Vicious 28 (Patreon)

Author's note — Happy 4th of July to all my American readers! 🇺🇸 I hope you're spending the day surrounded by good food, sunshine, fireworks, and the people you love.

I meant to post this chapter earlier, but my mom and I ended up going shopping for a dress for a BBQ we were invited to later today — time got away from us, and I just got back home!

Anyway, this one’s a long chapter, and I really hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think — your feedback means the world to me! 💌

✏️ word count — 6.4K

⚠️ Trigger Warnings: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, physical abuse, captivity, trauma, blood, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is strongly advised

The words hung heavy in the air.

Even the warehouse seemed to fall quiet — like the building itself understood what Harry Styles had just promised.

Lex didn’t speak. Charlie didn’t move. No one dared to say a damn thing.

Because when Harry said he’d make the world bleed, he meant it.

He ran a hand through his hair — the motion sharp, restless — then turned toward the table where a cluster of maps, ledgers, and burner phones lay scattered. He grabbed the nearest one and dialed without hesitation.

The line clicked.

“Did you find it?” Harry snapped.

A pause. Then a voice on the other end — ragged, nervous. “We traced two of the wire transfers. Offshore, like you thought. Cayman shell companies, but one of them routes through Palermo. Same account Augusto’s used before.”

“Send it. Now.” Harry’s jaw flexed.

He hung up and turned to Lex. “Get eyes on every plane that’s landed from Italy in the last week. Private or otherwise. I want flight manifests, car rentals, phone pings — I don’t care how deep we have to dig.”

Lex nodded without hesitation, already moving.

Charlie stepped forward, quieter. “Boss… if they’re in Palermo—”

“They’re not,” Harry cut in.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

Harry’s voice was cold, certain.

“Because the deal was local. Federico wouldn’t risk crossing international borders until the papers are signed. He’s a coward, not an idiot.”

Charlie exhaled. “So they’re still here.”

“They’re still here,” Harry echoed, eyes burning. “And when we find them, we don’t knock.”

His phone buzzed again. He snatched it up — a new address pinged from one of his contacts. Industrial outskirts. Abandoned textile plant. Just outside Southall.

Harry stared at it for a second.

Then looked up.

“Load the guns”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “You think she’s there?”

Harry’s voice dropped.

“I think someone’s about to tell me where she is.”

The walls were damp. Cold.

Y/N didn’t know how many days had passed. Time didn’t move normally down there. There was no sun, no moon — only the rusted metal door that groaned open and slammed shut when they decided to try again.

But she didn’t break.

Not when they tried depriving her of food.

Not when they left her in silence for hours, for days.

Not even when they came in and pretended Harry was dead.

They tried everything.

Isolation. Noise. Bright lights. Darkness.

Whispers of betrayal. Of abandonment.

Lies.

“He’s not coming, you know.”

“He already made a deal for your body.”

“You were nothing but leverage.”

But she knew better. She knew Harry.

And more than that — she knew them.

Federico had taught her all the tactics. The breakdown points. The psychological chokeholds. As a child, she had sat through strategy sessions meant for men twice her age. She learned the language of control before she ever learned how to drive.

And now she used every weapon they gave her — against them.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak, unless it was to mock them.

When Augusto stood over her, trying to intimidate her with his hollow threats, she met his eyes and smirked.

“You always did talk too much,” she said.

When they sent in one of the low-level thugs to rattle her, she stared him down until he looked away.

And when Silas came, pacing, circling her, spitting venom like it would burn — she laughed.

That’s what finally broke him.

He slammed her back against the wall, grabbed her jaw tight enough to bruise. “What the fuck are you smiling at?”

Y/N's lip was cracked, her cheek swollen, but her eyes glittered.

“You’re angry,” she whispered. “You didn’t think I’d last this long.”

Silas’s nostrils flared. “You’ll last until I say you don’t.”

“You’ve already lost,” she said, calm despite the blood in her mouth. “You’re just too pathetic to realize it.”

He raised a hand to strike her, but hesitated — breathing hard, jaw twitching. She’d gotten under his skin.

