The Emperor by RuNyx

 

Amara blinked her eyes open, disoriented as she came to in an unfamiliar room.

It looked like the inside of a prison cell, only cleaner, almost sterile. The walls were a weird shade of off white she had never really seen on walls before. The door in front of her was wooden, heavy, and brown. A smaller door was to her right. And it was dark, not enough to be pitch black since there was enough light coming from under the door to allow her visibility. But it was dark enough to make her uncomfortable.

Amara pulled her arm up to rub the bleariness out of her eyes, only to stop short as she felt the heavy metal around her wrists. Slightly more alert, she looked down at her hands, to see manacles, actual manacles, locking her in place, attached to chains, hooked to the wall behind her.

Heart starting to beat faster as memories came flooding in, Amara looked around the room, trying to find a weapon, a key, anything that could help her escape. There was nothing – no windows in the room, no furniture except an empty table against the wall opposite her. She was sitting on the ground.

And even though her mouth felt full of cotton, she didn’t actually have anything gagging her.

Swallowing down her dry throat, Amara contemplated making a noise. She didn’t know anything about her attackers. She didn’t know who they were or why they had come for her. Could it be accidental? Maybe they had mistaken her for someone else? She was the housekeeper’s daughter and not important at all. It didn’t make sense. 

On the tail of that thought, the door unlocked and swung open, light flooding the room, momentarily blinding her. Amara blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust as the man who had slashed Vin’s face entered the room with a bottle of water. In the shadows, Amara could barely see him clearly, while he could see her completely since the light fell on her. The only things she could make out – he was heavyset, possibly bearded.

“Morning, bitch,” the man hopped on the table opposite her, making the wood creak under his weight. “Sleep well?”

Amara gulped, staying silent. God, she hoped they didn’t hurt her. She couldn’t stand the pain. She’d never been able to. Please let this be a misunderstanding.

The man threw the small bottle beside her. The plastic crashed into the wall before rolling towards her. Was it drugged?

“Not drugged,” the man clarified, evidently reading her thoughts. “We’re gonna have a little chat, that’s all.”

She didn’t believe him. There was something in the tone of his voice, something too casual in the way he’d framed that sentence that made Amara very wary. Looking down at the bottle, Amara felt tempted to pick it up but refrained. She was thirsty but she’d rather stay conscious.

After seeing she wasn’t picking the bottle up, the man asked, “You know who we work for?”

She had zero ideas. She shook her head, not knowing if that was the smart thing to do.

“Good, that’s very good,” the man nodded encouragingly, and Amara took a breath in relief. Okay, ignorance was the good thing.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Amara shook her head again, pulling down at the hem of her dress as nerves assaulted her, blood rushing to her ears.

The man leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, still too much in the dark for her to make out his features. “You’re here to give us some answers. You do that, nobody is going to get hurt, and we let you go. Got that?”

A shiver started at the base of her spine, lead settling in her gut. He was lying. She could tell. They weren’t going to let her go.

But she nodded in reply.

“You know Lorenzo Maroni?” the man asked, taking out a cigarette and putting it to his mouth. He lit a match, momentarily throwing a little light on his features, before taking a huge puff. The smoke didn’t smell like the usual cigarette; it was sweet, almost cloyingly so as she inhaled it. 

“I…I know of him,” Amara stuttered, her body filling with adrenaline as her heartbeat spiked. God, why was she there? It didn’t make any sense. She didn’t know what this man wanted from her.

“You’ve never seen him?”

“Just in passing,” Amara said, her voice climbing as her nerves attacked her, her habit coming to the fore under the tremendous strain on her mind.

The man nodded, taking out his phone and showing her the image of a man. “Can you see him?”

Amara squinted slightly, looking at the picture. It was the photo of a bald man wearing glasses. He seemed familiar but she didn’t recognize him. It was possible she’d seen him on the compound.

“Ever seen him?”

Amara shook her head. “I think you have the wrong person,” she said hopefully, trying to reason with him. “Please just let me go. I don’t know anything.”

She heard him laugh, and Amara’s blood chilled.

“Oh, I have the right person,” he assured her, his voice setting all her alarm bells ringing. “Tell me about Dante Maroni.”

Amara felt her heart stop for a second, before continuing the hard rhythm. “He’s Lorenzo Maroni’s son.”

“Yes. He’s a mean fucker, that one,” the man huffed out. “He ever talk business with you?”

She shook her head. “I barely know Dante.”

“That’s not what a little birdie told me,” the man sing-songed. “In fact, I heard you two looked awfully cozy with each other, if you know what I mean.”

A vigorous shiver wracked her.

“No,” she empathically denied. “I don’t know him. I don’t know anything. Please just let me go.”

The man laughed. “You’re cute.”

