Chapter 47: Thrown Away

I wake up with another jolt, my heart slamming against my ribcage. The sheets beside me are cold and empty, the pillow unruffled as if no one slept there at all. Cat isn’t here.

My damaged hands twitch uselessly as I push myself up, squinting at the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Boston sprawls below, already alive with tiny cars and tinier people going about their normal lives.

“Cat?” I call out, my voice scratchy with sleep. No answer.

This is wrong. Cat always wakes me up in the morning. It’s part of our routine, as rigid and unchangeable as the sunrise.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my stiff fingers brush against the silk sheets. The memory of last night’s bathroom incident flashes through my mind, her fury, my pathetic sobbing, the terror that had me on the cold tile floor in complete submission.

“Cat?” I call again, louder this time. The silence that answers feels oppressive, almost physical.

I look towards the pill dish and even that is empty.

“Please god, don’t tell me she’s the type of person that just gets tired of people.” I whisper to myself as fear starts to over take me.

I stumble my way out of the bedroom, a strange nervousness building in my chest. The penthouse feels too large, too empty, without Caterina’s commanding presence filling every corner.

“Cat?” I call again, my voice bouncing off the minimalist furniture and sleek surfaces.

The living room is pristine and untouched, no coffee cup on the side table, no newspaper folded on the couch. The kitchen gleams with unused appliances, no evidence of breakfast being prepared. The silence is deafening. No note on the counter. Nothing.

‘She hid my phone away after I met Connor. I really don’t know what to do.’

A sudden wave of nausea hits me like a freight train. I double over, clutching my stomach with my useless hands. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, clammy and cold against my skin. My mouth fills with saliva, and I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit on the expensive hardwood floor.

“What the fuck?” I gasp, straightening slowly as the wave passes, leaving behind a hollow, queasy feeling.

I make my way to the bathroom, legs suddenly shaky beneath me. The mirror reflects a stranger, pale and haunted, dark circles forming under bloodshot eyes. My skin looks waxy, almost gray in the harsh bathroom lighting.

“Am I sick?” I ask the mirror in confusion.

But even as I say it, I know that’s not it. This feels different. My heart races in my chest, pounding so hard I can feel each beat in my temples.

The bathroom suddenly feels too small, too confined. I need to move, to do something, anything to distract from this growing discomfort that seems to radiate from my very bones.

I pace the penthouse, from bedroom to living room to kitchen and back again, a caged animal seeking escape. Each circuit seems to take longer, my legs growing heavier with each step.

As the hours wear on, nausea comes and goes in waves, sometimes receding enough to let me breathe, sometimes crashing over me with such force that I have to stop and lean against the wall. My skin starts to crawl with invisible insects, a restless, itchy sensation that has me shifting from foot to foot.

“Where the fuck is she?” I mutter, anxiety spiking through me.

***************************

[Maddy’s POV]

I lean back in my chair, watching the multiple screens that show every corner of the penthouse. The soft blue glow illuminates Caterina’s face as she stares intently at the central monitor where Adam paces frantically. His movements have become increasingly erratic over the past three hours, his body betraying him as withdrawal takes hold.

“Look at him squirm,” Lara whistles, her wild red hair falling over one shoulder as she leans forward. “Boss, all this because he tried to pee without you?”

I glance at her, always uncomfortable with how much she enjoys others’ suffering. The control room is cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the luxury of the penthouse above. Banks of monitors line the walls, security feeds from the casino mixing with the intimate surveillance of Adam’s prison.

Caterina doesn’t take her eyes off the screen. Her crimson gaze is fixed on Adam as he doubles over, another wave of nausea hitting him.

“He needs to learn his actions have consequences,” she says, her voice calm and clinical.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I find no pleasure in watching Adam suffer. There’s something deeply unsettling about seeing someone reduced to such a state, especially when I know exactly what Caterina has done to bring him there.

“How much longer are you planning to let this go on?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

Caterina finally tears her gaze away from the monitor to look at me. Her expression is serene, almost angelic, as if she’s witnessing something beautiful rather than a man in withdrawal.

“Until he truly understands,” she says simply. “I want him to feel the emptiness of a world without me in it.”

I watch as Adam collapses onto the couch, his body wracked with tremors. His damaged hands clutch uselessly at his stomach as he curls into himself, a whimper escaping his lips. The sound echoes through the speakers, filling our sterile monitoring room with his suffering.

“Jesus,” I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. “He’s really going through it.”