Again.

He shoved her back, storming from the cell and slamming the door with a sound that echoed like thunder.

She sagged in her chains, arms burning, body aching — but her chest swelled with something quiet and steady.

Resolve.

She wouldn’t beg.

She wouldn’t scream.

And she would not break.

Because Federico may have turned his back on her — but he had taught her too damn well.

And that would be his greatest mistake.

The heavy door slammed behind Silas as he stormed into the makeshift office. Dust rattled from the wooden beams above, and the men seated at the long table went quiet the moment they saw him.

Federico didn’t look up. He continued swirling the amber liquid in his glass, legs crossed like this was just another late evening at his estate — not a war.

“She’s not talking,” Silas spat.

Federico raised one brow, still not looking at him. “And?”

Silas stepped closer, jaw clenched. “She mocks me. Laughs in my face. Do you understand what that means? She’s not afraid. Not of me. Not of Augusto. Not of any of this.”

Federico finally looked at him — calm, unimpressed. “Then you’re doing a poor job, Silas.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Silas’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “She’s your daughter. You raised her. You trained her—you should’ve known she wouldn’t break easily.”

“I did,” Federico said coldly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Why do you think I left that part to you?”

That smug tone. That unbothered, aristocratic calm. It made Silas feel like he was twelve again, left out of every meeting, every plan, every secret.

“You think this is funny?” Silas snapped. “She’s supposed to be leverage. But right now, she’s a liability.”

Federico’s expression didn’t change. “She is many things. But she is not a liability.”

“She’s Harry Styles’ wife,” Silas barked, stepping closer. “And we haven’t heard a single word from him. He’s not making threats. He’s not negotiating. That means one thing—he’s coming. And he’ll come heavy.”

“Let him,” Federico said simply. “He’ll walk into a trap.”

Silas stared at him. “You’re too calm.”

“I’m prepared,” Federico corrected. “Which is more than I can say for you. She’s just a girl in chains, and she’s got you pacing like a dog.”

Silas bristled, his voice low and sharp. “I won’t be humiliated by her. Or him. This was supposed to be the beginning of something—my beginning.”

“And it still can be,” Federico said, setting his glass down. “But not if you let your pride get in the way.”

Silas laughed bitterly. “Easy for you to say. You gave up your daughter for this.”

Federico’s face shifted. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. But then it was gone — buried under decades of ice.

“I gave up a daughter the moment she sided with Harry,” he said flatly. “She made her choice. And so did I.”

Silas stared at him — disgusted, confused, and strangely... unnerved.

Federico leaned back in his chair. “Break her or don’t. But don’t come crying to me every time she reminds you that you’re not half the man your brother is.”

Silas didn’t move at first. His jaw worked in silence, his breath shallow and furious. Then, without another word, he stormed to the corner of the room where a black case sat beneath a canvas tarp.

He yanked it open.

Inside: a gleaming set of tools. Blades. Clamps. Instruments no one should ever touch with bare hands — unless they meant to make someone beg.

He grabbed the case and slung it over his shoulder.

At the door, he paused.

Without turning back, he said darkly, “Let’s see if she can keep talking shit after I’m done with her.”

Then he was gone — the door slamming shut with finality behind him.

Federico stared at the glass in his hand for a long time, but didn’t say a word.

The warehouse reeked of gasoline and blood.

The man was tied to a chair in the middle of the room, drenched in sweat, blood pooling beneath his boots. One eye was already swollen shut, his lip split, chest heaving like he was choking on air. But he was still conscious — barely.

Harry stood across from him, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt with quiet, deliberate movements. The only sound was the crackle of a cigarette burning in Lex’s hand as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Charlie stood behind the man, wiping blood from his knuckles.

“Third set of teeth we’ve pulled in this week,” Lex muttered. “Only one who hasn’t pissed himself yet.”

Harry didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the man in the chair like a predator calculating where to bite.

He finally stepped forward.

“Name.”

The man said nothing.

