Captive Of The Ruthless Underground King

The underground garage was cleaner than any hospital Della had ever seen. The floor was polished gray epoxy. Rows of luxury cars sat dormant-Ferraris, Bentleys, a vintage Aston Martin. The car stopped. The door opened. Darius stepped out. He didn't grab her arm this time. He walked toward a steel elevator bank with the confidence of a man who owned the air he breathed. He knew she wouldn't run. There was nowhere to go. Della followed, her bare feet cold on the concrete. He stopped in front of the elevator. A red laser scanned his eyes. The doors slid open silently. They stepped inside. There were no buttons. The elevator shot upward. The pressure built in Della's ears. They were going high. Penthouse high. The doors opened directly into a living space that spanned the entire floor. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lay spread out below them, a grid of gold and white lights. It was breathtaking. It was terrifying. An older man in a pristine suit stood waiting. "Welcome home, Sir. And... Miss?" Darius peeled off his blood-crusted shirt, revealing a sculpted torso wrapped in bandages. He tossed the shirt to the older man. "She stays," Darius said. "Guest room. Lock the balcony." Della's head snapped toward him. Lock the balcony. He wasn't worried about her jumping; he was ensuring the cage was sealed. "I have calls," Darius said. He walked toward a set of double doors, not looking back. "Clean her up, Henderson." He disappeared into his office. Della was left standing with the butler. Henderson looked at her with a polite, detached expression. He didn't seem fazed by her pajamas or the dirt on her face. "This way, Miss," Henderson said. "Do you require a change of clothes?" "I require a lawyer," Della muttered. Henderson offered a small, tight smile. "I'm afraid I only have towels. Follow me." He led her down a long hallway lined with abstract art. He opened a door to a bedroom that was larger than her entire trailer. The bed was massive, covered in white linens. "The bathroom is to your right. Towels are heated," Henderson said. He pointed to the door. "Don't try the elevator. It's coded. And the stairwell is alarmed." He closed the door. Della waited for the click of the lock. It came a second later. A heavy, electronic thud. She ran to the bathroom. She turned the lock on the inside, knowing it was futile but needing the illusion of a barrier. She stripped off her clothes. Her body was a map of bruises. She stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the feeling of Darius's hands, the smell of his blood, the memory of the trailer. She sank to the floor of the shower, pulling her knees to her chest. The sobs came then, racking her body. She cried silently, the sound masked by the rushing water. She couldn't let him hear her weakness. After twenty minutes, the water ran cold. Della turned it off. She dried herself with a towel that was thicker than her winter coat. She found a bathrobe hanging on the hook. It was white and plush. She wrapped it around herself, tying the belt tight. She walked back into the bedroom. On the nightstand, there was a glass of water and two white pills. Della stared at them. Painkillers? Sedatives? Poison? Her head throbbed, a rhythmic pounding behind her eyes. But she wouldn't take them. She needed her mind sharp. She picked up the pills and walked to the bathroom, flushing them down the toilet. She drank the water. She went to the floor-to-ceiling window. She pressed her hand against the glass. We were so high up the cars looked like ants. She turned back to the room. She needed to know her environment. She scanned the ceiling. There. Inside the smoke detector. A tiny, unblinking red light. He was watching. Della felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She walked to the bed and crawled under the covers, but her mind was racing. She forced herself to analyze, not panic. It wasn't a simple security camera. The lens had a slight curvature she recognized from high-end surveillance systems, designed for wide angles. This meant there likely weren't any simple 'blind spots.' However, the angle of its placement relative to the far corner of the room, where a large decorative vase stood, might create a narrow cone of optical distortion. A place where a shadow could be deeper than it should be. It wasn't a true blind spot, but it was a weakness. A calculated risk. In the darkness of the blanket, she clenched her fists. "Sleep," she whispered to herself. "Survive. Escape."