Stacy's POV

The cell was a prison of darkness and despair. The concrete walls seemed to close in on me, the flickering bulb above casting erratic shadows that twisted and turned like mocking specters. I lay curled up on the cold floor, my limbs restrained by chains that dug painfully into my wrists and ankles. Each movement was a fresh wave of agony, reminding me of the grim reality of my captivity.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of footsteps and the occasional clatter of metal. I had long lost track of time, each moment blending into the next in a ceaseless cycle of torment. They had taken me from the brief comfort I had found with Niklaus and cast me into this hellhole, where the cruelty of my captors was as unrelenting as it was inventive.

The memories were sharp and cruel, flashing through my mind like a slideshow of horror. I was younger then, my spirit unbroken and my hopes still intact. The Greek compound, where I had spent so many years, was a place of unyielding control and brutal discipline. The walls were high and the guards numerous, their eyes ever watchful and their demeanor unforgiving.

I could still feel the weight of the collar around my neck, a symbol of my captivity that had never left me. The compound's grandeur was an illusion of power, masking the brutality that lay within. Every room, every hallway, was a reminder of my status as a prisoner. My captors were ruthless, their laughter echoing through the halls as they took pleasure in my suffering.

One particular memory stood out vividly. I was tied to a chair, my body trembling from fear and exhaustion. The room was dimly lit, and the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and cheap alcohol. The Greek mafia members had gathered around, their faces a mix of cruel anticipation and smug satisfaction. They had devised a new form of torture, one that involved not just physical pain but psychological manipulation.

They taunted me with images of my lost child, a cruel reminder of the innocence that had been taken from me. The pain was not just in the physical torture but in the way they used my past against me. Each image, each word, was a knife twisting deeper into my already shattered soul. I could see their faces, hear their taunts, feel their laughter as they relished in my suffering.

The present was a mirror of the past, each moment a cruel echo of those days. The cell was a place of relentless torment, a physical manifestation of the pain and fear that had haunted me for years. The guards were different, their accents foreign and their methods harsher. The Irish had taken over where the Greeks had left off, and their brutality was matched only by their determination.

Every time the door to my cell opened, I braced myself for the inevitable. The guards would enter with a cold, clinical detachment, their faces hidden behind masks of indifference. They would inflict pain with precision, each movement calculated to maximize suffering without killing me. The torture was not just physical but psychological, designed to break down my resolve and force me into submission.

The memories of the Greek compound were interspersed with the harsh reality of my current situation. The Irish captors seemed to have a particular fondness for recreating the scenes of my past torment. They would bring in objects from my previous captivity, each one a reminder of the pain I had endured.

I could hear their conversations, their anger and hatred simmering just below the surface. They spoke of revenge, of a long-standing grudge that had been reignited by my actions. The Greek Don's cousin, whom I had killed, was a focal point of their rage. They recounted the details of his death, painting me as a monster and using it to justify their cruelty.

The torture sessions were brutal, each one designed to test my limits and push me to the edge of sanity. They used every method at their disposal, from physical pain to psychological manipulation. The memories of my child, of the Greek compound, and of the people I had lost were used against me, a constant reminder of my failures and my pain.

The physical pain was a constant companion, but it was the psychological torment that was most devastating. The Irish were adept at exploiting my fears and insecurities, using them to break me down. They would taunt me with memories of the past, of the people I had lost, and of the life I had once had. Each session left me more broken, more desolate, and more desperate for a way out.

I clung to the hope that someone, somewhere, was looking for me. The thought of Niklaus, of his touch and his presence, was a lifeline in the darkness. I remembered the moments we had shared, the brief respite from my torment that he had provided. His touch was a stark contrast to the cruelty of my current situation, a reminder of the life I was fighting to return to.

The hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed by the harsh reality of my captivity. The Irish were relentless, their determination to make me suffer evident in every action they took. The pain was constant, but so was my resolve. I had to believe that someone would come for me, that my family and friends would find me before it was too late.

In the Greek compound, there were moments of fleeting kindness that were quickly overshadowed by the brutality that followed. I remembered one instance where a guard had shown a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of regret in his eyes. It was a rare and fleeting moment, but it had given me a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

The guard had been tasked with watching me during one of the more brutal sessions. He had been rough, but there was a moment when he had looked at me with something like pity. It was a brief moment, quickly replaced by his usual coldness, but it had given me a glimpse of what might be possible.

I had clung to that moment, hoping that it was a sign that not everyone in the compound was entirely devoid of compassion. It was a small hope, but it was enough to keep me going through the worst of the pain.