Harry crouched, lowering his voice. “You’re not special. You know that? Just another grunt Augusto tossed out like bait. You bleed like the rest. You break like the rest. But if you tell me what I want to know, you might walk out of here with a spine.”

The man spat blood onto the floor near Harry’s shoes.

Wrong move.

Without missing a beat, Charlie grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the wall.

“Answer him,” Charlie growled.

Harry stayed crouched, calm, watching the blood drip down the man’s chin.

“Where is she?” he asked again, quieter this time.

Still, no answer.

Harry sighed, stood up, and motioned with a single finger. Lex flicked his cigarette to the ground and walked over, rolling up his sleeves with the same slow, unhurried rhythm Harry had.

“Start with the fingers,” Harry said. “Left hand.”

“No—wait—” the man choked out.

Lex froze.

Harry turned slowly. “That’s better.”

The man’s chest was rising fast now. “There’s a property. South of Hampstead. Remote. Looks abandoned. You get close enough, it pings your car, tracks your plate. If you don’t match the list, they blow it.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What list?”

“Federico’s. It's a trap. The place is rigged to blow the second you try to breach. All the security feeds link to another location — they watch you come, and if you make it in... you don’t make it out.”

Harry went still.

Charlie swore under his breath.

Lex stepped forward. “You believe him?”

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. He’s scared now.”

Then, to the man: “Where’s the real location?”

The man hesitated. Harry raised a brow. “You think I’m bluffing?”

“A countryside estate,” the man wheezed. “North side. Forest behind it. Looks abandoned. Gated. Cellar underneath. It’s where they keep... the hard cases. The ones they don’t want anyone hearing.”

Harry’s blood turned to ice.

Harry looked at Lex. “Let's take a team and make sure they know that we are coming".

Lex nodded once, already dialing.

Charlie leaned in. “If it’s that house... it won’t just be guarded. It’ll be wired. Hidden routes. Exits we don’t know about.”

Harry’s voice was razor-sharp.

“Then we learn fast.”

He grabbed the map laid out on the table and circled the area north of the city — his hands steady despite the chaos clawing at his insides.

“I want drones. Motion feeds. A clean vehicle. And silencers only. No one breathes unless I say.”

The pain had gone numb hours ago. Maybe longer.

Y/N couldn’t tell time anymore.

She was barely conscious, her body hanging limp from the shackles on the cellar wall. Blood ran from her nose in slow, sticky streams. One eye was swollen shut. Her ribs screamed with every breath, and the copper taste in her mouth wouldn’t fade — no matter how many times she swallowed.

Her wrist was dislocated. Her lip split in two places. There was a jagged cut on her thigh that refused to clot. One of her shoulders was likely broken.

But her voice — when she used it — was still hers.

And that made Silas furious.

He stood in front of her now, chest heaving, hands red up to the wrists. His shirt stuck to him with sweat and blood — some hers, some not. His hair was a mess, his jaw twitching.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed, pacing like a caged animal. “You’re going to die in this room. And you still act like you’re above me.”

Y/N coughed — a raw, wet sound — and lifted her head just enough to look at him through the slit of her good eye.

“You want to be him so badly,” she rasped, her voice like torn velvet. “But you never will.”

That sent him over the edge.

He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against the wall — not that she could move far. Her body groaned beneath the chains, breath catching from the sudden spike of agony in her ribs.

Then—

“Enough.”

The door creaked open and Federico’s cold, steady voice echoed down the cellar stairs.

“She won’t help you if she’s dead,” he added sharply, stepping into the room.

Silas froze, hand still wrapped around her neck, panting like a wild dog. “She was mouthing off again.”

Federico descended the last step, fixing Silas with a look that made even him hesitate. “Then control yourself. You want her compliant, not comatose.”

Silas dropped his hand and stepped back, muttering under his breath. Y/N coughed violently, sagging in her chains, her lungs desperate for air.

Federico turned toward her, his voice softening—not with affection, but with something colder. Familiar. Calculated.

Then he switched to Italian.

“Guarda come ti sei ridotta...” — Look what you’ve let them do to you.

