5 MONTHS AGO
The moment I stepped out of the car, my phone rang. By the specific ringtone I had chosen for that call, I knew exactly what it was about. Haunted and with a lump in my throat, I hurried back into the car, slammed the door, and quickly pulled my phone from my pants pocket.
— I'm here. What happened? _I ask, distressed.
— Ângelo, please… it's started. _I hear her crying, and it's impossible not to feel my own tears breaking free from my eyes. — Come, we need you before it's too late.
— I'll take the first flight today. _I say decisively, resting my forehead on the steering wheel, feeling a terrible pain in my chest.
— We knew this would happen eventually, Ângelo… Please! I know how you deal with all this… Don't do anything stupid.
The tears thicken, dripping onto the steering wheel, and I want to scream as loud as I can, but I don't. I control myself, for her, for the moment, for the hell I was about to start living.
— I won't do anything. I'll go clean and without killing anyone on the way. Trust me. _I confess in a low tone, swallowing the tears with every word that feels bitter leaving my mouth.
— Thank you, Ângelo. God willing, you'll make it in time.
The call ended, and all I remember after was my hand, raw and numb from punching the steering wheel until it came loose from the car.
Why?
Why was this happening?
**Italy - Genoa**
**TODAY**
There was only one person in the world who could provoke any feeling of repulsion or fear in me. And that person was standing right in front of me, heating his knife in the embers since the fire had died down from how much that wretch used it to heat the blade and ruin my body.
The pain in my being was so unbearable that I found myself embracing it as if I were finding shards of ruins. I was completely naked, with no strength left in my legs, suspended by chains and rings around my wrists, being tortured alive for over four months.
I should've guessed that returning to my country, he would catch me and torture me again until I couldn't take it anymore.
Over four months ago, I landed here in Italy, in the city of Genoa, and went to where part of my life and a piece of my heart were. The hospital…
It took just one moment when I stepped out of the hospital to get some air and break down without anyone seeing my pain because I couldn't bear so much suffering anymore, watching so much suffering and being unable to do anything more, just holding back tears and waiting for the worst. It was in that moment of vulnerability that I noticed something strange. I saw men surrounding the hospital, and realizing who they were, I had to flee. I jumped the hospital wall, tore my knees in the process, and nearly got hit by a car, but I didn't succeed. I was captured at the corner and have been in a dungeon ever since.
Feeling the tip of the heated knife pierce my back, I clenched my teeth, feeling pain in my gums from doing this constantly, and closed my cut fists around the rings binding me. My body lurched forward, and my heart pounded from the shock of the hot knife burning and tearing my skin.
— 120. _I heard his cursed voice count another cut, his tone dripping with delight and pure ecstasy. For four months, he's kept me locked up here, and every single day he comes down to make one straight cut on my back with the tip of the heated knife. — The smell of your melting, burning skin is very pleasing to me, my son. _He inhaled the smoke rising from me as if I were a pig, while I no longer had tears in my eyes—I was dry inside, even for crying.
Yes, it was none other than my own father torturing me alive. He, the biggest drug trafficker in Italy, the wretch who supplied drugs to mafias worldwide, could be benevolent to everyone except his own son, his own blood.
My biggest problem has always been my father.
I recognized the reason behind every time he tortured me, and not once in those moments did I not wish for my own death. It put me in a position where, even though I wasn't guilty, I started questioning if I really wasn't.
My father, a man who taught me to be perverse and despise pain, has tortured me since I was very young. At 7 years old, unable to take it anymore, I managed to escape in one of his trucks transporting drugs to another state. That's when I lived on the streets, begging for enough to put something in my mouth and soothe my hunger, when people didn't take pity on a little boy in that situation and give me a biscuit or water to drink.
I survived in those conditions, terrified of being found by my father and depending on others, until I was 15. At that age, I cleaned car windows at traffic lights, sold candy and water, but it wasn't just for food anymore. That's when I dove headfirst into the world of drugs. I snorted so much cocaine that I had about seven overdoses—seven that I remember counting. With no prospects and running from my sick father, I found myself in a situation where I had to commit certain atrocities to avoid dying.
The streets weren't a place to live; they were a place to teach resilience. It was the judgment of others and the humiliation that, after that, made me certain I would get out of that hell.
One rainy night, high and barefoot, I was passing by a street and saw a fight between two men. From what I could gather, one had robbed the other. As a desire always finds an opportunity, I joined the fight and killed the thief with a rock, and the other paid me a lot of cash when we fled to avoid getting caught. That's when the job I do today began—eliminating my clients' headaches.
At 18, I made a name for myself as a hired killer. By 20, I had people working for me. At 24, I got involved with a girl and had to take a break from the job because of a situation that required both of us to stay whole. I went back to killing at 27 and haven't stopped since, now at 29.
And now I've been captured by the man I've been running from all these years. In fact, it's because of him that I dread anyone touching my abdomen. I hate with all my strength when people feel the scars I got at 7 years old—they remind me of what I went through with him and what I became afterward. Honestly, I don't know what will become of me now that my back has 120 more marks.
And definitely, I see my death approaching, because I look around with swollen, sore eyes from the punches, I smell the strong stench of urine and feces in the place, I have blood dripping on the floor as if I were a human blood bag. I see all this, but I don't see my way out.
Maybe my death would be a good fate. It would bring peace to all the souls I've taken.
And I could no longer kill Lavínia as I would have if I hadn't received that call and come to this country. Because her father had given the order…