Chapter 15: Claire Witch Project

[Claire’s POV]

I’m all dressed in yesterday’s clothes, stiff with dried sweat and reeking faintly of alcohol despite my best efforts to wash away the evidence in the shower. The hotel room still smells like a distillery mixed with vomit, though I’ve opened all the windows and sprayed every complimentary air freshener I could find. I’ve also bundled the soiled sheets into a disgusting pile in the corner, too embarrassed to call housekeeping.

I never got a text back from Maddy, but my gut is telling me to wait. The cash sits on the dresser, stacked neatly now, a monument to my shame and possibly my salvation. I’ve paced the room so many times I’m surprised I haven’t worn a track in the plush carpet.

Every few minutes, I check my phone, hoping for a response, any response. The screen remains stubbornly blank, mocking me with its emptiness. I don’t know if I expected anything different. Why would Maddy respond to me? I’m nothing to her except the pathetic woman who sold her husband to her boss.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, my heart instantly rocketing into my throat. I freeze, suddenly unsure if I want whoever it is to come in. But this is what I asked for, isn’t it? A chance to start making things right.

“Alright, Claire,” I whisper to myself, smoothing my rumpled blouse with trembling hands. “Let’s try to start fixing this.”

I take a deep breath, trying to quiet the frantic drumming of my pulse in my ears. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob, the cool metal feeling strange against my clammy palm. With one final, steadying breath, I pull the door open.

Caterina De Luca stands in the hallway, resplendent in a white suit that looks like it costs more than most people’s monthly salary. Her golden hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. Those crimson eyes, unnervingly bright and focused, lock onto mine with predatory intensity.

Behind her, slightly to the left, stands Maddy holding a briefcase, her expression carefully neutral, professional to a fault. She gives me the tiniest nod of acknowledgment.

My mouth goes dry, words evaporating on my tongue as I stare at the woman who now owns my husband. The woman who gave him a black eye. The woman who could probably have me killed with a snap of her fingers.

Caterina doesn’t wait for an invitation. She strides past me into the room, her movement so fluid and powerful it’s like watching a lioness enter her territory. Maddy follows silently, closing the door behind them with a soft click that somehow sounds like a prison cell locking.

I stand frozen by the door, watching as Caterina moves through the space with casual ownership, her crimson eyes taking in every detail, the rumpled bed, the discarded room service trays, the pile of soiled sheets in the corner, and finally, the stacks of cash on the dresser. She runs one elegant finger along the edge of the dresser, inspecting it for dust like some disapproving mother-in-law in a sitcom, except there’s nothing funny about the predatory grace with which she occupies the room.

She wrinkles her perfect nose, her expression shifting from neutral assessment to undisguised disgust.

“This room smells like puke, Claire,” she says, her voice silky smooth despite the harshness of her words. She turns to face me fully, those unnerving crimson eyes boring into mine. “Tell me you didn’t vomit all over the sheets.”

Heat floods my face, embarrassment burning through me like wildfire. I wrap my arms around myself as if the gesture could somehow protect me from her judgment, from the reality of what I’ve become.

“Sorry,” I mumble, the word pathetically inadequate even to my own ears.

“Well, I guess it’s fine,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You were our biggest winner last night, after all.”

Her gaze drifts to the money on the dresser, something calculating flickering behind those crimson eyes. When she looks back at me, her smile has transformed into something darker, more menacing.

“So,” she says, the single syllable somehow loaded with implication, “how was Keith last night?”

The question hits me like a bucket of ice water. My stomach drops to my feet, and for a terrifying moment, I think I might vomit again right here on the plush carpet. The walls of the hotel room seem to close in around me, the air suddenly thick and suffocating.

“How did you…” I begin, but Caterina cuts me off.

“Claire, I own this casino. Did you really think I wouldn’t know about your little... indulgence? Keith works exclusively for our high rollers. He reports directly to management. How could you not know that?”

She moves toward the window, her white suit gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

“He said you kept calling him Adam,” she continues, her back to me now as she gazes out at the Boston skyline. “That you were quite... passionate about the roleplay.” She turns slightly, just enough for me to see her profile, the cruel curve of her smile. “Apparently, you cried after he came inside you? How romantic.”

My legs wobble beneath me, and I reach blindly for the wall, needing something solid to keep me upright as the room tilts and spins around me.

“Please,” I whisper, the word barely audible even in the quiet room. “Please don’t tell Adam.”