Y/N lifted her head, blood on her lips, and met his gaze. She didn’t speak.

“Pensavi davvero che lui potesse proteggerti? Che bastasse dormire nel suo letto per essere al Sicuro?” — Did you really think he could protect you? That sleeping in his bed would keep you safe?

Her jaw clenched.

“Non riesco ancora a capire cosa vuole da me,” — I still don’t understand what he wants from me. She rasped hoarsely.

Silas snapped, “English.”

Federico didn’t turn around. “She’s my daughter. I’ll speak to her how I please.”

“Yeah? Then maybe she can tell me in any language why she keeps acting like this isn’t her fault,” Silas growled. “All she has to do is say the words. Betray Harry. Lure him in. Let us end this. It’s not hard.”

Y/N’s lip curled, eyes never leaving her father.

“E tu? È questo che volevi, papà? Che io fossi il coltello puntato contro mio marito?” — And you? Is this what you wanted, Papa? For me to be the knife aimed at my husband?

Federico’s face remained expressionless. “Voglio che tu apra gli occhi. Lui è la fine della nostra famiglia. Non la salvezza.” — I want you to open your eyes. He is the end of our family — not its salvation.

“Tu hai scelto la tua fine, non io.” — You chose your end. Not me.

Silas slammed his fist against the wall. “English! You don’t get to whisper behind my back in front of me.”

Federico turned slowly. His voice dropped to something glacial.

“And you don’t get to demand anything from me, ragazzo. You’re not family. You’re a parasite with a thirst for power and no understanding of what it costs.”

Silas flinched but recovered, sneering. “She’ll give in. She’s not made of steel.”

Y/N spoke then, voice barely a whisper, but every word crystal clear.

“I’d rather die with Harry’s name in my mouth than live with yours.”

Silas lunged for her again.

Federico stepped between them — not out of protection, but authority.

“That’s enough. You can break her body, but if you break her mind, she’s no use to us.”

“She's no use to me like this anyway,” Silas muttered, backing off.

“Then be patient,” Federico said coolly, eyes still on his daughter. “Time does what fists can’t.”

Then, to Y/N — once more in Italian:

“Sopravvivi se puoi. Ma non aspettarti pietà da me.” — Survive if you can. But don’t expect mercy from me.

Federico turned to leave, his expression unreadable as always, the same cold mask she had known her whole life. But just before he reached the door, her voice came again — hoarse, trembling, but sharp as a blade.

“Sopravviverò, sai?” — I’ll survive, you know?

He paused, shoulders still.

She lifted her head as much as her broken body would allow, blood drying on her lips, her eye barely open.

“Grazie a te, papá.” — Thanks to you, Father.

He turned slowly, something flickering in his gaze.

“Grazie a tutte le botte. A ogni parola non detta. A ogni silenzio carico di vergogna. Sei tu che mi hai insegnato a non parlare. A non cedere. E guarda, non l’ho fatto.” — Thanks for all the beatings. For every word left unsaid. For every silence laced with shame. You taught me how to stay quiet. How not to break. And look — I haven’t.

Silas stood off to the side, arms crossed, scowling. He didn’t understand the words, but he understood defiance when he heard it.

Federico stared at his daughter. For the first time in a long, long time, there was no control in the room — not for him, not for Silas.

Y/N, bloodied and broken and chained, had taken it all.

He turned away.

Without a word, he left the room.

And once again, Y/N was alone — but never truly defeated.

The moon hung low over the dark silhouette of the estate. The heavy air buzzed with anticipation — Harry’s men lined up, weapons ready, shadows cast long across the gravel.

Harry stood at the front, shoulders squared, jaw set like iron.

Lex and Charlie flanked him, exchanging wary glances.

“We clear the perimeter first?” Lex suggested, voice cautious.

Harry shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said, voice low but fierce. “I’m going through the front door. No sneaking, no playing it safe. They know I’m coming. They better be the ones scared.”

Charlie frowned. “Boss, that’s the riskiest move. Italians inside, and their men are armed to the teeth.”

Harry’s green eyes locked on Charlie’s.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He turned to the men.

