I woke up in a room that looked like a hospital. Clean walls, silence, too white. There was no hospital smell. Strange. Usually it smells like death, antiseptic, and other people's attempts to live. Here, nothing. Overall, a fitting place.
My body didn't feel like mine. Weak, sluggish. My consciousness drifted, as if someone had accidentally pressed "dim life." They must have pumped me with painkillers. I didn't mind. The less I feel, the better.
I kept getting pulled into sleep. It came easily, as if there were no thoughts there. Good.
Sometimes I woke up and went to the bathroom. Did what I needed to do. Came back. No people. No questions. No one looked, no one checked if I was breathing. Convenient.
It happened several times. Four or five. Honestly, I didn't try to count. There was no point.
I woke up to a woman's voice. It was steady.
"Mirey, wake up. You need to eat."
I opened my eyes. The light was dim. A blonde woman in hospital scrubs stood by the bed holding a tray. Her hair was tied back. Her hands were gloved.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"You're in Mr. Vescari's private hospital," she said.
She pulled a table toward me. Metal, on wheels, and placed the tray on it. Porridge. A bowl of soup nearby. White bread on a snow-white, expensive plate.
"You lost a lot of strength and blood. You need to recover."
She looked straight at me.
The care felt strange, considering she worked for the mafia. I didn't comment and just started eating. The room was suspiciously quiet. No footsteps, no voices, no sounds of equipment. Either this was a separate facility, cut off from the main building, or an entirely separate house. There were no windows, so I couldn't draw any certain conclusions.
When I finished eating, the woman silently began clearing the dishes and laying out pills on the tray. Next to them, she placed a syringe.
"When can I go home?" I asked the question evenly, without any inflection. I needed to understand what my status was here.
"It's too soon for you to go back. The wounds on your arms are deeper than they look. There could be an infection."
"I can come in for dressings every day," I clarified, still probing.
"Your arm muscles..."
"I'm fine," I interrupted.
She hesitated. Either it was caution, or simply refusal to speak directly. There was no real answer. That meant I'd have to press.
"Don't try to be a superwoman. Wounds don't heal by magic. Though you should know that better than anyone." Her gaze slid over the scars on my arms. "Are those from...?"
"No," I cut her off. "I know. And that's exactly why I'm asking when I can go home."
All these wounds, cuts, and blows were nothing compared to being burned or torn apart alive.
"Who are you?" she asked, surprised.
"No one. Just a girl who ended up in an uncomfortable situation because of her own stupidity," I replied and sat on the edge of the bed. I began looking around the room, searching for my things. "Clothes?"
"I'll bring them now. But I have to call someone from Mr. Vescari's side. He has to give permission before you can leave," she said, less willingly this time.
"Alright. I'll wait."
My body felt like a field after a bombing. How many times it had exploded — I hadn't kept track. It had simply stopped responding. But the environment itself — these walls, the smell, the sterile silence — irritated me. Not even angered, just interfered with my ability to be at peace.
Someone from Theron? Maybe it would be Ostin. He was the only one I knew. But as it turned out, everything that happened in the companies was just a façade. A picture. In reality, it was worse. And more dangerous.
His gaze, his movements. They didn't resemble anything I had seen before. He was a good actor. As expected, he wasn't who he appeared to be.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door. A man in a dark suit entered the room. Behind him came the blonde woman, holding my clothes in her hands. I didn't know the man. Most likely, he was from the side where everything happens without paperwork.
"I was told you want to go home?" he asked. Dryly. Without any attempt at politeness.
"Yes. My body is capable of recovering at home. There's no need for hospitalization. Unless, of course, this is a prison," I offered the question first.
"What do you mean. You're not a prisoner. Mr. Vescari just wants you to make a full recovery," he replied with the same lack of emotion. "I'm responsible for overseeing your complete treatment."
"You can provide everything necessary for home care. I can come in for dressing changes. Nothing else is required," I laid out the plan calmly and walked up to the blonde. I took the clothes and examined them. The blood had been washed off. The dirt too.
"Shoes?" I asked.
I noticed the look of shock on the girl's face.
"Ah... yes, I'll bring them right away," she mumbled and hurried out.
The man didn't stop her. I took the clothes and headed into the bathroom to change.
As I pulled on the jacket, my vision darkened. My muscles ached so badly that my body could barely hold its balance. But there was no point in staying here. As long as they were letting me go, I'd better leave.
I came out in a gray suit and a wrinkled shirt, which still bore traces of torture.
"We'll compensate you for all the damage," the man began.
"No need. The suit is cheap. Mr. Theron pays me well. I can afford a new one," I replied coldly, to cut off any attempts at politeness.