The plea hangs in the air between us, pathetic and desperate. I hate myself for how weak I sound, for the tremor in my voice, for the tears that threaten to spill over. But the thought of Adam knowing about this, on top of everything else I’ve done to him, is unbearable.

Caterina turns fully to face me no

“Hmm,” she murmurs, tapping one perfectly manicured finger against her chin. “I wonder if I should.”

The casual cruelty in her voice, the deliberate way she dangles this threat over my head, ignites something deep within me. A desperate, frantic energy surges through my limbs, propelling me across the room toward the dresser, where the money sits in neat stacks.

I grab the cash with shaking hands, bills slipping between my fingers and fluttering to the floor in my haste. I don’t bother picking them up. Instead, I stumble to the table near Caterina, dropping the stacks of money onto the polished surface with a series of heavy thuds.

“Take this,” I say, my voice stronger now, fueled by desperation and the last fragments of hope I can muster. “Give Adam back.”

For a moment, the room is utterly silent. Caterina stares at the money, her expression unreadable, those crimson eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts.

Then she laughs.

The sound is rich and musical, genuinely amused as if I’ve just told the funniest joke she’s heard all week. Her shoulders shake slightly with the force of her mirth, golden hair catching the sunlight as she throws her head back.

“That’s surely not enough,” she says when her laughter finally subsides, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye. She turns to Maddy, who stands silent and watchful by the door. “Maddy, how much did Claire here win last night?”

Maddy clears her throat, her professional demeanor never slipping despite the tension crackling through the room. “Around a hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” she reports, her Boston accent more pronounced than usual.

“Wait, what?” I blink in confusion, trying to process her words through the fog of shame and hangover, still clouding my mind. “Did Keith cost eight thousand dollars?”

Caterina laughs again. “No, no. Keith’s premium package is only two thousand for the weekend.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You tipped the dealer really well. It was actually kinda nice.” She shrugs elegantly. “The staff appreciates players like you. Even if you also work here.”

I stand there, swaying slightly, trying to reconcile this mundane explanation with the moral catastrophe unfolding in my life. The fact that I tipped a dealer six thousand dollars feels surreal, disconnected from the desperate woman I’ve become.

“Claire, sit down,” Caterina says, her tone suddenly businesslike as she gestures to the chair across from her. It’s not a request.

My legs fold beneath me automatically, my body responding to her command before my brain can fully process it. The chair creaks under my weight as I sink into it, hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling.

Caterina motions to Maddy, who steps forward with fluid efficiency. She places the sleek black briefcase she’s been holding onto the table between us without opening it, then retreats to her position by the door, resuming her silent vigilance.

“Thank you, Maddy,” Caterina says, her tone warm with genuine appreciation.

My eyes remain fixed on the briefcase, heart hammering against my ribs with such force I’m surprised the others can’t hear it. What’s in there? A gun? Some instrument of torture? A contract for my soul?

With deliberate slowness, Caterina reaches for the briefcase. Her long fingers dance across the combination lock, spinning the dials with practiced precision. Each click seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the hotel room.

The latches pop open with twin metallic snaps that make me flinch. Caterina’s crimson eyes flick up to catch my reaction, a small smile playing at the corners of her perfect mouth.

She opens the briefcase with a theatrical flourish, like a magician revealing the finale of an elaborate trick.

Caterina lifts a newspaper with delicate fingers out of the briefcase, handling it as if it were made of ancient parchment rather than cheap newsprint. The paper makes a soft, crinkling sound as she unfolds it with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated to maximize my anxiety.

She places it on the table between us, turning it to face me and smoothing out a crease with one long finger. Her crimson nails stand out against the monochrome page like drops of blood on snow.

“Read,” she commands softly.

My eyes drop to the headline, bold black letters that seem to pulse with their own malevolent energy:

“THREE GANG MEMBERS SLAUGHTERED IN DORCHESTER AS GANG VIOLENCE RISES”

Beneath the headline is a grainy photograph of a crime scene. Yellow police tape creates a perimeter around what appears to be the entrance to an alley. The image is deliberately obscured to hide the worst of the carnage, but dark stains are visible on the pavement, spreading in patterns that are unmistakably blood.

I scan the first paragraph, my heart pounding so loudly it seems to drown out every other sound in the room:

“Three women were found brutally murdered in Dorchester early Friday morning in what police are calling ‘an unprecedented level of violence even for gang-related killings.’ The victims, all members of the Southie Queens gang, were reportedly tortured before being killed. Sources close to the investigation describe the scene as ‘ritualistic’ and possibly ‘sending a message.’”