“Listen up. This isn’t some petty raid. I’m not looking for scraps. I’m bringing my wife home. We go in together. We do this clean and fast. But if any of you hesitate, if anyone slows us down, you’ll answer to me.”

The group fell silent.

Lex nodded slowly. “You sure about this?”

Harry gave a slight, cold smile.

“Damn sure.”

He raised his hand, signaling the charge.

“Front door. Now.”

The men moved in formation — steady, determined — as Harry strode forward like a king walking into his throne room.

The massive door loomed ahead.

Harry led the charge — first through the door, no hesitation, no warning.

The Italians on guard barely had time to react. The first one raised his gun — but Harry shot him clean between the eyes before the man could breathe.

Gunfire erupted behind him. Lex’s team flooded through the entrance, clearing the front with terrifying precision. Charlie and his unit peeled off to the east corridor, shouting code and sweeping rooms.

Harry didn’t stop.

His boots thudded against marble floors streaked in fresh blood.

Another man rushed from the side hall — Harry ducked the swing of a blade and drove his elbow into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He dropped him with a shot to the chest, no pause, no second thought.

A man lunged from the stairs above — Harry shot once. The body hit the floorboards with a sickening crack.

His expression didn’t change, not even when one of the Italians came at him with a knife. Harry ducked, caught the man’s wrist, and slammed his face into the wall so hard it broke his nose. Then he took the knife and buried it into another attacker’s shoulder.

Blood sprayed the wallpaper.

He kept walking.

They weren’t ready for him. No one ever was.

This wasn’t strategy — it was force. Raw, unrelenting power in tailored black.

He turned the corner toward the stairwell leading to the cellar — when another man appeared, aiming a pistol. Too slow. Harry shot first — the bullet hit the man’s thigh. He screamed, fell, tried to crawl away.

Harry walked up behind him and shot him again. Silence.

His chest was rising and falling like a war drum.

The sound of gunfire had faded.

Only footsteps remained — pounding upstairs, crashing down hallways. Harry’s men were sweeping the rooms, clearing what was left of the Italian guards. The house was falling.

But Harry’s target wasn’t a man.

It was a door.

The door that led to the basement.

That’s where she was.

Where they had kept her.

He was bleeding from his shoulder, another gash deep in his ribs, but none of it mattered. The pain kept him upright. Kept him moving.

Then—

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway. Blocking the stairs.

Harry’s steps slowed. His blade gripped tighter in his hand. His heart didn’t race — it just tightened.

Because he recognized that stance.

The arrogance.

The calm.

Silas.

Standing alone. A blade in his hand. A twisted smirk on his lips. Blood down his shirt.

“Going somewhere, brother?” he asked, voice cold, cocking his head toward the basement door behind him.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Silas’s grip tightened on the hilt of his knife.

“She’s down there. You want her, you go through me.”

Silas stepped forward.

No gun.

No backup.

Just the two of them — exactly how he wanted it.

“Why?” Harry asked, voice like gravel. “Why her?”

Silas’s smile widened, manic and bloodthirsty.

“Because she’s the only thing that made you human. The only thing that pulled you out of the shadows. And I wanted to see what you’d do when someone ripped her out of your hands.”

Harry didn’t speak. He dropped into a fighting stance.

A flick of his wrist — the blade glinted in the low light.

And Silas laughed.

“Let’s make this personal.”

Then they moved.

The knives clashed, fists flying. Every hit landed heavy. It wasn’t a clean fight — it was a brawl born of years of buried hatred.

Harry slammed Silas into the wall.

Silas elbowed him in the gut.

Harry stabbed — missed.

Silas cut across Harry’s arm — deep.

Blood smeared across the hallway floor.

They grappled — shoulders, necks, fists — Harry headbutting Silas hard enough to crack something in his nose.

“She is mine” Harry shouted, knife slicing across Silas’s forearm.

Silas snarled, grabbing Harry’s collar. “She was never yours. She deserved better than a cold-blooded king!”

