Luca's Inferno

The heavy oak door doesn’t slam; it clicks shut with a terrifying, final softness. I stand in the dimly lit hallway of the penthouse suite, the silk of my wedding dress rustling like dry leaves over my skin. The air in here is different—stale, recycled, and carrying the metallic tang of blood that no amount of expensive cologne can mask. My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against a cage, but I force my breathing to stay shallow, silent. I cannot make a sound. If he hears me, I’m dead.

Just ten minutes ago, I was pacing the living area, waiting for the signal that it was time to go down to the chapel. I was nervous, my stomach in knots, thinking about the vows I’d have to recite to a man who is old enough to be my father. A man who looks at me like I’m a piece of prime steak he’s about to devour. I needed water. I needed air. So I walked toward the sound of muffled voices coming from his private study—the room that is strictly off-limits.

I didn’t mean to look. The door was cracked open just an inch, a slice of yellow light cutting across the dark carpet. But I saw it. I saw him.

Dmitri. My fiancé. The Pakhan of the Bratva in Las Vegas.

He was standing behind a man I didn’t recognize, a guy in a cheap suit who was kneeling on the Persian rug, begging, his hands clasped together in prayer. Dmitri looked bored. He was adjusting his cufflinks, the diamonds catching the light as he listened to the man’s sobbing excuses about missing money. Then, without a word, without a change in expression, Dmitri reached out. He didn’t use a gun. He used his bare hands.

He grabbed the man by the hair, jerking his head back, and slammed his face forward into the mahogany desk.

Once.

The sound was wet, a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone. The man screamed, a high-pitched, gurgling noise, but Dmitri didn’t stop. He gripped the man’s skull with both hands, his thick fingers digging into the temples, and he twisted. I watched, paralyzed, as the muscles in Dmitri’s arms bulged, the fabric of his tuxedo straining. He didn’t just hit him; he wanted to destroy him.

He brought the man’s head down again, this time against the sharp corner of the stone fireplace hearth.

There was a crack that sounded like a thunderclap inside my skull. The man’s body went limp instantly, but his head... his head didn't look like a head anymore. It was split open, red and gray matter spilling out onto the pristine stone, painting the expensive decor in a mask of gore. Dmitri let the body drop, wiping his hands on a handkerchief with the same casual indifference he would use to wipe a crumb from his lip. He stepped over the corpse, his expensive leather shoes avoiding the pooling blood, and turned toward the door.

I had run. I had scrambled back to my room, my legs trembling so violently I could barely walk, and grabbed my emergency bag. But I left the money on the dresser. I need more. I need enough to disappear completely.

I move now, sliding through the shadows of the bedroom I’ve been kept in for the last week. The dress is a cage of white lace and satin, constricting my chest, mocking me with its purity. I strip it off as fast as I can, the fabric whispering as it slides down my legs and pools on the floor. I stand in my lingerie for a second, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin, before grabbing the duffel bag hidden under the bed. I pull on a pair of black leggings and a loose, charcoal turtleneck. My hands are shaking so hard I fumble with the zipper of my hoodie.

I need cash. I know where he keeps it. Not in the bank, but in the safe in his closet. He showed me once, arrogantly boasting that his money was always within reach.

I creep into the master suite. The smell of blood is fainter here, overtaken by the scent of his cigars and leather. I don't turn on the light. I navigate by the glow of the Vegas skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The safe is behind a panel of wood. I remember the code—he made a joke about it being our wedding date. A date I never wanted.

The beep is deafening in the silence. I hold my breath, waiting for guards to burst in. Nothing. The door swings open. Stacks of bills. Bundles of hundred-dollar bills bound in thick rubber bands. I grab them. I don't count. I shove them into my bag until it’s heavy, until the fabric strains. On top of the money, there’s a tray of watches. Patek Philippes, Rolexes, diamond-encrusted pieces that cost more than most people’s houses. I sweep them all into the bag. These are my life now. This is my freedom.

I zip the bag shut and sling it over my shoulder. The weight is grounding, a physical reminder of what I have to do.

I make my way to the garage. The elevator ride takes forever, the numbers descending too slowly. I stare at my reflection in the polished steel doors. Viella is gone. The girl with the soft bangs and the innocent dark eyes is dead. I am something else now. Something harder.