The present was a stark contrast to the fleeting moments of hope from the past. The Irish captors were relentless, their cruelty matched only by their determination. They used every method at their disposal to inflict pain, their actions a grim reminder of the brutality that had marked my past.

The physical pain was intense, but it was the psychological torment that was most devastating. The Irish seemed to take pleasure in recreating the scenes of my past, using them to break me down. Each session left me more shattered, more desperate for a way out.

I tried to focus on the moments of peace, the times when I had felt safe and loved. Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive. The thought of them was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the life I was fighting to return to.

But as the days dragged on, the hope began to wane. The torture sessions were becoming more frequent, the pain more intense. The Irish were unrelenting, their cruelty a constant reminder of the darkness that had taken over my life. I had to find a way out, to escape this hell and return to the life I had once had.

The thought of Niklaus was a comfort, a reminder of the tenderness and love that I had experienced. His touch, his presence, was a stark contrast to the brutality of my current situation. I clung to the hope that he would find me, that someone would come to rescue me before it was too late.

The Greek compound was a place of unrelenting control and brutality. The guards were ruthless, their every action designed to break me down. The isolation was a constant, a cruel reminder of my status as a prisoner. The moments of kindness were rare and fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the pain and suffering that followed.

I remembered one particular instance when a guard had shown a moment of compassion. He had brought me a small piece of bread, a rare and precious gift in the midst of my torment. The gesture had been fleeting, but it had given me a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

The guard had looked at me with a mix of pity and regret, his eyes betraying a hint of humanity. It was a rare and fleeting moment, but it had given me a glimpse of what might be possible. I had clung to that moment, hoping that it was a sign that not everyone in the compound was entirely devoid of compassion.

The present was a harsh reminder of the brutality that had marked my past. The Irish captors were relentless, their cruelty matched only by their determination. Each session of torture left me more shattered, more desperate for a way out.

The physical pain was intense, but it was the psychological torment that was most devastating. The Irish seemed to take pleasure in recreating the scenes of my past, using them to break me down. Each session left me more broken, more desperate for a way out.

I tried to focus on the moments of peace, the times when I had felt safe and loved. Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive. The thought of them was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the life I was fighting to return to.

The hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed by the harsh reality of my captivity. The Irish were unrelenting, their determination to make me suffer evident in every action they took. I had to find a way out, to escape this hell and return to the life I had once had.

But as the days dragged on, the hope began to wane. The torture sessions were becoming more frequent, the pain more intense. I had to find a way to escape, to return to the life I had once had. The thought of Niklaus was a comfort, a reminder of the tenderness and love that I had experienced.

The pain was overwhelming, but I clung to the hope that someone would come for me. I had to believe that my family and friends would find me before it was too late. The thought of Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive.

In the Greek compound, there were moments of fleeting kindness that were quickly overshadowed by the brutality that followed. I remembered one instance where a guard had shown a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of regret in his eyes. It was a rare and fleeting moment, but it had given me a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

The guard had been tasked with watching me during one of the more brutal sessions. He had been rough, but there was a moment when he had looked at me with something like pity. It was a brief moment, quickly replaced by his usual coldness, but it had given me a glimpse of what might be possible.

I had clung to that moment, hoping that it was a sign that not everyone in the compound was entirely devoid of compassion. It was a small hope, but it was enough to keep me going through the worst of the pain.

The present was a harsh reminder of the brutality that had marked my past. The Irish captors were relentless, their cruelty matched only by their determination. Each session of torture left me more shattered, more desperate for a way out.

The physical pain was intense, but it was the psychological torment that was most devastating. The Irish seemed to take pleasure in recreating the scenes of my past, using them to break me down. Each session left me more broken, more desperate for a way out.

I tried to focus on the moments of peace, the times when I had felt safe and loved. Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive. The thought of them was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the life I was fighting to return to.

But as the days dragged on, the hope began to wane. The torture sessions were becoming more frequent, the pain more intense. The Irish were unrelenting, their cruelty a constant reminder of the darkness that had taken over my life. I had to find a way out, to escape this hell and return to the life I had once had.

The thought of Niklaus was a comfort, a reminder of the tenderness and love that I had experienced. His touch, his presence, was a stark contrast to the brutality of my current situation. I clung to the hope that he would find me, that someone would come to rescue me before it was too late.

The pain was overwhelming, but I had to believe that someone would come for me. I had to hold on to the hope that my family and friends would find me before it was too late. The thought of Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive.

The Greek compound was a place of unrelenting control and brutality. The guards were ruthless, their every action designed to break me down. The isolation was a constant, a cruel reminder of my status as a prisoner. The moments of kindness were rare and fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the pain and suffering that followed.