“Then you should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

Harry drove his knee into Silas’s stomach, and with one brutal movement, stabbed him in the leg — the blade sliding in deep, right above the knee.

Silas collapsed, screaming and bleeding heavily, one leg useless beneath him. The knife wound gushed, soaking the floorboards. He gasped through gritted teeth, chest heaving, hair matted to his face with sweat and blood.

But his rage—his hatred—remained intact.

“DO IT!” Silas spat. “KILL ME!”

His voice echoed down the corridor like a challenge, not a plea.

“You fucking coward! Do it! You want to be the big man, right? Take me out like a boss would!”

Harry stood over him, breath ragged, blade still gripped tight. Blood trickled down his forearm, his shoulder throbbed with every pulse, but his expression—was steel.

“No,” Harry growled. “I’m not gonna kill you.”

Silas laughed, half-coughing. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

“Of course you’re not,” he sneered, eyes burning with venom. “Because you’re too weak now. She’s made you weak. Fucking pathetic. Look at you—bleeding, tired, soft.”

He leaned forward, pain twitching his face.

“Y/N turned you into a lovesick mutt.”

Harry’s jaw clenched hard, something snapping behind his eyes.

“Don’t say her name.”

“What?” Silas taunted, grinning through the pain. “Y/N?”

He grabbed Silas’s own knife from the ground and slammed it through his other leg, pinning him to the floor. The scream that tore from Silas’s throat was inhuman.

Harry leaned in, teeth gritted, voice trembling with fury.

“Don’t you ever speak her name again,” he hissed. “You hear me?”

Silas writhed under him, breath gone, body shaking.

“If you do,” Harry whispered, lowering his face so close his breath touched Silas’s bloodied cheek,

“I will kill you. I don’t care what blood we share. I’ll put you in the ground myself.”

Silas said nothing. His eyes fluttered from pain. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Harry let go of the blade and stood tall, chest heaving. Without another word, he turned toward the basement door.

His hands were stained red. His wounds screamed. But nothing would stop him now.

Harry staggered down the stairs, each step slower than the last.

Blood soaked the side of his shirt, dripping down his abdomen, seeping into his trousers. He was losing too much — but he didn’t care. His boots were heavy. His breathing was ragged. But he didn’t stop.

The cellar opened into the low, concrete room — cold, damp, and silent except for the softest creak of rusted chains.

And that’s when he saw her.

Y/N.

Her body was still hanging.

Her arms were above her head, suspended by chains hooked deep into the concrete wall. Her wrists — he could see the bone where the metal cuffs had torn the skin. Her legs hung loose, trembling just slightly — as if her body couldn’t decide whether to give out or keep fighting.

She wasn’t dressed — not properly. Just a torn undershirt and what was left of her sleep shorts. They were soaked in blood. Her torso was covered in deep, purpling bruises — handprints, blunt trauma, whip marks. Her ribs showed clearly through her skin. Her lips were split open, swollen. One of her eyes was so bruised it looked black.

There were finger-shaped bruises on her throat. Dried blood across her chest. Scrapes on her knees. Cuts on her face that hadn’t even scabbed over.

She looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Her whole body trembled in small, involuntary twitches — like it had forgotten how to rest.

She wasn’t just hurt. She was destroyed.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry choked, stumbling forward.

“Y/N—”

He fell to his knees in front of her, voice trembling, throat tight.

Her skin was ice cold. Her body — so much smaller now. Like the weight of her had been carved away day by day. There were welts on her back, cuts barely closed, and finger-shaped bruises wrapped around her arms.

“Darlin’...” His voice cracked.

She still wasn’t awake.

And suddenly Harry’s composure — the shell he’d worn his whole life — snapped.

He pressed his forehead against her chest, breathing in broken gasps. His shoulders shook.

“I should’ve been here,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I should’ve— I should’ve stopped this.”

He reached up, hands bloody and shaking, and began unlocking the chains.

“I let them touch you,” he muttered. “I let them take you... and I wasn’t— I wasn’t fast enough.”

The chains dropped with a clatter.

Her body collapsed forward. He caught her — just barely. She didn’t react.

