fixed on a point on the wall behind him, rebuilding my walls brick by brick.

Finally, he stopped typing and looked up. Those winter-grey eyes pinned me to my seat.

"Your brother, Philip," he began, his voice conversational, as if we were discussing the weather. "He enjoys his vices. Particularly the ones that involve young women who are too afraid to say no."

*A cold knot tightened in my stomach. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh I knew exactly what he was talking about, I was no stranger to the tales of my brothers extracurricular activities but it wasn’t something that deserved much of my attention. I didn't care about who he f****d, it's not like they weren’t paid or they didn't enjoy it.

Dante turned the laptop around. On the screen was a video. It showed a lavish, depraved party I recognized as one held in our Monaco villa. And there was Philip, in the center of it all, his face a mask of cruel ecstasy, his hands on a girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen, her eyes wide with terror as she took his d**k in his mouth.

I clasped my hands together, hiding how vigorously they shook.

"What is this?"

Dante ignored my question.

"This was two months after Clara died," Dante said, his voice dangerously soft. "While I was identifying her body from what was left, your brother was celebrating. He told his friends it was a 'victory party.' That the Montaro b***h had gotten what she deserved."

I stared at the screen, nausea rising in my throat. I remembered that party. I had left early, disgusted by the excess. But I had never known… I had never seen this.

"This proves nothing," I forced out. "It proves my brother is a pig. I already knew that."

"Does it?" Dante smirked- no I wouldn't call it a smirk, it was something more sinister...more evil.

"Do you by chance know a man named Silas Vogel princess?"

A chill went down my spine. I couldn't tell if it was due to the fact he called me princess which from his lips sounded like poison or because of the name he mentioned.

He clicked a key on the lap before relaxingback on his chair.

The video changed to a financial ledger. "This is a transfer of five million dollars from a Toreslanda shell company to Silas Vogel. An expert in… prolonged interrogation techniques. The payment was authorized by your father. The date was the day before Clara was taken."

The numbers swam before my eyes. I knew that company. I had overseen its annual audit.

"Fabrications," I whispered.

He cackled this time at my answer and for some reason it stared up an uneasyness in me that I refused to acknowledge.

For some reason the bastard found all this amusing - he found my answers amusing.

Another click. An audio file played. A man's voice, garbled with pain and fear.

"…it was George Toreslanda… he- he gave the order… Philip, he was there, he held her down while I… while I…" A gunshot cut the confession short, almost making be jolt out of my seat.

"The witness," Dante stated, his eyes burning into mine. "We found him. Your father had him silenced a week later. But not before we got this."

My hands were trembling. I clutched the *arms of the chair to steady them. "This is all circumstantial. It could be anyone. You could have manufactured all of this."

"Could I?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his gaze intensifying. "Look at me, Camila...." my name from his lips sounded like sin.

"Look into my eyes and tell me I am a man who needs to manufacture evidence. Tell me I am a man who does not know, in his soul, exactly what was done."

I couldn't look away. His gaze was a vortex, pulling me in, demanding honesty. And in the stormy depths of his eyes, I didn't see the glee of a liar. I saw the bottomless, enduring pain of a man who had witnessed the abyss. The certainty there was absolute, and it was terrifying.

"This is your truth?" I breathed, my defiance crumbling into dust.

"This is the first page," he corrected. "There are many more. And you will read every one. You will learn the color of her hair, the sound of her scream, the way the light left her eyes. You will know it all. And then, when you finally admit what you are—the daughter of a savage, the sister of a demon—then, and only then, will we be done, you be done".

He stood up, the movement fluid and powerful. A clear message that the audience was over. He didn't even take another glance at me before walking out of the room, leaving me confused and swallowed in my own silence.

"It's time to leave "

I hadn’t even noticed that Niro had entered into the room, too in my thoughts to even even look up at him or acknowledge he spoke.

Niro took my arm, pulling me from the chair. I didn't resist. My mind was reeling, a ship caught in a hurricane. The images, the audio, the ledgers… they were chisels, methodically chipping away at the monument of my family.

As Niro led me back to my room, the silence felt different. It was no longer just the silence of imprisonment. It was the silence of a grave—the grave of everything I had ever believed.

He had promised I would bleed. I had thought he meant physically.....or maybe that was awaiting me too.

Never the less the first cut had been made, and it was deep, and it was internal. And as I sat alone once more in my gilded cage, I felt the slow, seeping flow of doubt, and I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this was only the beginning. He wasn't just trying to break my body. He was trying to annihilate my soul.

And the most terrifying part was that it was starting to work.