Chapter 2 - The Audit of Pain
The anticipated physical blow never landed.
Marco stopped barely two feet away from her, keeping his hands casually buried inside his trouser pockets, his head tilted slightly to the side as he closely examined the dark purple bruises blooming across her cheekbone, her split and swollen lip, the distinct finger-shaped purple marks circling her delicate throat, and the awkward way she clutched her left arm tight against her ribs because every shallow breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass.
"Who did this to you?"
His voice remained terrifyingly calm and controlled, yet something fundamental underneath that smooth exterior had drastically shifted—growing suddenly sharp, jagged, and ice-cold.
Jane opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She quickly closed it. Words felt entirely too dangerous in this room. The raw truth felt completely impossible to utter aloud to a monster like Marco Duca.
"I asked you a question," he said, his tone devoid of harshness, yet carrying the heavy weight of inevitable demand. "Who did this?"
"My mother," she whispered, her voice cracking painfully on the final syllable.
The two words hung heavily in the warm air between them, fragile, damning, and utterly surreal.
Marco's expression didn't overtly change, but the muscle in his strong jaw ticked tightly. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out his hand, telegraphing every single movement as if he were patiently approaching a wild, severely traumatized animal that might bite if startled. His warm, calloused fingers gently caught her chin—with an unexpected tenderness so profound it made her throat instantly close up with hot, stinging tears—and tilted her bruised face upward toward the warm light of the fireplace. Jane stopped breathing entirely.
He carefully examined her features the way a master jeweler might inspect a rare, fractured diamond, cataloging every single structural break and emotional scar: the ugly contusions, the split skin, and the haunted, desperate look residing deep within her wide brown eyes. When he finally released her chin, his hand dropped back down to his side, and Jane swayed dangerously on her feet, dizzy from holding her breath for so long in the presence of real power.
"Sit," he instructed once more, pointing toward a comfortable leather armchair situated directly across from his massive mahogany desk.
This time, her rebellious legs finally obeyed. She practically collapsed into the plush leather seat, shaking so violently that her teeth chattered loudly in the quiet room.
Marco returned to his high-backed chair behind the desk, though he didn't sit down immediately. Instead, he reached over to a crystal decanter resting on a polished side table, poured two generous fingers of dark amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler, and walked it back over, setting it directly on the edge of the desk in front of her.
"Drink that," he ordered.
"I don't—"
"It's not a request, Jane."
She picked up the heavy crystal glass with trembling, bruised fingers. Taking a tentative sip, the high-end whiskey burned fiercely all the way down her throat, but the liquid fire instantly cut through the thick fog clouding her brain, sharpening the jagged edges of reality just enough so she could finally think straight.
Marco leaned back against the edge of the desk, watching her closely with those penetrating gray eyes, waiting patiently.
"Why am I actually here?" Her voice finally emerged raspy, barely scraping above a dry whisper. "What do you want with me?"
"You tell me," he replied evenly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I received a formal notification that a special delivery would arrive at my compound tonight—ostensibly as partial payment for a lingering financial debt your mother owed my organization. What I was not informed of was why a desperate mother would willingly hand over her own flesh and blood as disposable collateral."
Jane suddenly barked out a sharp, bitter laugh—a harsh sound completely edged with hysteria and exhaustion. "Collateral? Is that what she's calling it to your face?"
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Marco's sharp eyes narrowed perceptibly. "What would you call it, then?"
"An execution," the word spilled out of her mouth before she could physically stop the confession. "She didn't send me here to pay a debt. She took out a massive, fraudulent life insurance policy on me months ago. Two million dollars payout upon my sudden death. All she has to do is wait for word that I've met a violent, tragic end in the criminal underworld, and she cashes out scot-free. And what better narrative than getting murdered by Marco Duca's ruthless organization? It's completely unavoidable, deeply tragic, and devastatingly profitable for her."
