Chapter 3 Trying To Deal

With sudden clarity, Roxanne recognized the giant before her—the man who had gripped her throat with ruthless force. Alexander Van Dyke. The same man who had been employed by her father years ago as Martina’s personal bodyguard. But Van Dyke had been thrown out, disgraced and humiliated, beaten like a dog, after the Don discovered that he had been sleeping with Martina. Now, Roxanne looked into his eyes, her vision blurring as his large hand crushed her windpipe. Her lungs burned with the effort to breathe, and for a moment, everything seemed to close in around her. Then, abruptly, he released her. She collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping for air, clutching her torn clothes to her chest. Her heart raced, and she felt faint from the lack of oxygen, her body trembling uncontrollably. Even as she struggled to steady herself, she heard Van Dyke’s deep baritone cut through the haze of her panic. "Put this b*tch into a room." Roxanne was yanked to her feet, her body jerked forward, her sobs and protests swallowed by the force of the men dragging her away. They threw her inside a small, windowless room. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud. Roxanne’s eyes darted around in horror. The room was padded, the walls soft and claustrophobic, as though the very air inside was designed to suffocate. A lone bulb hung from the ceiling, casting an unforgiving light across the dingy space. A tiny window was placed high above—so high that she’d need a ladder to reach it. A couple of cameras were positioned high above, two on either side, and she knew, from the red light which was blinking continuously, that she was being observed. The room was warm and she felt hot and sticky. Her pathetic clothes had been ripped and she knew that she needed a change of clothes. With a trembling breath, she raised her eyes to the camera. Her voice was fragile, shaking with a mix of desperation and fear as she spoke. “Please… Can I have some water?” She glanced down at the remnants of her shredded clothing, a bitter taste rising in her throat. “Something to wear?” She said it twice, just in case no one had heard her, for Roxanne had gotten used to being ignored. Roxanne moved cautiously to the corner of the room, her heart pounding as she spotted a broken door. She shuffled over to it, her face burning from the sting of the beating she had endured. She cracked the door open, peering inside with a mixture of curiosity and dread. A couple of roaches scuttled across the grimy floor, and a rusted toilet stood against the wall. Her stomach churned at the sight. Biting her lip, she stepped into the cramped bathroom, turning on the tap. The water that emerged was brown, disgusting. She recoiled instinctively but knew there was nothing she could do. Stepping back, she wiped her hands on her jeans and wandered back to the center of the room, arms crossed tightly around her knees. There was nothing else she could do. She would wait. What other option did she have? Back in the other room, after the waif had been dragged away, sobbing, Van Dyke rounded on Dante who has just woke up. The young man was bloodied, his face streaked with tears, eyes wide with fear. “The f*ck did you mean?” Van Dyke asked, his voice a low growl, as he approached the boy. Dante, struggling to sit up, managed to find his voice. “I know how that Piccolo b*tch, Martina, broke your heart. Everyone knows that story,” Dante muttered, trying to meet Van Dyke’s gaze. Van Dyke’s rage simmered, barely contained. He crouched in front of Dante, his massive form blocking out the dim light. “So?” Van Dyke’s voice was silky, dangerous. Dante swallowed hard, his eyes flicking nervously to the floor. “I thought we’d kidnapped her... for you.” He slid a glance at Van Dyke from under his disheveled hair. "I thought she was Martina..." Van Dyke’s eyes darkened with fury. He rose to his feet, his muscles taut with the need to unleash violence. He kicked Dante with brutal force, but he stopped before the next blow could land. Turning away, he rumbled low, his voice a dangerous whisper. “But you got the wrong girl, didn’t you?” He stood there for a moment, his mind racing. He had an idea. A dangerous one. Surely Nicolas Piccolo would want his bast*rd sister back in one piece, safe and sound? Van Dyke’s lips curled into a predatory smile. He had a bargaining chip now. When Van Dyke was put through to Nico Piccolo, the surge of hatred he felt was almost overwhelming. Nico and his sister had almost ruined Van Dyke’s life—set him on the path for revenge all those years ago. And now… now he had the upper hand. Nico had raided one of his convoys recently, one transporting weapons from the main depot, the one under the powerful Mafia Don, Lucien Delano. Nico had stolen his weapons as they were being transferred. He wanted them back, or he would launch a full-scale war on the little runt. Coming straight to the point when Nico answered, Van Dyke snarled, “I have your sister,” he said bluntly. He heard Nico pause for a minute. “So, let’s strike a deal. You give me back the weapons you stole from us. Or…” But Nico interrupted him, his voice as thin and high as a girl the way Van Dyke had remembered it. Nico’s voice cracked with laughter. “Which one? The love of your life, Martina, is on her way home with Alyiss.” Van Dyke clenched his jaw. The mention of Martina’s name made his rage boil over. He wanted her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and strangle her, to make her pay for the betrayal she had inflicted on him. But at the same time, he couldn't ignore the twisted desire that still simmered deep within him. He swallowed his disgust, taking a deep breath. “The bastard your father bred,” he growled, pushing past his desire for revenge on Martina. There was a long silence. Then, to Van Dyke’s shock, Nico started to laugh—high, mocking laughter that made his blood run cold. “You …you think I would bargain for HER???” The scorn was palpable, and the contempt in his voice made Van Dyke’s hands clench into fists. Nico jeered as he went on, “You can have her, Van Dyke. And then your men can take her too. I don’t give a f*ck for that little piece of trash.” The voice at the other end, high on some substance, laughed again as he went on, “She's a virgin, yeah, but I planned to sell her after I used her. Now, you can have her—my gift to you, Van Dyke.” The line went dead with a sharp click.