His Hidden Treasure (Completed)

Forty-Three

The room was shrouded in a heavy silence broken only by the sound of Zephyr's rage as he threw his third phone against the wall.

"Fratello, we will find her, don't worry." Luca's soothing voice echoed through the quiet room. The atmosphere was tense and thick with frustration, desperation, and fear. Nila was still missing, and every lead they had followed had turned up empty.

"We have nothing to go on. The symbol is useless and no one has seen or heard from Diego since he left Mexico. We don't know what he's doing to her." Zephyr's mind raced with dark thoughts as he imagined the horrors Diego might be inflicting on Nila. Diego was a ruthless man, capable of great evil, and Zephyr feared for his wife's safety. Diego hadn't reached out either, leaving them all in the dark about his plans for Nila. And if his mother's fate was any indication of what little mercy Diego had, then Nila's future looked grim indeed.

Even Luca furrowed his brow in worry as he examined the crumpled paper their mother had clutched when she was found. Her blood still stained the paper, making it difficult to decipher the strange symbol etched onto its surface. It wasn't any of the symbols used by the local mafias, leaving them without any solid leads.

Days were spent hunched over that paper, tracing the symbol with their fingers and flipping it in every direction to see if they had missed something. The sound of frustration and desperation echoed through the room as they searched for any clue that could lead them to Nila. But their mother's lifeless body and lack of information only added to their frustration.

"We can't keep going around in circles like this," Zephyr spat out in frustration.

"We have to keep trying," Luca said, determination etched into his features. They couldn't give up. Nila wouldn't either. She was a fighter, and Luca knew she was out there somewhere fighting for her life.

I sharpened the blade against the rough concrete floor when the guards weren't looking. Underneath the agony and despair, a plan was taking shape.

I tested the sharpness of the blade on the tip of my finger, watching as a bead of blood formed and dripped to the ground. It was a small victory, but it fueled me nonetheless. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I made sure to eat what little they gave me to keep my strength up.

The beatings had taken their toll, but Diego didn't know about the years I spent training in the underground after my parents' death. The pain had become my fuel, my catalyst for survival. They may break my bones, but they will never break my spirit.

At night, while the guards slept soundly, I honed my skills and practiced every maneuver and tactic I had learned from Max and my former sensei. Their lessons in dirty street fighting were now going to be put to use.

As I lay in wait for Diego's henchmen to come for their nightly torture session, I went over every detail of my plan in my mind until it was second nature. I imagined their bodies: the pressure points, the weak spots, all ripe for the attack. I went over the plan again and again until every detail was ingrained into my very being.

And then came their first mistake - their predictability. Though I couldn't pinpoint exactly when they would come, I could hear their footsteps approaching and prepare myself.

When the iron door swung open, I sprang into action with a ferocity born of desperation and rage. The element of surprise was on my side as I lunged at them with every ounce of pent-up rage and desperation within me.

Their second mistake was removing my shackles, thinking that the beatings alone would keep me subdued. With a knife in hand, I attacked without hesitation or mercy. The first henchman fell with a deep gash across his wrist, blood spilling onto the floor in a satisfying waterfall.