Everyone in the room knew I had been tortured. For a long time. But they behaved as if it was just another routine episode. I couldn't blame them. I worked for him. I took his money. And I had no right to judge anyone. But if they were pretending it was business as usual, then I would act the same.
"So can I go home?" I repeat, still hoping for a "yes," before the silence crystallizes into a definite "no."
"Wait while Miss Amy gathers the necessary medication for you. I'll inform Mr. Toren of your decision. Then you'll be taken," says the man in black. He still hasn't given his name.
So the blonde is called Amy now.
"I can get a cab myself," I clarify. "And… I'd like my bag back."
I look at him. Calmly, but enough that he understands.
"I'll find out and let you know. Wait," he says in the same voice. Then he turns and leaves.
Amy, meanwhile, was placing the pills into a paper bag. Writing something down, crossing something out. Focused and indifferent.
"I wrote down how and what to take. Dressing — every two days. I think they'll be bringing you here," she said calmly, without looking at me.
Bringing. I wonder — to where exactly.
"And where am I?" I ask.
"You're on Vescari family property. A separate building. The main house is a little farther. We're outside the city. You can only get here in their car. No taxis, no Uber allowed in."
Alright. So I'm inside. No quick way out.
Why did he do this? Did he believe me? Or does he still need me?
Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is getting out of here. I'll figure out the rest as I go.
"Do you work for him or..." Amy was searching for the right words. She probably couldn't imagine who they might torture and then let live.
"I work for him," I said.
"Strange. You got lucky today. Only the closest subordinates get in here, or family," she watched me closely. "I've already seen everyone who has access here. Regular employees usually disappear."
She really does know everything and sees everything. She talks about it calmly. Without surprise, without doubt. She doesn't seem like an ordinary person. Especially not like a doctor.
Maybe she has her own reasons to be here.
I told myself — don't judge them.
"You..." I started to ask a question, but the man returned to the room.
He had my bag in his hands. He held it out to me.
I quickly checked the contents. Keys, wallet, phone were all there. The rest didn't matter. The documents I had taken with me were already gone.
"Let's go. The car is ready," he said, opening the door.
I didn't wait or say goodbye to Amy. The only thing that mattered was getting out while I still could.
We walked down a hallway. Expensive paintings on the walls. Classical style, everything tidy, without excess. Along the way — a few display cases with vases and busts. Faces I didn't recognize.
Outside, I looked around. We were standing at a large three-story house. The kind of facade you see in movies. With a semicircular awning so cars could pull up right to the entrance.
This was their secondary house.
The Vescari family had been in business a long time. In the U.S., in Europe. They had money. How much — didn't matter. I hadn't asked.
And this was only the secondary house, as she said.
The Vescari had been doing business for a long time. In America, even in Europe. Their wealth had been building for years. Maybe centuries. I didn't go into the details.
A luxury car was parked at the driveway. Looked like a Mercedes. I didn't stare, just tried to get inside as naturally as possible, without showing how much my body hurt. Otherwise, they might change their minds.
The man didn't get into the car.
"Have a pleasant trip," he said politely, closed the door behind me, and nodded to the driver.
The driver pulled away without a word. Everything was too calm. Too smooth. It was starting to feel unsettling. Were they taking me home, or somewhere else — for round two? Or maybe they were getting rid of me.
The phone in my bag vibrated. The thought broke off.
12:32
"Since you declined medical leave, Theron expects you in his office tomorrow. At 9:00." — Ostin.
Just like that. As if nothing had happened.
What the hell is going on.
Looks like I'm missing something. Time to start watching more carefully.
The car drove for another ten minutes before we passed through a guarded gate. The entire area belonged to the Vescari estate. The scale was impressive.
Only after half an hour did we reach the city. Familiar buildings made it clear — we were really heading to my place.
Through traffic and autumn dampness, we got there in about forty minutes. The car stopped at my building.
At that moment, everything logical in my head short-circuited. He was really letting me go. Just like that.
He wasn't afraid I'd go to the police. Or talk. Or do anything at all.
I stepped out of the car cautiously. Looked around. Everything looked normal. Quiet, calm. Too calm.
If an FBI agent showed up right now, I'd shove all these pills into one very narrow place.
I took the elevator up to my floor. Carefully. The hallway was empty.
I inserted the key into the lock. The door wasn't locked.
Shit.
The unease hit immediately. Nothing is ever that simple.
I opened the door slowly. The first thing I heard was the TV. Some talk show or the news. Voices pushing into my head uninvited.
I opened it wider. Derek was sitting at the table. And next to him...
"Hi, sis. You look like crap," an annoyingly teenage voice greeted me.