I remembered one particular instance when a guard had shown a moment of compassion. He had brought me a small piece of bread, a rare and precious gift in the midst of my torment. The gesture had been fleeting, but it had given me a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

The guard had looked at me with a mix of pity and regret, his eyes betraying a hint of humanity. It was a rare and fleeting moment, but it had given me a glimpse of what might be possible. I had clung to that moment, hoping that it was a sign that not everyone in the compound was entirely devoid of compassion.

The present was a harsh reminder of the brutality that had marked my past. The Irish captors were relentless, their cruelty matched only by their determination. Each session of torture left me more shattered, more desperate for a way out.

The physical pain was intense, but it was the psychological torment that was most devastating. The Irish seemed to take pleasure in recreating the scenes of my past, using them to break me down. Each session left me more broken, more desperate for a way out.

I tried to focus on the moments of peace, the times when I had felt safe and loved. Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive. The thought of them was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the life I was fighting to return to.

The hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed by the harsh reality of my captivity. The Irish were unrelenting, their determination to make me suffer evident in every action they took. I had to find a way out, to escape this hell and return to the life I had once had.

But as the days dragged on, the hope began to wane. The torture sessions were becoming more frequent, the pain more intense. The Irish were unrelenting, their cruelty a constant reminder of the darkness that had taken over my life. I had to find a way to escape, to return to the life I had once had. The thought of Niklaus was a comfort, a reminder of the tenderness and love that I had experienced.

The pain was overwhelming, but I clung to the hope that someone would come for me. I had to believe that my family and friends would find me before it was too late. The thought of Niklaus, the triplets, my brothers—these were the people who kept me grounded, the reason I fought to stay alive.

The cold, damp air was suffocating. The weight of the chains pressing into my skin had long since numbed my wrists and ankles, but the pain—sharp, constant—never left. I couldn't see much in the dim light, only the bare outlines of the cell I was trapped in. My body ached, muscles tense from the unnatural positions I was forced into. But it was my mind that suffered more than my body.

I kept drifting back to when things were simpler—if life in a mafia could ever be simple. Back to moments with Nik. His touch, his warmth, the feeling of being safe when I was with him. All of it was ripped away when the Irish had taken me, their brutality even worse than I had imagined. They had been thorough, patient, and deliberate in their torture. They wanted something from me, but it wasn't just information.

It was vengeance.

I had killed the Greek Don's cousin years ago. He deserved it, no question, but to the Irish, it was personal. Their leader, Ciaran, was a blood relative of the old Greek Don, and apparently, his thirst for revenge ran deeper than anyone had anticipated. The Greeks hadn't been a problem for a while now, but I should've known that wouldn't last forever. And now, here I was, chained up in a cell, reliving the horrors I thought I had escaped from years ago.

The scars on my body might have healed, but the memories had never faded. I could still feel the sting of the whip, the suffocating pressure of the chains from my time in the Greek compound. Their brutality had known no bounds, and the Irish seemed determined to remind me of that.

A guard entered, and instinctively, I flinched. The sound of metal scraping the ground as he dragged something heavy across the floor echoed in the small cell. He looked down at me, his eyes empty, calculating.

"Ready for another round, love?" His voice was laced with a cruel smirk.

I didn't answer. What was the point? It was always the same—beaten until I couldn't take anymore, only for them to drag me back here to heal just enough for the next round. They wanted me alive for now, which was worse. There was a psychological game they were playing, and they knew it was only a matter of time before they broke me.

Nik.

I had to hold on to the thought of him. Even through the pain, the humiliation, the fear, his face was my anchor. He would come for me. I knew it, deep down. He wouldn't let them keep me here. I just had to survive until then.

The first crack of the whip startled me, snapping me back to the present. The pain shot through my back, forcing a scream from my throat. It was involuntary. No matter how many times they did this, I could never get used to it.

"You think your Russian boy's gonna save you?" the guard mocked as he struck again. "He's probably already forgotten about you. Moved on. You're not as important as you think."

Lies. They were always feeding me lies, trying to get in my head. But this time, his words hit harder than I wanted to admit. What if Nik couldn't find me? What if he was hurt? What if... what if they convinced him that I was gone, that I wasn't worth the trouble?

The whip cracked again, slicing through the thin fabric of my shirt and tearing into my skin. My vision blurred from the pain, but I refused to cry out again. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

I couldn't break. Not yet.

They left me alone after what felt like hours, my body limp and battered on the cold floor. Blood pooled under me, my breathing shallow, ragged. The taste of copper filled my mouth from biting my tongue to keep from screaming. The cell door slammed shut, and I was once again alone in the darkness.