The garage is a cavern of concrete and expensive machinery. Rows of cars I don't know how to drive—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, vintage classics. I need something fast, but something common. Something that blends in. I spot a black Audi RS7 in the corner. It’s sleek, it’s fast, but it’s not a neon supercar. The keys are hanging on the rack, labeled. I grab them, my fingers slick with sweat.

I slide into the driver’s seat. The leather clings to my thighs. I toss the bag onto the passenger seat and start the engine. It purrs to life, a low, throaty growl that vibrates through the seat and into my body. For a second, I imagine Dmitri’s hands on me, the way he’d grab my hips, the way he’d force himself inside me, claiming me like property. The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I slam the car into reverse and peel out of the garage, the tires screeching on the polished concrete.

The night air of Las Vegas hits me as I merge onto the Strip, a wall of heat and neon. It’s sensory overload—flashing lights, the thump of bass from passing cars, the smell of exhaust and cheap perfume. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. I have to get out. I have to get to the airport.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. It’s a lifeline, but it’s also a tracking device. He can find me with this. He knows everything. I glance at the screen—three missed calls from "Daddy." A shudder ripples through me, making my clit throb with a phantom, terrified ache. It’s a biological reaction to fear, my body betraying me, preparing for flight or fight.

I slide my finger into the small slot on the side of the phone. The SIM card pops out with a click. I roll down the window. The wind whips my hair into my face, stinging my eyes. I hold the tiny chip between my thumb and forefinger. This is my identity. This is Viella.

I let it go.

It flies out of my hand, a speck of gold lost in the blur of the streetlights. Then, without hesitation, I throw the phone itself. I watch it smash against the concrete median, shattering into a dozen pieces. Good. Let them try to trace that.

I drive faster. The Audi eats up the highway. The airport is twenty minutes away, but it feels like a lifetime. Every car in my rearview mirror looks like one of his SUVs. Every set of headlights is a threat. I check the mirrors obsessively, my eyes darting back and forth. My pussy is wet, a slick, uncomfortable heat between my legs. I hate it. I hate that my body reacts to danger this way, getting ready to be taken, even when my mind is screaming to run. It’s a primal, filthy response to a man who radiates dominance and violence.

I take the exit for McCarran International. The traffic is thick, tourists and late-night travelers clogging the lanes. I weave through them, honking my horn, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I park in the economy lot, far away from the terminals, under a flickering yellow light.

I kill the engine. Silence rushes in, heavy and oppressive. I grab the duffel bag and climb out. I’m still wearing the heels I had on under the dress—strappy silver things that are completely impractical. I kick them off, relishing the feeling of the rough asphalt against my bare soles. I open the back door and dig through my bag, pulling out a pair of worn Converse and a black baseball cap. I pull the cap low over my eyes, tucking my long black hair up inside it. I look like a boy, a traveler, anyone but a runaway bride on her wedding night.

I strip off the hoodie and replace it with a oversized denim jacket. I look down at myself. No white dress. No diamonds. Just Velanora. A ghost.

I walk toward the terminal, the bag bumping against my leg. The automatic doors slide open, and the air conditioning hits me, chilling the sweat on my back. The terminal is a zoo. People are sleeping on the floor, crowding around charging stations, shouting into phones. I pull the brim of my cap lower and keep my head down. I feel exposed. My nipples harden against the fabric of my shirt, rubbing painfully with every step. I feel like everyone is staring at me, like they can smell the fear and the money on me.

I scan the departure boards. I need the next flight out. Anywhere. I don't care where, as long as it’s not Nevada.

San Francisco. Flight 492. Boarding in 15 minutes. Gate D4.

San Francisco. It’s far enough. It’s a big city, a place to get lost. I head for the security checkpoint. My heart is in my throat. I have stolen money in my bag. I have stolen watches. If they check, if they scan, I’m done. I’ll be arrested, and Dmitri will find me within the hour. He has cops on his payroll. He has judges.

I step into the line. The man in front of me reeks of beer and stale cigarettes. I try to focus on his back, on the mundane details of his greasy hair, to keep from panicking. I watch the people ahead of me taking off their shoes, emptying their pockets. It’s a ritual of submission, bending to the state, bending to the system. I just want to get through.