Dark Revenge Of A Jilted Bride: Till Life Do Us Part!-Chapter 115: Old Foe

"Is Athena aware that you are here?" Shawn asked Zane and Sandro the moment they came to a stop before him, his eyes drifting briefly to the private jet parked a few feet away, sleek and waiting.

"She will be, soon enough. Is everything ready? We don’t have much time," Sandro replied, already noting that his friend wasn’t in the mood for small talk—he wasn’t in the mood for anything at all, period.

Well... apart from getting answers.

"We have to be back in the city for an interview." He continued, when Shawn kept looking at him expectantly.

Shawn frowned slightly but didn’t move still. "Is all well?"

Sandro sighed, tiredly. "We are hoping so."

Taking the hint that this matter wasn’t exactly his business—at least, not yet—Shawn turned around and began walking toward the barren land ahead.

Barren, well, to an outsider’s eye.

But having been here before, Sandro knew better.

It was only a technical illusion, and that was precisely why they needed Shawn’s help; apart from Athena, he and a select few were the only ones who knew how to operate the entrance to the high-class prison.

They stopped near the middle of the empty plot, and Sandro watched, awe-filled as he always was, as Shawn lifted one hand—like a man signaling surrender—and then placed it against empty air.

Empty, at least, to anyone watching. But there was a wall there. Sandro had always wondered how they were able to sense it—practice, maybe? Years of repetition?

When Shawn stopped his careful plastering of the air, Sandro knew he had found the unlocking mechanism. He watched as the agent tweaked the space before him, fingers moving as though pressing invisible buttons on a safe.

Then the air itself split into two, parting silently to reveal a dark stairwell plunging straight into blackness, where the flickering lights hanging on the rocky ceilings did little to fight the gloom.

Shawn went in first, followed closely by the two men.

They exchanged mumbled greetings with wardens as they descended deeper underground—past what Sandro estimated to be three, maybe four storeys—and when they finally reached the last floor, the one reserved for the dead of society, Shawn had to switch on his torchlight.

"They experience hell here before going there," he said quietly, sweeping the beam across the cell numbers as he searched for cell F.

"Do they eat?" Zane asked, speaking for the first time since they entered the isolated region.

"Just enough to keep them going."

When Shawn stopped in front of a cell, Zane’s gaze snapped to the lettering. F.

So this was Antonio’s resting place. Good riddance, he thought grimly, wishing his father were here too. The death that had taken him during the shootout had been far too merciful.

"Are you sure you want to go in?" Shawn asked. "The conditions might not be convenient for questioning—as I’m guessing that’s why you’re here... with the dumps and all."

Sandro wrinkled his nose, glancing at Zane.

Zane shrugged. "Okay then. We’ll wait at the questioning room." In his current state, the last thing he needed was to be swallowed by a dark, dank cell.

"Why didn’t you make that choice earlier when he asked?" Sandro mused as they retraced their steps upstairs.

"Just curious, I guess..."

Sandro scoffed. "You should have waited and seen the room then."

Zane shut his mouth, having no retort. He didn’t understand himself sometimes too.

Maybe he just wanted to go on the journey, to feel better at the end Antonio had finally gotten. Did that even make sense?

In the questioning room, they didn’t have to wait long before Antonio was brought in.

Antonio was roughly in the same age bracket as them, but standing there in dirty brown slacks and a matching top, Sandro thought he looked well over fifty—a fifty-something, haggard, depreciating old man. Time and suffering had hollowed him out.

One of the guards Shawn had called shoved Antonio into a chair, and the stench that hit Zane’s nose made him wrinkle it instinctively.

"You don’t take baths here?" Zane asked.

The guard shrugged. "He wouldn’t. We just dump water on him."

Zane nodded and dismissed both the guards and Shawn. Then he took a longer look at Antonio—Athena’s former fiancé, a monster in sheep’s clothing, a depraved creature who had joined hands with his father to ruin thousands of lives.

"Antonio..."

Antonio’s head remained bowed; he hadn’t lifted it once to look at his visitors. But at the sound of Zane’s voice, he raised his head and smiled, covering his surprise.

His brown, rotting teeth did nothing to improve his appearance.

"I am happy that you are looking better than before," Zane continued.

Antonio snorted and leaned back in his chair, openly staring at them. "What are you two doing here?"

Even his voice had aged—raspy and hollow, like a buried wizard dragged back to life, like a zombie.

"We are here to ask questions."

"Or else what?"

"Or else nothing," Zane shot back. "Neither are we here to bargain. We ask questions. You answer."

Antonio snorted again. "I don’t think I have a reason to answer you guys then."

Zane slammed his palms hard against the table separating them. "If you don’t speak now, you will be subjected to pain before your scheduled time. Do you want that? Or do you want to return to your cell peacefully and wait for your allotted time to bleed and die? Because rest assured—even if I torture you, you won’t die. Surely experience has taught you that."

Antonio said nothing this time, his face going blank. His mind, however, spiraled wildly, jumping from one thought to another as he stared at the two men.

Seeing them forced him to think again, to wonder again, how he had ended up here—in this pit. How the empire he had built had collapsed like a house of cards.

And for the millionth time, he wished he had died like Herbert, that his heart had failed him during one of the tortures and spared him this existence.

Unluckily for him, his athletic, gym-maintained body refused to give him that mercy. Turns out that fitness had a disadvantage. Who would have believed?!

"What do you want?" he finally asked tiredly.

What was the point of stubbornness now? He had tasted enough. Tried enough.

The people here knew how to torture—but never how to kill. And he didn’t want more pain than he already carried.