I closed my eyes and willed my mind to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Back to the times when I was free. When I could feel Nik's arms around me, his lips brushing against mine. I remembered our last night together, the way we had lain in bed, just talking, laughing—something that felt like a distant dream now. I missed him. His strength, his intensity, his protectiveness.

I wished I could tell him how much I needed him right now. But even if I could, I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.

A sharp clang of metal echoed through the cell, jarring me from my haze. Two guards dragged in a bucket of cold water and dumped it over me, the icy liquid shocking me back to full awareness. The chill seeped into my bones, and I gasped involuntarily, my body convulsing.

"Time to wake up, princess," one of them sneered. "Ciaran wants to have a little chat."

Ciaran. The Irish Don who had orchestrated all of this. I had only caught glimpses of him—always in the background, observing as his men did the dirty work. But today, apparently, he wanted a face-to-face.

They unchained me from the wall, my wrists and ankles burning as the metal cuffs were pulled away. They didn't bother to be gentle as they dragged me down a dark hallway, the ground slick beneath my bare feet. My legs barely held me up, but I forced myself to walk, refusing to be carried. I still had some fight left in me.

When we finally reached the room, I was thrown into a chair, the harsh light making me squint. Across the table sat Ciaran, a lean man with cold blue eyes and a sinister smile that never quite reached them. He leaned back, looking at me with amusement, as if this was all some sick game.

"You've caused quite the mess for me, Stacy," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Your little stunt with my cousin... It wasn't just a murder. It was an insult. A declaration of war."

I glared at him, my chest rising and falling with the effort it took to stay upright. "He deserved it," I spat, my voice hoarse from lack of use.

Ciaran's smile widened. "Perhaps. But that doesn't matter now, does it? You've been a thorn in the side of too many people, and I'm here to make sure you pay for it."

"You think this will break me?" I forced the words out, trying to sound stronger than I felt.

"Oh, I don't need to break you," he said, leaning forward. "I just need to make sure your suffering is... educational. For you. For your Russian. And for anyone else who crosses us."

Nik's name on his lips was like a knife twisting in my gut. They weren't just coming for me. They were coming for him too.

"Do what you want to me," I said, my voice low but firm. "But leave him out of this."

Ciaran chuckled, clearly enjoying the desperation in my tone. "You think you can bargain with me? I'm not here to negotiate, Stacy. I'm here to make you regret every decision you've ever made."

The room spun as the exhaustion and pain caught up with me. My head felt heavy, and I could barely keep my eyes open. But I couldn't pass out, not now. Not when they were planning something that would hurt Nik. I had to stay conscious, had to stay aware. There had to be a way out of this.

"I'm not done with you yet," Ciaran said, standing up and walking around the table until he was standing directly behind me. His hand gripped the back of my chair, and I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. "We're just getting started."

I swallowed hard, my heart racing. I couldn't show fear. Not now.

But as the door closed behind him and I was left alone in the room, shackled to the chair, I felt the weight of everything crashing down on me. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty. And through it all, the one thing that kept me going was the thought of Niklaus.

If he was out there, he wouldn't stop until he found me. I had to hold on to that. I had to believe that no matter how dark things got, there was still a chance. A chance to fight, to escape, to survive. For him.

But with every hour that passed, that chance felt further and further away.

The door to the dark, damp cell creaked open, and the familiar, heavy footsteps echoed against the stone walls. The Irish Don stepped into the room with a self-satisfied smirk etched across his face, his dark eyes gleaming with a malicious glint.

"Time for a family reunion," he announced, the words dripping with cruel amusement.

My heart raced in my chest as I stared at him, trying to piece together the meaning behind his words. The first thought that struck me was a gut-wrenching fear for my brothers—Enzo, Leo, Ricc, and Cesco. Had he somehow gotten to them? I had only found them a few months ago, after years of believing I had no family. If something happened to them because of me...

"What are you talking about?" I spat, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising inside me. "What do you mean, family reunion?"

The Don chuckled darkly, stepping closer until he was standing over me, his presence imposing. I clenched my fists against the cold floor, refusing to show any weakness.

"Oh, Stacy," he sneered, crouching down to meet my gaze. "I'm not talking about your precious brothers."

His words sent a chill down my spine. If not them, then who?

"I'm talking about someone you've forgotten... someone you thought was dead."

A knot tightened in my stomach. Someone I thought was dead? My mind raced, grasping at memories buried deep beneath years of pain and suffering.

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A/n:

Cliffhanger I know I'm evil,

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WC: 4522