My breath catches in my throat as recognition dawns, cold and terrible. The article includes small mugshot photos of the victims, three women with hard eyes and harder expressions. I know those faces. These are the women that raped Adam.

My eyes go wide, shooting up to meet Caterina’s crimson gaze. She watches me with the patient intensity of a predator observing its prey, noting every flicker of emotion that crosses my face.

“Why are you showing me this?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my heart.

Caterina places her palms flat on the table, leaning forward with the controlled menace of a cobra preparing to strike. Her crimson eyes bore into mine, unblinking and merciless.

“I’ll give you one chance,” she says, her voice deceptively kind. “One chance to admit to it.”

The room seems to shrink around us, the air growing thick and difficult to breathe. I clutch at the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white with the effort of keeping myself upright in the chair.

‘There’s no way she could know. Right?’

“I had nothing to do with the killings,” I stammer, genuine confusion threading through my terror.

Caterina scoffs. “Of course, I know that,” she says, waving her hand as if swatting away an annoying insect. “That was Lara’s work. Truly a loyal servant, that one.”

Her crimson eyes narrow suddenly, hardening into something cold and impenetrable. “Unlike...”

Without warning, Caterina slams both hands down on the table with such force that the stacks of money jump and scatter. The sound is like a gunshot in the confined space of the hotel room, making me jerk backward in my chair.

“ADMIT IT!” she screams, her composure shattering like glass, revealing something raw and terrifying beneath the polished exterior.

I shrink back, instinctively raising my arms to protect my face. “Okay, okay!” I sob, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It was me. After I asked Adam to be your lover for four months, he said no and stormed out of the house. I needed money bad, I thought you were going to kill me, so I set up a backup plan.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, ugly and damning. Caterina straightens slowly, adjusting her pristine white suit jacket with deliberate movements.

“You truly are a wretched, evil woman, aren’t you?” she says, each word dripping with contempt.

I’m sobbing now, great heaving gasps that shake my entire body. The tears stream down my face unchecked, hot, and shameful against my skin. “I didn’t know they were going to land him in the hospital,” I choke out, the words mangled by my crying. “I swear I didn’t.”

Caterina’s face transforms into something inhuman, a mask of pure rage that makes my blood freeze in my veins. Her crimson eyes burn with such intensity I swear I can feel the heat emanating from them.

“How much did they pay you?”

I can’t look at her. I stare down at my trembling hands, watching as my tears splash onto my palms, creating tiny, glistening puddles. The shame is so thick I can taste it, metallic and bitter on my tongue.

“Ten thousand each.” I admit.

The silence that follows is deafening, stretching between us like an abyss. When I finally gather the courage to look up, Caterina is perfectly still, her expression frozen in a terrible mask of disbelief.

“Thirty thousand dollars,” she says finally, each syllable enunciated with precise, controlled rage. “You sold your husband to be gang-raped for thirty thousand dollars.”

Put like that, laid bare in those stark, unforgiving terms, the magnitude of what I’ve done crashes over me anew.

“And what the fuck did you even do with the money?” Caterina demands, her voice rising with each word, the calm facade cracking to reveal the storm beneath.

I can’t answer. The truth is too pathetic, too damning. The money I had hoped to use as a down payment to keep Adam safe had disappeared so quickly, swallowed by the casino like everything else in my life. Chips stacked and lost, hands played and folded, wheels spun and stopped. All of it gone within days, hours maybe. I don’t even remember.

My silence seems to enrage Caterina more than any answer could have. She moves with such sudden violence that I don’t even see it coming. Her fist connects with my nose with a sickening crunch, pain exploding across my face in a starburst of agony. Blood immediately gushes from my nostrils, hot and metallic, spattering onto my shirt and the table between us.

“YOU WERE GAMBLING!” she screams, her voice raw with fury, spittle flying from her lips as she towers over me. “AFTER YOU FOUND OUT ADAM WAS IN THE FUCKING HOSPITAL! SAFE AND SOUND WITHOUT ANY OF HIS FUCKING MEMORIES. YOU STUPID FUCK! AFTER I GAVE YOU AN INCH OF COMPASSION!”

Her fist connects again, this time catching me on the cheekbone. The impact is like a firecracker going off inside my skull, white-hot pain radiating outward in pulsing waves.

I curl forward in my chair, blood pouring from my nose, dripping onto the plush hotel carpet in a steady crimson stream. My vision blurs, not just from the tears but from the impact of Caterina’s fist.

