The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)-Chapter 36: Dark Helmet

[Claire's POV]

I twist the sobriety chip between my fingers, the smooth edges worn from thirty days of nervous handling. Thirty days clean. Thirty days of group therapy sessions, bland cafeteria food, and nights spent staring at water stains on the ceiling while my roommate snores. Thirty days of remembering what I did to Adam.

The visitors' room at Lakeside Recovery Center smells like industrial cleaner and cheap coffee. Plastic chairs arranged in neat rows, a vending machine humming in the corner, motivational posters with eagles and mountain climbers plastered on faded beige walls. Not exactly the Ritz, but better than the casino floors where I'd lost everything.

I adjust my plain sweater, smoothing wrinkles that aren't there. My hands still tremble slightly from withdrawal or guilt. I can't tell anymore. When they told me I had a visitor, I had no idea who to expect. Maybe my husband Adam, though that seemed unlikely given how things ended between us.

But not her. Never her.

Caterina De Luca sits with perfect posture in a plastic chair meant for people with less presence. Her cream-colored pantsuit looks obscenely expensive against the shabby surroundings, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in waves too perfect to be natural. Those crimson eyes scan the room with casual disdain before landing on me.

My stomach drops to my feet. The last time I saw her, she told me to find help.

I approach slowly, each step heavier than the last. She doesn't rise to greet me, just watches with those unnerving eyes.

"Hey, boss," I say, the words automatic and small as I lower myself into the chair across from her.

Caterina's perfect lips curve into what might be a smile on anyone else. On her, it looks like a predator baring teeth.

"Claire, you don't look like such a fuck up today," she says, her voice carrying easily despite its softness. "That's a big improvement for someone like you."

I flinch at the backhanded compliment but force a smile. "Thanks."

Her crimson eyes travel over me, assessing every detail, my clean but worn clothes, my hair finally washed and brushed, the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of rest seems to erase.

"Thirty days," she remarks, glancing at the chip I'm still turning over in my hand. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I reply, uncertain where this is going. Caterina De Luca doesn't make social calls, especially not to rehab centers to visit women she's barely tolerated in the past.

I watch Caterina's face, trying to read some hint of her true intentions behind that perfect mask. The chip feels like a lead weight in my palm now, the accomplishment it represents suddenly hollow.

"How is Adam?" I ask tentatively. My voice comes out stronger than I expected, fueled by genuine concern for the man that is technically still my husband.

I expect to hear he's doing great and living the high life with Boston's most feared real estate mogul. That they're vacationing in the Maldives or renovating some mansion in the suburbs. That he's forgotten all about his gambling-addict ex-wife.

Caterina's expression shifts, something dark passing behind those crimson eyes like a shark moving beneath still waters.

"That's why I'm here, actually," she says, leaning forward slightly. "He's not well."

A chill runs through me despite the overheated room. "What do you mean?"

"He tried to escape me," she continues, her voice dropping to ensure our conversation remains private. "So I broke both of his hands."

The words hit me like a gunshot. I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for some indication she's making a terrible joke. But her expression remains eerily serene, those crimson eyes watching my reaction with clinical interest.

I continue staring at Caterina, trying to process her horrifying confession, when something catches my eye across the room, a figure slumped at a table in the far corner. I squint, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.

A man sits alone, wearing what appears to be a full racing helmet, glossy black, with a tinted visor completely obscuring his face. His posture is unnaturally rigid, almost puppet-like. But what truly makes my blood run cold are his hands, both encased in massive white casts that extend halfway up his forearms, giving them the appearance of cartoonish boxing gloves. The casts look fresh and pristine, professionally applied but grotesquely oversized. He sits perfectly still, head tilted slightly downward.

"Is that... Adam?" I whisper, my voice barely audible as I gesture toward the helmeted figure.

Caterina follows my gaze, crimson eyes flickering with something like pride. "Yes."

"What was I gonna do, leave him alone for this meeting?" she continues, as though explaining something obvious to a child. "Of course not."

I can't tear my eyes away from him. The way he sits, so still, so disconnected from his surroundings, sends ice through my veins. Even from this distance, I can sense something profoundly wrong beyond the obvious physical injuries.

"Why does he look so... out of it?" I ask, my throat constricting around the words.

Caterina waves her hand dismissively. "He's on too many drugs to count right now," she says with casual indifference.

My gaze fixes on the bizarre helmet, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It looks expensive, professional-grade, something you'd see at NASCAR or Formula One races.

"Why the race car helmet?" I manage to ask, unable to hide the horror in my voice.

"Well, if I'm not holding him, he could fall," Caterina explains, her tone maddeningly casual, as though discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a horrific situation. "And if he hits his head with that thing on, he'll be fine. It's one of the helmets my cousin left here."

The fluorescent lights overhead seem to buzz louder, the cheap institutional beige walls closing in around me as I struggle to process her words. My sobriety chip digs into my palm, where I've clenched it tight enough to leave an imprint.

I look back at Adam's rigid form across the room. He hasn't moved an inch since I first noticed him. The glossy black helmet reflects the overhead lights in distorted patterns, completely hiding any hint of expression, any sign of the vibrant, funny man I once knew.

A wave of anger surges through me, hot and unexpected, burning away the perpetual fog of shame that's surrounded me since hitting rock bottom. For the first time in months, perhaps years, I feel something besides self-loathing.

"Boss, you said you loved him," I say, my voice trembling but growing stronger with each word. My eyes dart between Caterina's perfect composure and Adam's broken form. "You don't just..."