No. No.

Her skin crawled. Amara made sure her dress still covered her knees and folded in on herself, to make her body as small as possible.

“Okay, so you ain’t talking Dante Maroni,” the man leaned back, straightening, the wood groaning under his weight. “Know anything about a Syndicate?”

Amara’s mind flashed back to the room at the Maroni mansion. Lorenzo Maroni’s cousin had mentioned it. She shook her head.

The man nodded. “Know anything about a shipment?”

 

‘The shipment goes out in three days.’

 

Amara denied it.

“Stubborn bitch,” the man laughed. “I’ll break you yet.”

Amara shivered, from the cold or the fear invading her entire being, she didn’t know. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice breaking as her eyes welled up.

The man hopped off the table. “Sorry, sweets. My boys and me, we don’t leave witnesses.” 

With that, he went out of the door, leaving it open this time. He returned in a few minutes with a bag, placing it on the table. Taking out a large key from his pocket, he came towards her.

Amara shrank into the wall, backing away from him.

“No,” she begged, desperation leaking into her voice. “Please, let me go. I’ll never tell anyone anything.”

The man chuckled, as though she amused him. The scent of tobacco, motor oil, and that overly sweet smoke invaded her space as he unshackled her wrists. “Rest up. Be back soon.”

He took the bag and walked out again, locking the door, leaving her in the dark.

 

 

As soon as the man had left, Amara had explored the other closed door for a weapon. It had been a bathroom with nothing but a toilet, a sink, and liquid soap. Out in the room, there was nothing except the table and the chains that were bolted to the wall, so she couldn’t use them either. Defeated, scared, Amara had simply walked to the corner and huddled in on herself, praying for someone, anyone, to come to her rescue. She didn’t know how long it was, or what time it was, when the man returned, this time with both his companions. 

Heart in her throat, she looked up to see them blocking the light from the door.

“I don’t know anything,” she pleaded again, her voice cracking. “Please. If you want money, I can get you some. Please, let me go.”

They ignored her. One of them dragged a chair into the room. The second man came to her, pulling her up roughly by the arm, and threw her into the chair. Amara looked at them frantically, her eyes coming to a halt at the first man laying down a coil of rope, a knife, and a container on the table.

He put on gloves.

Her breathing escalated.

No.

“I don’t know anything!” she didn’t care how her voice broke on that last word. Her fear eclipsed everything.

“We still gonna chat, girl,” he informed her, as her gut tightened.

He took the rope, dipping it in the container. Amara heard the slight sizzle and her body began to tremble. He spoke. “You don’t wanna have these acid ropes around those pretty wrists, do you?”

She shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face.

“Very good. Then tell me about the compound. Is there any entry from the woods?”

“I don’t know,” Amara said, even though she knew there was. “Kids aren’t…aren’t allowed to go in the woods,” she stumbled upon the words in her nervousness. She’d come across it on one of her walks and though it was fenced, it was still there. But she wasn’t going to tell them that. Not when it was her home.

“See,” the man nodded. “That was a test question and you passed. Good. Is there any underground entrance?”

Amara shook her head, her eyes on the rope. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything.”

The man stepped closer, the acrid scent of acid coming with him. Amara clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from trembling.

“And you know nothing about the Syndicate?”

She denied it.

“Lorenzo Maroni has a weakness outside that you know about?”

Why were they asking her these absurd questions?

“Dante Maroni have anyone in his life outside?” the man asked, leaning closer to her. “Someone we can use against him?”

His brother.

Amara shook her head no, silent, trembling all over, panic, real panic setting in as the man brought the rope closer.

He smiled. “This will be fun.”

And so began the screams.

 

 

They had the wrong girl. It didn’t make sense. She was nobody.

Minutes blurred.

Heartbeats blurred.

Questions blurred.

Was it day? Was it night?

Everything blurred but the burn.

Her hands. Her back. Her feet. Everything burned.

And she screamed.

 

 

“What do you know about the syndicate?”

Breathe.

“Does Dante Maroni have anyone that can be used against him?”

Focus.

“Is there a shipment you know anything about?”

Live.

“When do the guards take their patrol break at night?”

Survive.

“Should we tell Maroni his little girlfriend is here?”

Scream.

 

 

Focus. Breathe. Live. Survive. Scream.

Breathe. Live. Survive. Scream.

Live. Survive. Scream.

Survive. Scream.

Scream.

 

 

She was alone.

Somehow, someway, her brain had sent her that message through the fog of pain.

Amara sat in the chair, wrists free but limp, her whole body shaking like a leaf as her skin burned.

She was alone.

And the door was open.

She blinked, barely able to see past the water in her eyes. Everything hurt. Everything was pain.