“Stop, stop! I know, I know!” I sob, raising my hands in futile defense. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, making me gag. “I’m a monster! I know what I did!”

Caterina looms over me, her white suit immaculate despite the violence she’s just inflicted. Not a single drop of my blood has marred her pristine appearance.

Finally, I snap.

“What, you think you’re better than me?” I spit through the blood and tears, a sudden surge of defiance rising through my pain. “You traffic men. You’re a fucking monster too.”

The words hang in the air between us, dangerous and electric. For a moment, I think she’s going to hit me again, maybe even kill me right here in this hotel room. Part of me almost hopes she will, ending this nightmare once and for all.

Instead, something unexpected happens. Caterina laughs again.

“I’m a mob boss, you fuck wit. I’m supposed to be like this. That’s the job description.”

She circles the table slowly, her movements fluid and predatory. Each click of her heels against the floor echoes like a countdown to something inevitable.

“But you,” she continues, stopping directly behind my chair, her voice dropping to a silky whisper near my ear, “you had one job. One simple, human job, to love and protect your husband.”

Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder, her touch deceptively gentle. I can feel the strength in her fingers, the barely restrained violence trembling beneath her skin.

“And you failed spectacularly,” she breathes, her lips so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of her words against my skin. “You didn’t just fail, you actively participated in his destruction.”

She sighs, her anger seeming to drain away, replaced by something almost like pity. With deliberate steps, she walks around to face me again, leaning her hip against the table as she looks down at my bloodied face.

“Did you know your insurance would pay for rehab?” she asks, her voice suddenly conversational as if we’re discussing something as mundane as the weather.

I blink at her through swollen eyes, blood still trickling from my nose. “What?”

“Your insurance,” she repeats, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “The health insurance you have through the casino. It has excellent mental health coverage, including comprehensive addiction treatment programs.”

She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and tosses it at me. The pristine white square lands in my lap, immediately soaking up some of the blood from my hands.

“If you had put even the smallest effort into addressing your gambling addiction, you could have gotten help. Before you ended up here.” She gestures broadly at the squalid hotel room, at my broken face, at the money scattered across the table. “Before you sold your husband to be raped. Before you sold him to me.”

I press the handkerchief to my nose, wincing at the pressure against my broken cartilage. The pain feels distant somehow, less important than the devastating truth of her words.

“Okay,” I mumble through the cloth, not knowing what else to say.

Caterina’s crimson eyes study me with clinical detachment as if assessing a particularly disappointing specimen.

“Claire, I’m never going to give Adam back to you.”

The finality in her tone makes my already aching heart constrict painfully in my chest. I lower the bloodied handkerchief, staring up at her with pleading eyes.

“Please,” I whisper. “I’ll pay whatever you want. Double what I owe. Triple it.”

She shakes her head slowly, a sad smile playing at the corners of her perfect mouth. “I don’t care if you pay me what you owe me,” she says. “I don’t care if you pay me a billion dollars.”

She leans forward, her hands braced on the table.

“Adam belongs to me now,” she says, each word precise and final. “He is mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to love in all the ways you failed to.”

I scream from my chair. “But you hit him! You hurt him just like I did!”

The words explode from me with such force that droplets of blood spray from my lips, spattering across the money on the table.

“ADAM IS MINE TO PUNISH AS I SEE FIT!” Caterina screams, her voice shattering the air between us like glass breaking. “HE IS MINE!”

She slams her fist down on the table again, sending stacks of bills flying into the air like confetti. Some of them flutter down to land in the small puddles of my blood, the edges turning pink as they absorb my shame.

“The only reason you’re still standing right now,” she continues, her voice dropping to a deadly hiss, “is God forbid he ever gets his memories back.”

She straightens, taking a deep breath that seems to physically pull her rage back inside, containing it beneath her perfect exterior once more.

“If Adam ever remembers whatver it was you two had,” she says, her voice now eerily calm, “I want to be able to tell him that I let you live. That I showed you mercy.”

She turns to Maddy, who has remained a silent sentinel throughout this entire confrontation. “We’re leaving,” she announces, her tone clipped and final.

Maddy nods once, stepping forward to collect the briefcase from the table, carefully avoiding the spatters of my blood. She closes it with efficient movements, the metal latches clicking back into place with twin snaps.

Caterina moves toward the door, each step measured and deliberate. She pauses at the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob.

Caterina turns back to look at me one final time, her crimson eyes no longer burning with rage.

“For the love of God, Claire, find help. This is just fucking embarrassing.”