“No, no, no— Y/N, stay with me,” he begged, cradling her in his arms. His hand moved to her face, cupping her bloodied jaw gently.

“You’re okay, love. I’ve got you now. It’s over.”

A tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t hide.

He pressed his lips to her temple, careful not to hurt her, rocking her slightly as he gathered her closer against his chest.

“You’re safe,” he whispered again. “You’re safe. I promise.”

But even as he said it — he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. Echoing from the basement stairs.

Lex turned. Charlie turned.

And one by one, the rest of Harry’s men stopped what they were doing. Silence swept through the blood-stained halls like a ghost.

Because there — at the top of the cellar steps — stood Harry.

He was drenched in blood. Some of it his own. Most of it not.

His shirt was torn at the shoulder where the knife had gone through. His face was smeared in soot, sweat, and tears. His chest rose and fell like he was holding in the last breath he had left.

And in his arms — was Y/N.

Unconscious. Limp.

Her head lay slumped against his collarbone, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her legs dangled, bruised and beaten. Her body was half-wrapped in his coat, but it couldn’t hide the wounds — the cuts, the swelling, the sheer damage that had been done to her.

She looked… unrecognizable.

The strong, sharp-eyed girl they all knew — the boss’s wife, the woman who held her own at his side — was gone. In her place was something fragile. Ghostlike. Broken.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Even the wind outside seemed to stop.

Harry didn’t look at anyone.

His jaw was clenched so tightly a vein throbbed along his temple. His green eyes were focused ahead, unblinking, like if he faltered for even a second she might slip away again.

He walked straight through them.

Step by step.

Lex’s mouth opened — but nothing came out.

Charlie took a step forward, only to pause when he saw Harry’s knuckles white around her body.

The men parted like the sea.

Some turned their faces away.

Others stared in stunned horror.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t just carry grief — it carried rage.

Y/N had always been a symbol of something sacred. Untouchable. Their boss’s heart. And now — now they saw the price of crossing that line.

“LEX!”

No response.

“CHARLIE! GET THE FUCKING CAR!”

His voice was pure fury — it ripped through the night, sharp and broken, laced with something close to panic.

The men outside turned, stunned by the sound — they'd never heard him like that. Not even in war. Not even in bloodshed.

Lex sprinted from the side of the house, gun still in hand, his expression of horror the second he saw Y/N in Harry’s arms.

“Jesus Christ,” Lex breathed.

“DRIVE!” Harry barked, voice cracking.

“Now, Lex! NOW!”

Lex didn’t question him. He bolted to the black SUV waiting near the gate and swung the rear door open.

Harry ducked in, careful but frantic as he held Y/N across his lap. Her head lolled toward his shoulder — still warm, still breathing — but barely.

Lex jumped behind the wheel.

Harry didn’t even wait for the engine to fully turn before yelling again.

"Step on it. We go home. We go now.”

The tires screeched against gravel.

Harry leaned back in the seat, cradling her head against his chest, murmuring under his breath.

“Stay with me, sweetheart…”

His voice shook.

The bedroom door was closed.

But Harry could hear them. The doctors. The nurses. Moving around her. Speaking in clipped tones, too quiet for him to make out. He could hear water being poured into basins. The metallic clatter of instruments. The low, muffled groan of pain from behind the door.

His blood ran colder with every sound.

He stood just outside — still covered in her blood and his own, his shirt half torn, dried streaks of red crusted over his temple and jaw. His shoulder had stopped throbbing, but only because the numbness had spread.

He didn’t move.

Not even when the floor creaked behind him.

Charlie and Lex appeared down the hall, walking slowly, their clothes dusty and bloodied, faces drawn from the long fight. Charlie gave him a nod before stepping aside — this wasn’t his moment.

Lex, however, approached carefully.

“We’ve got four hostages. Augusto’s men. We’ll get something out of ’em.” he murmured.

Harry didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the door.

Lex’s gaze dropped to Harry’s arm — the blood had soaked through completely, the fabric dark and clinging. The wound near his shoulder looked bad now that it had dried over.

