The iron door of our cell didn’t just open; it shrieked against the stone floor like a dying animal being tortured. The sound was high-pitched and jagged, vibrating through the soles of my feet and setting my already frayed nerves on fire. Two of Silvio’s guards stood framed in the doorway, their silhouettes blocked by the harsh, artificial light of the corridor. They were thick-necked men with cold eyes, holding their rifles with a casual, insulting ease that made my skin crawl.
"Move it, you two," the larger one grunted, his voice a gravelly mess. He stepped into the small room and kicked the leg of the rusted metal cot where we had just shared a moment of desperate, heated passion. "The Boss is tired of waiting. He wants his favorite puppets gathered around the table for the final act.
