OWNED BY THE DON

CHAPTER 8 - THE UNDERGROUND CHAMBER

It was past 10 PM. The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor was the first thing Rachel heard.

When she opened her eyes, she was in a sterile, white room, a high-tech hospital wing hidden within the bowels of the Castellano mansion. An IV was taped to her hand, and the scent of antiseptic fought with the lingering smell of Fabio’s spice.

The moment she realized she was back, the panic returned, sharper than ever.

She ripped the IV from her vein with a cry of pain, blood spotting the white sheets. She scrambled out of the bed, her legs weak but her mind screaming for the door. She reached the handle, but it hissed open before she could touch it.

Fabio stood there. He had traded his suit for a black silk shirt, his face weary and dark. “Back in bed, Rachel. You have a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.”

“Let me out!” she shrieked, lunging at him. She didn't care about the pain.

She scratched at his face, her nails drawing thin red lines down his handsome cheek. “I hate you! I’ll kill myself before I let you touch me again!”

“Enough!” Fabio roared, grabbing her wrists. “Stop fighting me!”

But Rachel was hysterical. “You can't keep me here, I'm not staying with you..fucking mafia!”

“Say whatever you want, Rachel. I have my limits.” Fabio warned her.

She kicked, she bit, and in her frenzy, she managed to drive a knee into his groin. The pain and the exhaustion of the night finally snapped the "Punisher's" legendary control. In a blind, white-hot flash of instinct, his fist balled up and he drove a short, powerful punch into her stomach.

The air left Rachel’s lungs in a sickening whoosh. She collapsed like a folding chair, clutching her midsection, her face turning ashen.

Fabio froze. He looked down at his trembling fist, then at Rachel gasping for air on the floor.

The silence in the room was deafening. He had crossed a line he never intended to cross, and the look of pure, shattered terror in her eyes as she looked up at him broke something inside him.

“Guards!” he barked, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and self-loathing.

“Take her to the underground chamber. Lock her in. No light, no distractions. If she wants to act like a prisoner, she will be treated like one.”

The guards hoisted her up. Rachel couldn't even fight back; she was doubled over, her vision swimming. They carried her deep into the foundations of the house, into a cold, stone-walled room with a heavy iron door and a single, thin mattress.

As the bolts slammed shut, the finality of it hit her. She was in a cage. She began to wail—a high, thin, hysterical sound that echoed off the cold stone.

She screamed until her throat was raw, until her eyes were swollen shut, and until the darkness of the chamber finally dragged her into a heavy, traumatic sleep.

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