But she had to survive. She had barely lived her life. She had singing lessons to attend in summer, school to graduate, books to read, places to visit, a boy to kiss, babies to have. Her mother couldn’t lose her. Vin couldn’t mourn her.

She was alive. That was all that mattered. They hadn’t broken her yet.

Gripping the sides of the chair with juddering arms, Amara somehow found the strength inside herself to push up. The burning in her wrist flared and she bit her lip hard to stifle any sound. She couldn’t alert any of them.

Amara stood up, her legs unsteady, the soles of her feet burning with every step she took, circulation agitating the assaulted skin there, leaving prints of blood on the floor. Her eyes went to the open door. They thought her scared enough or weak enough to not try anything. They didn’t know. Fear was sister to desperation. And she was desperate to escape this hell.

With soft steps, stifling every whimper, tears running down her cheeks, hair matted around her face, Amara edged towards the open door cautiously, getting out into some kind of corridor. Looking left, and then right, she headed to the latter, going down a set of stairs, every step feeling like a pit of fire. She breathed through it somehow, her need to escape greater than anything else, and came to an empty office room of some sort with an EXIT door. She heard the men who had abducted her somewhere, watching a game.

Her only goal was to escape.

Spying the door, Amara felt a burst of adrenaline shoot down her body, filling her with energy, and worse, hope. She limped towards the door, panting, and exited into a garage of some kind with shuttered doors. Unlocked shuttered doors.

Desperate to just get away, she made a beeline towards it, only to be suddenly yanked by her hair. Pain exploded in her scalp, a cry leaving her lips as the first man dragged her to the truck in the garage and shoved her over the hood.  

“You still got fight in you, bitch?” he spat out against her ear, pressing into her from behind.

Bile rose up her throat, her skin crawling with revulsion.

Amara saw his companions come out into the garage.

“Please, no,” she begged. “Please.”

They laughed.

“Fucking slut,” the man held her down.

Her clothes went first.

And she screamed,

and screamed,

and screamed…

until she couldn’t anymore.

 

 

There was a little spider on the floor.

It was pretty too.

Amara lay on her side in the garage, her eyes watching the spider as it tried to climb up the wall. He fell down. It reminded her of that story ma used to tell her, of a king in a cave after a battle, watching the spider climb and fall a hundred times. Or was it a queen? Was it a hundred times, or fifty? This little spider had only climbed up twice, before moving on. Maybe, the stories were wrong.

Itsy, bitsy spider, Amara hummed in her mind.

God, she was tired. She didn’t even hurt anymore. She just wanted to sleep. Her whole body wanted to sleep. Her arms were already asleep. She tried to move them and only twitched her fingers. Why was she staying awake anyway? There was nothing for her to stay awake for.

The little spider returned.

Itsy, bitsy spider, she continued humming, watching with swollen eyes as he took another route, and began his climb again.

She almost smiled, rooting for him to make it to the top.

“Jesus, fuck!”

The sound penetrated from somewhere behind her but Amara didn’t bother focusing on it.

Hands touched her arms, slowly turning her on her back.

Fire flared again in slices down her flesh.

Something covered her.

It smelled nice.

Amara blinked up and saw blue, blue eyes looking down at her. She recognized those eyes from somewhere. It reminded her of clear skies and pretty clouds. She wanted to float there.

“I’m going to lift you up, okay?” the boy spoke quietly, his voice pulling her back to the ground. He had a nice voice. She wanted to wrap herself in it and never leave.

Recognition dawned through the haze in her mind.

The new boy. Tristan. What was he doing there? Or was she hallucinating? Had her mind truly splintered?

Amara opened her mouth to answer him, but something was burning her throat. No sound came out. Panic cleared the haze a little more.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he reassured her. “No one will lay a finger on you. I promise.”

She believed him for some reason. He should have made his promise before though.

“Please,” she somehow rasped out.

He leaned forward to hear her better.

“Don’t…don’t tell…any…one,” she got the words out, barely, through the pain in her throat. Tea. She needed her ma’s hot herbal tea.

The boy simply looked at her for a moment, something powerful in his eyes, before picking her up, careful with the injuries on her back, and placing her on a table. Setting her down gently, he wrapped the jacket, his jacket, more snugly around her.

“You doing okay?” he asked, in a voice so gentle, it made her lips tremble.

Amara shook her head. She didn’t think she’d ever be okay again.

“Hang in there, yeah?” he said softly. 

What for, Amara wanted to ask but couldn’t get her throat to cooperate. Tea. She needed tea.

“Dante, I have her,” she heard the boy say and felt herself drifting off suddenly, her lids getting heavier.

She heard more voices but her eyes wouldn’t open.

And for some reason, somehow believing Tristan’s promise that she was safe, Amara let go and fell into blessed oblivion.