Dirty Revenge (Dirty 3)

I’m either dead or about to be raped. And I pray I’m already dead. Either way, I’m in hell.

4

Gia

Days. Weeks. Months.

I have no idea how much time has passed since Dante stole me.

Time means nothing anymore.

I thought I was a force to be reckoned with. I thought I would fight every second of every day for my freedom. Dante taught me how mistaken I was.

Most seconds I can’t even lift my head up off the ground. I can’t stand. I can’t see.

Seconds are how I measure my life. I can’t think beyond that.

This second, I’m lying on the cold floor of the torture room. I haven’t left since I arrived. There are no windows. No bathroom. No light.

It’s a dark room, but I welcome the pitch-black. It helps me sleep at all hours of the day, which is the only reason I’m still breathing.

Sleep has been my savior.

I hear footsteps outside my door. Dante said he had a surprise in store for me when he returned. Was that hours, or days, ago?

Dante’s surprises aren’t surprises. He’s given me half a dozen surprises already, and they all involved bringing in more men to share in the ‘fun,’ as he calls it.

Dante talks like he hasn’t broken me yet. Like I still have a fighting spirit he hasn’t figure out how to tame yet.

He’s wrong. I’m broken. Physically I know I have dozens of broken bones. My left wrist flops when Dante ties me up, my right knee shattered when Dante whacked me with a bat. I’m not sure I have any ribs left intact after Dante kicked me numerous times in the chest.

I have nothing left to fight for.

Even if I did survive, I would be a hollow shell compared to the woman I was before. I would go through my days staring into the abyss, my mind most definitely stuck in the dungeon my body is trapped in now.

Yes, occasionally I gather enough strength to spit in someone’s face, bite a finger, or give a swift kick to a groin, if I’m really in a fighting mood. But it’s not fighting. It’s revenge.

I don’t care if I die anymore. I just need Dante and Roman to suffer.

The door crashes open, rattling the doorframe, as steady boots stomp inside my cage.

I used to shutter at such sounds, but I no longer do. I don’t care if Dante is here or if he’s gone. It makes no difference. I no longer feel pain. I feel nothing.

Lights flick on

, and I close my eyes. The light too bright for me to keep my swollen eyes open.

“Such a good whore. You are exactly where I left you.”

I don’t answer. Where did Dante expect me to go? I have a broken leg, and he tied my legs with shackles to the post behind me. I didn’t have any options but to stay exactly where he left me: naked and slumped on the floor.

“Stand, whore.”

I can’t stand, idiot.

I feel Dante’s eyes burning into me. I expect the kick will come soon, but I don’t brace myself for it.

“No,” I spit back. Maybe I’m feeling more defiant than I realized.