CHAPTER:-2

Elena's eyes snapped open, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as a brutal kick slammed into her stomach. The air rushed out of her lungs, leaving her breathless, and a wave of nausea swept over her. Through the blur of pain, she looked up, her gaze locking onto the figure standing above her. Him. The last person she wanted to see.

"Today's a special occasion," Dante said, his voice sounding almost childishly innocent, "and you're sleeping through it. You wouldn't want to miss it, would you? Wake up, or I'll have to wake you."

He kicked her again, harder this time, aiming to inflict maximum pain. Elena's breath hitched, and a cold sweat covered her palms as she met Dante's gaze. The cruel smile on his lips sent a wave of nausea through her. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence, and her limbs trembled, refusing to obey her commands. Dante's smile promised not just physical pain, but a deeper, more terrifying torment. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated malice, a chilling display of the power he held over her. It was the kind of smile that knew it had already won.

"One day, you will regret every word," Elena said, her voice a low, steady promise, though it trembled slightly. "You will be ashamed of yourself."

"Aww, I will never regret this," Dante retorted, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "But you will regret your behavior with my lovely brother, Marco. In your every scream, you will be sorry to him. Anyway, let's begin the fun."

He snapped his fingers, and three tall, muscular men entered the room, their faces blank and menacing.

"Boys, take her to the planned place," he commanded, his voice filled with an excitement that sent a shiver down Elena's spine.

A wave of dread washed over her as the three bulky figures advanced, their heavy footsteps echoing in the sudden, suffocating silence, a rhythmic drumbeat of impending doom. Elena's breath caught in her throat. She instinctively retreated, each step backward a desperate, futile attempt to create distance. Her eyes, wide with fear, darted between the men, searching for an escape that didn't exist. The air crackled with unspoken threat, and her body trembled, betraying the terror that gripped her. With a brutal grip on her arms, they began to drag her from the room.

"No, leave me! I don't want to go anywhere!" she cried, making a futile attempt to wrench herself free.

They shoved her into a room painted a sickening, vibrant red. The color, far from warm, pulsed with a malevolent energy, a visual assault that mirrored the terror clawing at her throat. This wasn't just a room; it was a cage, a carefully crafted hell. The air hung thick and heavy, charged with an unspoken dread. Every detail, from the bare, stained floor to the single, flickering bulb, screamed of cruelty. It was a place designed to break, to crush, to extinguish any flicker of hope.

They forced her into a dusty, wooden chair positioned in the room's center. The rough surface scratched against her skin as she was pushed down. Then, with chilling efficiency, they freed her wrists from their previous bindings, only to replace them with a far more insidious restraint. They roped her to the chair itself, securing her tightly, leaving her immobile and vulnerable. The coarse rope bit into her skin as she struggled, a constant, painful reminder of her helplessness.

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking, a raw, desperate sound. "Please, let me go." The words were barely audible, a broken plea swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room. Each syllable was a testament to her fear, a fragile attempt to pierce the wall of their cruelty. Her voice, usually strong and steady, trembled, betraying the terror that gripped her. "Please," she repeated, the word a ragged, choked sob, "please, just let me go."

"So, let's bring on the painful torture, shall we?" Dante said, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight.

Elena's voice, a desperate, ragged plea, echoed in the red-painted room. "No, let me go! I didn't kill him!" The words tumbled out, a frantic denial against the suffocating fear. "It was him," she insisted, her eyes wide, pleading, "who made my college life hell!" The accusation hung in the air, a desperate attempt to deflect the inevitable. She wasn't just begging for her life; she was fighting for the truth, a truth that seemed to matter to no one but her. The memory of her college years, a torment she had tried to bury, resurfaced, a sharp, cruel contrast to the present horror. "He ruined everything," she whispered, the words barely audible, a broken confession in the face of impending doom.

"Stop lying," Dante said, his voice flat, edged with sudden, volcanic rage. His eyes, usually bright with cruel amusement, narrowed, and a flush of anger darkened his face. He leaned closer, the air thick with his unspoken threat. "You think I'm stupid?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, each word a venomous hiss. “You think I will believe your lies and let you go? You don’t know who I am. I will destroy you, and that’s my promise to you and my dead brother!” Rage boiled within him like a volcanic eruption, threatening to consume him.

Dante's anger flared, hot and sudden, a terrifying display of raw power. "How dare you say those things about my brother?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating with suppressed fury. He reached out and grabbed Elena's jaw, his fingers pressing hard against her skin, the pressure escalating. His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white, and Elena winced, a sharp, involuntary cry escaping her lips. "You will not speak of him that way," he repeated, his voice filled with a cold, implacable fury. He held her jaw firmly, the pressure increasing until she felt the bones grinding, and she knew his fingers would leave bruises, marks that would be a constant, agonizing reminder of his wrath.

Tears, like heavy beads of icy water, began to spill from Elena's eyes. They streamed down her cheeks, a silent testament to her utter helplessness, a visual representation of her broken spirit. She knew, with chilling certainty, what was coming. The fear was a cold, constricting weight in her stomach, a dread that spread through her limbs, making them feel heavy and useless, like lead. She couldn't escape. She couldn't fight. All she could do was wait, and the knowledge of the torture that awaited her was a dark, suffocating cloud, a suffocating blanket of dread. Each tear was a tiny, burning reminder of her vulnerability, of the pain that was about to be inflicted, a searing brand on her soul. She was trapped, utterly and completely, and the tears were a release, a small, desperate expression of the terror that held her captive, a silent scream in a room filled with the promise of agony.

Dante stepped back, his eyes still burning with anger. He surveyed Elena, his gaze lingering on the red marks left by the ropes, the bruises forming on her jaw. He seemed to relish her fear, her helplessness.

"You think this is bad?" he asked, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "This is just the beginning. I have plans for you, Elena. Plans that will make you beg for death."

He turned to the three men who had brought her to the room. "Leave us," he commanded.

The men nodded and filed out of the room, leaving Elena alone with Dante. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken threats.

Dante walked over to a table in the corner of the room. He picked up a small, silver knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light. The sight of the knife sent a jolt of pure terror through Elena. Her breath hitched, and her heart pounded even harder, if that was possible. Her eyes widened, fixated on the glinting blade, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. The simple, elegant shape of the knife, now a symbol of her impending torment, seemed to magnify, filling her entire field of vision. She felt a wave of dizziness wash over her, her stomach churning with a primal fear.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, his eyes never leaving Elena. The casual, almost affectionate way he handled the knife made her fear spike even higher. It was as if he were admiring a precious jewel, not a tool of torture.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, a chilling contrast to the storm raging in her mind.

Elena shook her head, her eyes wide with fear, her throat too constricted to speak.

"This," Dante said, holding up the knife, the silver reflecting the dim light, "is going to be your worst nightmare."

He walked towards her, the knife glinting in his hand. Each step he took sent a fresh wave of panic through Elena. She tried to shrink back in the chair, but the ropes held her fast. The knife, now only inches away, seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, a promise of pain.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes boring into hers, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Tell me the truth, Elena," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me why you killed my brother."

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