Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 89

**Chapter 89: Shattered**

**Aurora’s POV**

The world around me feels like a distant echo, a mere whisper on the wind. My body is a battlefield, a chaotic clash of fire and ice. The burning sensation radiates from my skin, while a deep, throbbing ache in my side threatens to consume me. I tremble uncontrollably, my teeth grinding together in a futile attempt to stave off the agony. The pain has morphed into an overwhelming presence, a relentless force that I can no longer identify—it’s simply there, enveloping me in its cruel embrace.

The grass beneath me is a confusing contrast. Is it cold? Or perhaps warm? I can’t discern the difference anymore; my senses have betrayed me.

A low, persistent buzzing fills my ears, drowning out the sounds of the world. I hear voices, but they’re muffled, as if I’m submerged beneath the surface of a murky lake.

Someone calls my name. Matteo? Leon? The names drift through my mind like shadows, elusive and fleeting. I attempt to lift my head, to see, to understand, but my body protests vehemently. I relent, choosing instead to remain still. Breathing. Just barely.

Suddenly, the screech of tires slices through the haze, followed by the sound of doors slamming shut.

Footsteps approach, heavy and urgent, reverberating like thunder in my ears.

“Sorrelina!”

I blink—was that real, or merely a figment of my imagination? Raphael. He’s here, and the realization brings a flicker of warmth amidst the cold void surrounding me.

I feel his hands, gentle yet trembling, brushing my hair away from my face. He whispers my name, a soft invocation, as if speaking it aloud could somehow mend the shattered pieces of my being.

“Raphael,” I manage to croak, though it feels more like a rasp escaping my parched throat. The pain constricts around my vocal cords, making each syllable a struggle.

My vision is a swirling blur, colors and shapes dancing chaotically before my eyes. But I can feel him—his warmth radiating from his hands, the way he tries to steady himself, to contain his own fear.

Behind him looms a larger figure, a shadow that I recognize instantly.

Andrei.

“Oh Dio… what have they done to her?” he bellows, rage and despair intertwining in his voice.

I wish I could articulate the horrors that have transpired, to share the weight of my suffering. But my mouth feels like sandpaper, dry and cracked, and my ribs—oh God, my ribs—ache as though they’ve splintered into a thousand shards. I can’t, I won’t burden them with my pain. It’s mine to bear, and they… they shouldn’t have to endure it too. No one should.

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