Words fail me as the full horror of what I'm seeing truly registers. Those casts. Memories of whispered conversations among Caterina's staff flood back, stories about debtors, about rivals, about people who crossed the line.

"Oh my fucking God, Caterina," I breathe, barely able to force the words past the constriction in my throat. "Did you do what you normally do to people's hands?"

The question hangs between us like a live grenade, the pin already pulled.

"I told you before," she says, leaning forward slightly, her crimson eyes boring into mine with terrifying intensity. "He's mine to punish as I see fit."

I continue staring at Caterina, my heart pounding against my ribs. The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and desperate.

"Loving someone means getting mad sometimes, yes, but crippling him? Breaking his hands? How can you possibly justify that?" My voice rises with each word, drawing curious glances from the rehab staff monitoring the room.

Caterina scoffs, a sound like expensive silk tearing. Her crimson eyes flash with something between amusement and contempt.

"Was it love when you sold him to those gang members so they could rape him?" she asks, her voice deceptively soft. "Was it love when you sold him to me?"

My mouth goes dry, the familiar taste of shame coating my tongue. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

"I have a fucking disease, Caterina," I hiss, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Gambling addiction is a disease. I've been working on it every day in here."

She rolls her eyes. "I didn't come here to talk about what you define love as, Claire," she says dismissively. "Your pathetic justifications mean nothing to me."

"What is it you want, then?" I ask.

Without breaking eye contact, Caterina reaches into her designer handbag and extracts a manila folder. She opens it and removes a single photograph, placing it on the table between us.

The photo shows a young man, early twenties maybe, with kind eyes and a hesitant smile. He stands beside a woman who appears to be his girlfriend or wife, his arm draped casually around her shoulders. He looks ordinary, unremarkable even, the kind of face you'd pass on the street without a second glance.

"Do you know this man?" Caterina asks, her voice carefully neutral.

I study the photo more carefully, searching for any hint of familiarity, any flicker of recognition. Nothing comes.

"I've never seen this man in my life," I say truthfully, looking up to meet her gaze. "Who is he?"

She says, "You're positive?"

I stare at it more intently, wracking my brain for any connection. The young man's face is completely unfamiliar, average height, brown hair, nothing remarkable. The woman beside him could be his girlfriend or sister, both smiling in what looks like a backyard barbecue.

"I whisper, "He's not that Keith guy I slept with. I remember what he looks like, and I don't think I ever cheated on Adam before that."

Caterina sighs and looks annoyed. "Fuck," she mutters under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She leans forward, crimson eyes searching mine. "You've known Adam his whole life, right?"

"Yeah," I say with a small nod. "We were always together, even as kids."

"This man and Adam claim to be best friends since college," she says, tapping the photograph with one perfectly manicured nail.

I furrow my brow, genuinely confused. "Adam hates other men. He says they're too much drama. He'd never be friends with a guy that looks like this." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. Despite my addiction, despite the fog of the last few years, I know this much is true.

Caterina stares at the photo for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Okay," she says finally, her voice flat.

She slides the photograph back into the manila folder with deliberate movements, tucking it away in her designer handbag. The snap of the clasp echoes in the suddenly quiet room.

"Well, thanks for nothing, Claire," she says, rising from her chair in one fluid motion.

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She rises from her seat in one fluid motion, her cream-colored pantsuit somehow remaining unwrinkled despite the cheap plastic chair. With the practiced ease of someone who's done this countless times, she strides across the room toward Adam's motionless form.

I watch, paralyzed, as she reaches his table. Her hand lands on his shoulder with possessive familiarity. Adam's helmet-covered head tilts up slowly, the movement mechanical and delayed, like a wind-up toy running low on energy.

"Time to go, baby," she says, loud enough for me to hear across the room.

The words seem to activate something in him. He rises unsteadily to his feet, swaying slightly like a sapling in strong wind. His balance is clearly compromised, whether from the medication or something worse. I can't tell.

Caterina slides her arm around his waist, pulling him against her with practiced efficiency. Her free hand reaches up to adjust the helmet slightly, an oddly tender gesture that makes my stomach turn. Through the tinted visor, I can see nothing of his expression, nothing of the man I once knew.

"There we go," she coos, her voice carrying across the quiet room. "Lean on me, just like that."

He complies without hesitation or resistance, his body molding against hers as if he's nothing more than clay in her hands. The docility of his movements, the complete surrender evident in every line of his body, sends chills racing down my spine. This isn't Adam. This is a shell, a puppet with its strings firmly in Caterina's grasp.

They begin walking toward the exit, a parody of a loving couple. Each step seems to require immense concentration on Adam's part, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Caterina guides him with the patient expertise of a handler leading a prized but damaged show animal.

As they pass my table, Caterina pauses, turning to face me fully. Her crimson eyes gleam with malicious triumph as she tightens her grip on Adam's waist. The smile that spreads across her perfect face is the most terrible thing I've ever seen, radiant with genuine joy and utterly devoid of humanity.

"He's so much more obedient now," she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Adam's helmeted head bobs once in what might be a nod, the movement so slight it's barely perceptible.

"Say goodbye to Claire," she commands, her tone shifting to that honeyed maternal voice that makes my skin crawl.

"Bye, Claire," comes Adam's voice from within the helmet, distant and flat, stripped of all emotion or recognition.

As they walk out, I can't help but think.

'Someone has to save Adam.'