On the monitor, Adam’s face contorts with pain. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead, and even through the surveillance footage, I can see the sheen of moisture on his skin. He looks like he’s dying.

Lara frowns and says, “I’m not sure this is good for Adam, boss.”

Caterina’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. She turns to Lara, her crimson eyes widening in disbelief.

“Are you serious right now?” she asks, her voice rising with incredulity. “You’re the one who literally sat in my office and told me, word for word, ‘the fastest way to a man’s heart is through drug addiction and then becoming the single supplier of that drug.’”

Lara shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of her head. A flush of embarrassment creeps up her neck as she avoids Caterina’s piercing stare.

“Yeah, but...” Lara mumbles, glancing at the screen where Adam is now curled into a fetal position, his body shaking uncontrollably. “That’s for, you know, bad guys. Cartel dudes. Bitchy men. The rude homeless ones.”

She points at the monitor, her expression softening unexpectedly. “Adam doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”

I can’t hide my surprise at Lara’s sudden display of conscience. This is the same woman who once suggested we feed a rival’s fingers to their brother.

Caterina’s crimson eyes slide to Lara.

“Oh? Are you suddenly interested in my lover, Lara?” she asks, her voice smooth as silk but sharp as a blade.

Lara’s eyes widen with panic, her entire body going rigid. She shakes her head so vigorously I’m surprised it doesn’t snap off her neck.

“Oh no, nu-uh, boss! I would never fuck with your property,” she sputters, hands raised defensively. “I was just thinking out loud, boss,”

Her nervous laughter fills the control room, high-pitched and strained. Sweat beads visibly on her forehead as she backpedals, trying to distance herself from any implication that she might care about Adam as a person rather than an asset.

Caterina studies her for a long, excruciating moment before her face relaxes into amusement. She throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the sterile walls of the monitoring room. The sudden shift in her mood is jarring, like watching a predator decide to play with its food rather than devour it.

“Relax, Lara,” she says, patting her lieutenant’s arm with mock affection. “If I thought you wanted to steal Adam from me, you’d already be dead.”

Her laser gaze shifts to me, pinning me to my chair with its intensity. I feel my stomach tighten instinctively.

“What about you, Maddy?” Caterina asks, her voice deceptively casual. “How do you feel about my treatment of Adam?”

The question hangs in the air between us like a loaded gun. On the monitor behind her, Adam is crying begging for Caterina to come back. The sight makes my chest ache in a way I hadn’t expected.

My heart sinks as I consider my options. I think about my younger brother. How devastated I’d be if it were him curled up on that couch, shaking and abandoned, completely dependent on someone like Caterina.

“I think,” I begin carefully, choosing each word as if my life depends on it because it probably does, “that your methods are extremely effective.”

Caterina’s crimson eyes narrow dangerously. “You think this is wrong of me?” she asks, her voice dropping to that deadly quiet tone that usually precedes violence.

I take a steadying breath. This is the moment where most people would backpedal, make excuses, or simply cower.

“Boss,” I say evenly, meeting her gaze, “do you remember how you felt after you gave Adam that black eye?”

Her fingers tighten around the armrest of her chair. “Yes,” she replies, the single syllable clipped with annoyance.

“This is probably worse,” I say simply, gesturing toward the monitor where Adam is heaving with dry sobs.

Caterina’s attention shifts back to the screens. Adam’s lips are moving, forming the same words over and over: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tears stream down his face.

Something shifts in Caterina’s expression. The cold calculation gives way to something I never see, doubt.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her immaculate blonde hair. “It seems I got lost in the game. Just like Mother did.”

She sighs heavily, leaning back in her chair. Her crimson eyes never leave the monitor as Adam continues to writhe in agony. When she speaks again, her voice carries an unfamiliar weight.

“My father actually had it worse than Adam,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “Mother said it’s the only way to break a man in.”

The casual revelation hangs in the air like smoke, poisonous and suffocating. I exchange a quick glance with Lara, whose usual bloodthirsty enthusiasm has been replaced by wide-eyed discomfort.

Caterina gets up abruptly, her chair rolling back with the force of her movement. Her tall frame unfolds with predatory grace as she straightens her already perfect suit.

“Lara, have the chef prepare something light for his stomach. I’ll go to him now,” she commands, her voice regaining its usual authority.

As she strides toward the door, I catch a glimpse of her reflection in one of the darkened monitors. For just a moment, I see something strange in her eyes. Guilt.