My Captor From The North

{CARA'S POV}

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I wake to the sound of murmured voices, muffled, as if I’m underwater. My head throbs, and for a second. Darkness is so complete that I’m not even sure if my eyes are open.

I try to sit up, but a wave of nausea knocks me back down. The floor beneath me is cold. Unyieldingly cold.

Where am I?

I force my eyes open again, blinking until my vision sharpens. I’m in a room; a dim, bare space with concrete walls and a single light flickering overhead. There’s an iron door to my left, the only exit. My wrists are bound tightly behind me, it's cutting into my skin with every movement.

It’s freezing. I can feel the chill biting into my skin as well. The air here is different. Crisp. Sharp. Nothing like the warmth of home - Sicily. I know I’m far from home, far from anywhere near and anything familiar.

I glance around, keeping silent and assessing. I keep my face calm. “Don’t let them see anything,” I tell myself. “Trust no one.“

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. They come closer. A man steps out of the shadows. I see his boots, it's the type for the cold and rainy days.

I glance up to assess him better. He's tall and imposing, dressed in dark clothes with a fucking handsome face as hard as stone. He looks like the pretty hell I've been envisioning for myself, where I'd pay for my sinful life.

He’s studying me, looking down at me as he towers. But there’s something wrong with his gaze. Something personal… Recognition.

He thinks he knows me.

His dark clothes are torn and bloodstained, his hair a disheveled mess. But it’s the way he stands; rigid, trembling, dangerous... that sends a cold wave of terror through me.

“You... Who's hitman are you?” I try to sound bold, but my voice cracks, betraying me.

“Do you know what I’ve seen?” His voice is low, guttural, each word heavy with barely contained rage.

How is that supposed to answer my question? “I—”

“Shut up!” he barks.

I stumble back, colliding with the wall. The chains holding me rattle loudly. For a moment, I foolishly think they might protect me from whatever comes next.

His eyes are wild, burning with a fury so intense it makes my skin crawl.

“They didn’t just kill them,” he spits, stepping toward me. His boots thud against the floor, each step a warning. “They desecrated them. They broke their bodies, their spirits. Do you know what it’s like to walk through the ruins of your people? To see little girls, children, ripped apart while your father laughed from his throne?”

“I don’t—”

Before I can finish, he’s on me. His hand fists in my hair, yanking me forward until I’m forced to stand inches from his face.

Pain shoots through my scalp as I gasp, trying to steady myself.

“Don’t you dare deny it!” he hisses, his breath warm against my face. “Your father’s hands are soaked in their blood, and yours aren’t far behind.”

Tears well in my eyes, blurring his face, but I can’t look away. His grip tightens, and a sharp cry escapes me.

“Please,” I whisper. “I didn’t know—”

He shoves me backward, slamming me into the wall. The chains clatter loudly as the impact knocks the air from my lungs.

“Didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with venom. “You didn’t care. You sat in your southern palace, blind and deaf to your father’s plans to further the suffering of the North. My people begged for mercy, and your father gave them death!”

His fist slams onto the table nearby, and I flinch. The sharp crack echoes through the room like a gunshot. My mind races, trying to piece together his accusations. Papà? This... this isn’t like him. Papà respects the North. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t do something like that.

“You’re no different,” he says, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Privileged. Cowardly. Southern.”

“I’m not him,” I say, my voice trembling, barely audible.

“No,” he says, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “But maybe I should show you what it feels like to be at the mercy of monsters.”

My blood runs cold as he pulls a gun from his coat. The metal gleams under the dim light, and he raises it, pointing it directly at me. I press myself against the table, my knees shaking violently.

“Strip,” he commands.

The word drops like a bomb in the room.

“W-what?”

“You heard me.” His voice is calm. Too calm. And that terrifies me more than his yelling.

“Aho, please—” I stammer, shaking my head. Who is this man?

It hits me then, like a crashing wave. This isn’t just any man. His presence... his coldness... the command in his voice. He’s someone important. And if he’s part of the shark families hunting La Rosas, I’d recognize him. I should recognize him. But this one's a stranger.

“Strip,” he repeats, stepping closer. His smell fills my senses; sharp, briny, and cold, like the ocean itself. It’s surreal. How does someone smell like the sea? What am I thinking? Focus, Cara!

The barrel of the gun presses closer to my chest. “If you won’t feel their pain, then you’ll feel their shame. Do it. Now.”

Tears stream down my face as I shake my head. “No... I can’t...”

His hand shoots out, grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grip is bruising. “You don’t get to say no,” he growls. “My people didn’t get to say no.”

He shoves me again, and I stumble to the ground. Pain shoots through my tailbone as I hit the hard floor, but it’s the humiliation that stings more. He towers over me, gun still trained on my chest.

The North… the cold… Could I be somewhere in northern Italy? It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Stories flood my mind, stories every southern girl grows up hearing. The syndicates that rule the North don’t bicker and fight like the gangs in Sicily. No, they work as a single machine, every organization bowing to one name: Il Noce—The Walnut.

And him? His words, his fury, his cold eyes tell me everything I need to know. He’s one of them.

“Get up,” he barks.

I can’t move. Fear roots me to the floor.

“I said, get up!” He grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet. His strength is overwhelming, his grip bruising.

“Why are you doing this?” I sob, clutching at his wrist. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything!”

“Because someone has to pay!” he roars, his face inches from mine. “Your father won’t feel the weight of his sins unless I make you bear it!”

He slams me against the chains bolted to the wall, the cold iron digging into my back. His hand closes around my throat, not enough to choke me but enough to make every breath a struggle.

“And who,” he hisses, “Who will atone for the shambles of my people? Who will bring justice to the dead and broken?”

I gasp for air, clawing at his wrist. His grip loosens just enough for me to speak.

“You’re a monster,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he’ll pull the trigger. But then he laughs—a cold, hollow sound that freezes the blood in my veins.

“Yes,” he says, his voice like ice. “And what does that make you? The daughter of the man who ignited me.”

Tears spill freely down my cheeks, my body trembling. I understand now. He isn’t just angry; he’s broken. His grief has consumed him, twisted him into something no human should be.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. The words feel weak, meaningless. “But believe me... Papà wouldn’t do such a thing without a reason. He wouldn’t kill people like that. He respects the North. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeats, mockery dripping from his tone. “Sorry won’t bring them back. Sorry won’t fix what’s been ruined."