177

177
Emilia’s POV
The stench of the room was suffocating-sweat, alcohol, and something metallic that I couldn’t quite place. My head hung low, my body too weak to sit upright for long. Days had passed-how many, I didn’t know-and the ache in my bones felt permanent now. I’d been left alone most of the time, which, as degrading as this situation was, had become a small mercy.
Until tonight.
The sound of boots scraping against the concrete floor reached my ears before the door groaned open. I flinched involuntarily, my hands curling into weak fists as three of them entered the room. I recognized them immediately: the smug one with the crooked nose and greasy hair, the one who had smacked me in the van, and a wiry man who always seemed to watch me a little too closely.
“Look at her,” Crooked Nose said, his tone laced with mockery. “She’s barely got any fight left.”
“Bet she squeals just the same,” the wiry one replied, his words making bile rise in my throat.
“Shut up,” I hissed, though my voice cracked, betraying my fear.
“Oh, she’s got some fire left,” Crooked Nose said, stepping closer. “Alonso won’t mind if we have a little fun. Right?”
Wiry laughed darkly, and the third man, silent until now, simply shrugged.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice trembling but louder this time.
Crooked Nose crouched in front of me, his breath hot and foul. “You think you’re special because of your pretty face, huh? You’re just a pawn. Nobody’s coming for you.”
His words cut deeper than I expected, but I refused to let him see that. “Alaric will come,” I said, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I could muster. “And when he does, you’ll regret this.”
His laughter rang out, cold and cruel. “Oh, sweetheart, he’ll be too late.”
He grabbed my arm roughly, yanking me to my feet. I fought against him, but the effort was futile. My body was weak, and hunger and fear had drained all the strength I had left.
“Let go of me!” I screamed, twisting and kicking, but they only laughed harder.
The wiry one grabbed my other arm, and together they dragged me toward the grimy mattress in the corner of the room. Panic surged through me, a tidal wave of dread that made my chest ache and my vision blur.
“Please,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Don’t do this.”
“Shut up,” one of them growled, slapping me hard across the face. The sting brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to cry. I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
Then the door slammed open, crashing against the wall with a force that made all three of them freeze.
“What the hell-” Crooked Nose started, but his words were cut off by a single gunshot.
The sound was deafening in the small room, and Crooked Nose collapsed to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
“Boss!” one of the others stammered, letting go of me immediately.
I stumbled back, falling against the wall as a tall, imposing man entered the room. His presence sucked all the air from the space, his black suit immaculate despite the chaos. His expression was ice-cold, his dark eyes scanning the scene with fury simmering just beneath the surface.
“Alonso,” one of the men said, his voice trembling. “We didn’t mean-”
Another gunshot.
The second man dropped, clutching his chest as blood spilled between his fingers.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded in my ears as Alonso Cruz turned his attention to the wiry man, who was now shaking so violently he could barely stand.
“Please,” the man begged, holding up his hands. “I didn’t-”
A third shot rang out, and the last man fell.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing.
Alonso turned to me, his sharp gaze raking over my disheveled form. His expression shifted slightly-still cold, but now tinged with something else. Recognition?
He took a step closer, and I flinched, pressing myself harder against the wall.
“What’s your name?” he demanded, his voice low but commanding.
I stared at him, my mind scrambling for an answer. “E-Emilia,” I stammered.
His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, almost to himself. “Not Emilia.”
I frowned, confusion cutting through my fear. “What are you talking about?”
He crouched down in front of me, his intense gaze locking onto mine. “Where is it?” he asked.
“Where’s what?”
Without answering, he grabbed the hem of my tattered dress and lifted it just enough to reveal the inside of my thigh. My breath hitched as his eyes widened, his expression shifting from cold to something that looked almost… reverent.
“The star,” he murmured, his fingers hovering near the birthmark but not touching it.
I pulled my dress back down, trembling. “How do you know about that?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, pulling back the sleeve of his suit jacket to reveal his forearm. There, etched into his skin, was a matching star-shaped birthmark.
My world tilted on its axis.
“You’re… mine,” he said, his voice unsteady for the first time. “My blood. My daughter.”
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s not,” he said firmly. “Your name isn’t Emilia. It’s Alessandra. Alessandra Cruz.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. It was beautiful, elegant, and completely foreign. It was not mine.
“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“You were taken from me,” he said, his jaw tightening. “That bastard! He took you away from me and gave you away. He… He gave you to strangers.”
My head spun, the weight of his words too much to process. “No,” I said again, my voice breaking. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You belong to me, Alessandra. And now that I’ve found you, I’m never letting you go.”
I wanted to argue, to deny everything he was saying, but a part of me-the part that had always felt like I didn’t quite belong-couldn’t ignore the possibility that he was right.
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up at him, this man who had just killed three people without hesitation but now regarded me with something that almost looked like… love.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whispered. “You’re driving me crazy. I’m Emilia. Emilia Abramo.”
Alonso crouched down again, his expression softening slightly. “You’re my daughter,” he said, his voice gentler now. “You’re Alessandra Cruz. And no one will ever hurt you again.”