“You need to get that checked out.”

Still, no response.

Lex stepped a little closer.

“Boss.”

“She was hanging from chains, Lex,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. “Like an animal. Like she was nothing.”

Lex’s jaw clenched, his voice softer now. “I saw.”

Harry blinked slowly, eyes still locked on the door.

“She didn’t make a sound when I unchained her. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She just… collapsed.”

Lex tried again. “Come on, let the doctor—”

Harry turned his head, finally looking at him.

His eyes were bloodshot. Hollow. Wrecked.

“I’ll get patched up when she breathes right again. When she opens her eyes.”

Then, without another word, Harry walked down the hall — slowly — until his back was against the wall opposite the bedroom door. He slid down to the floor, wincing as his wounded shoulder scraped the wall, but he didn’t care.

He sat there, legs bent, hands bloodstained and shaking. And waited.

The door stayed shut.

Harry was on his feet before the door finally swung out after a few hours, shoulder searing from the movement.

It was Dr. Rosen. Middle-aged, silent, and as loyal as they came. He looked exhausted. There was blood on his gloves — hers — and his forehead glistened with sweat.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“Is she—?”

“She’s alive,” the doctor said quickly. “Stable, for now.”

Harry exhaled — not relief. Something rougher. Like he’d been holding his breath since the second he’d found her and could finally gasp without drowning.

“But she’s in bad shape, Harry,” Rosen continued, glancing back inside.

“Give it to me,” he said, jaw locked. “All of it.”

Dr. Rosen swallowed. “Severe dehydration. Malnutrition. I estimate she hasn’t eaten properly in at least nine or ten days. Two broken ribs. One likely punctured her lung — we’ve drained it, she’s breathing on her own now. Her left shoulder was dislocated and reset improperly. Multiple fractures in her fingers, likely from blunt force or tools. Extensive bruising along her abdomen and hips… possibly internal bleeding, but we’re watching it. Her feet were burned—deliberately. Probably to keep her from running.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

“She’s lost weight. A lot. Her blood pressure bottomed out when we started fluids. It’s stabilized now, but it’s touch and go. Her throat shows signs of prolonged strangulation — the voice might be gone for a while.”

The doctor glanced at the closed bedroom door.

“Someone whipped her. Her back skin tore open in places. She also has multiple contusions on her skull. One directly around her left eye. The orbital bone is fractured. It’s swollen shut and severely bruised — she can’t see out of it. Her right eye is functioning, but… she may only be able to see light and blurred shapes until the swelling goes down. The damage may be temporary — but we don’t know yet.”

Harry’s breath left him all at once. Like the floor had dropped out from under him.

“She won’t be able to recognize faces when she wakes. We’ve cleaned her up as best we could. She’s sleeping now, under sedation. I’ll be monitoring her through the night. We’ve called in a second nurse. You can see her, but… prepare yourself.”

Harry didn’t wait for permission. He pushed past the doctor and stepped into the room.

It was quiet.

The room smelled of iodine and lavender soap. Nurses had bathed her, combed her hair. But nothing could mask the truth.

And there she was.

Lying in their bed.

Y/N lay motionless, half her face a mosaic of black, blue, and purple. Her left eye was so swollen it looked fused shut. The right barely opened. A faint film coated her lashes. Tubes ran to her veins, oxygen prongs tucked beneath her nose. Her lips were chapped and cracked. Her wrists were wrapped in gauze thick enough to look like restraints.

She looked half-dead.

Harry walked to her like a ghost, pain tearing through his side, but he didn’t falter. Not when he’d fought through fire to get to her. Not now.

He sat at her side and stared at her eye — the one that could still maybe, possibly see.

And then the ache hit him full force.

She wouldn’t even know he was here.

Not unless he spoke.

Not unless he touched her.

So, he reached for her hand — gently, always gently — and whispered like a man dying:

“It’s me, darlin’. I’m right here.”

He rested his forehead against the edge of the bed, holding her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“You don’t have to see me,” he murmured. “Just… stay. Just breathe.”