Mafia's prisoner
1441 Words
I jolted awake, like someone had literally pinched me out of sleep. My eyes sluggishly scanned the room, and then it hit me. This was real. I wasn’t dreaming. I was still here. Still stuck.
I shot up from the bed, fingers raking through my messy curls. How long had I been asleep?
Oh, s**t.
The door creaked open, and one of the females entered. Her eyes fixed on me with a mixture of concern and wariness. "Are you awake?" she asked, her voice tentative.
I barely registered her presence, my mind still reeling from the shock of my situation.
"Wallace did not want to wake you," she added, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape from my anger.
I didn't respond, my gaze drifting away from her as I tried to process my thoughts.
She shook her head, muttering to herself about my rudeness, and turned to leave.
But I stopped her, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is there any other exit out of here apart from the entrance gate?"
She paused, her eyes narrowing as if considering my question.
For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer, but then she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "No."
I clenched my jaw, barely resisting the urge to say something snarky.
Instead, I stormed past her, my mind racing. The mansion was huge, and I had no idea how I was going to find an escape route.
I dashed down the hallway, my legs moving faster than I expected, my eyes darting around for any sign of an exit.
There. The front door. I could make it.
No one was guarding it.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard footsteps.
Panic surged.
I glanced up, heart sinking. They were coming after me.
How did they know?
Then I saw the cameras.
Fuck.
How did I miss those earlier?
I whipped around, desperate, and slammed straight into a wall.
Only it wasn’t a wall. It was a body.
I looked up, and my stomach dropped.
It was him. The f*****g mafia lord.
"Who's she?" a voice asked, cold and curious.
I turned my head slowly, meeting the eyes of a man who was eyeing me like I was some kind of prey.
His gaze slid down to my legs and back up to my face.
I could tell he was trouble. Dangerous, perverted trouble.
He was old enough to be my father, but he had that look that said he could crush me without a second thought.
"I’d like her to warm my bed," he said, voice dripping with a disgusting sort of entitlement.
My heart slammed against my chest.
The mafia lord’s gaze shifted to me, his jaw tightening in anger.
He looked like he was about to explode.
"Take her to my room and tie her up," he ordered.
Wait. What?
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
"You can’t tie me up. I need to get the hell out of here!" I shouted, my body starting to thrash as two men grabbed me.
One of them lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing, his grip ironclad.
The mafia lord didn’t even move, just watched as I was carried away.
They threw me onto the bed in his room, and I scrambled, desperate to get away.
But two of them quickly pinned me down, holding me against the headboard.
"Hold her tight. She's strong," the one who carried me ordered.
I could feel the weight of his grip on my wrists as they chained me to the bed.
My heart raced, and I fought to break free, but it was useless.
"I'm f*****g gonna kill you when I'm out of here," I screamed, my voice hoarse from shouting.
But the men just laughed, their faces twisted into cruel grins.
They seemed to think it was some kind of joke. A threat from a helpless prisoner.
As they left the room, I was left alone with my thoughts.
Oh, f**k.
How the hell do I get out of here without being killed?
I was trapped. Chained to a bed. With no way to escape.
The time ticked by, and I grew more and more desperate.
Seconds passed, and I waited for the monster to show up, but he didn't come.
Minutes passed, and I grew more and more anxious.
Hours passed, and I felt my energy draining away.
I was exhausted. My arm hurt like crazy from being shackled. My eyelids were beginning to close.
I was dehydrated, my mouth dry and parched.
I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten or drunk anything.
The thought of food and water made my stomach growl with hunger, and I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me.
As the hours dragged on, I felt myself slipping away, my consciousness fading.
I knew I had to stay awake. Had to keep fighting.
But it was getting harder and harder.
The darkness was closing in around me, and I felt myself being pulled under.
The door opened.
My eyes widened, and I looked up to see him walk in.
He was imposing, his presence filling the room with an air of authority and power.
My tired gaze fell on a black ink tattoo on the left side of his neck, partially hidden by his white inner shirt.
He started to undress, removing his jacket and gun, which he tucked into the side of his back trousers.
He placed his gun on the table, and his eyes locked onto mine as he started heading toward me.
"What in heck were you thinking? Do you think you can get away from me?" he asked, his voice hoarse from what sounded like a long period of ranting.
His shoes made a noise with every step he took, echoing through the room.
I glared at him, my eyes flashing with defiance.
"Release me and see what happens," I stated, trying to sound braver than I felt.
But he just grinned. A cold, calculating smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're not sure where you are, little cagna," he said, using the Italian word for "bitch."
"If you attempt to flee, you will face the penalties."
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt a surge of fear.
But then he dropped a bombshell.
"You will warm his bed," he said, his voice dripping with malice.
I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me.
"What? I'm not a prostitute," I protested, trying to keep my voice steady.
But he just teased me, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"But you're not a virgin, are you?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
I lowered my head, trying to appear submissive, and replied, "I am,"
I tried to convince him.
But he lifted an eyebrow, his expression skeptical.
No one ever believed me, probably because I didn't act like a typical virgin.
He spoke in Italian, his accent thick and rich.
"Are you lying, Troia?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
I felt a surge of anger at his words but tried to conceal my reaction.
I didn't want him to know that I understood Italian.
"Not after what I've heard about you," he added, his tone dripping with disdain.
I tried to keep my cool. To not react.
But inside, I was seething.
Who was he to judge me?
He didn't know anything about my life.
I had made out with guys in bars, yes, but I had never slept with them.
I had played the game, pretending to be interested, just to get what I wanted.
And sometimes, I had gone further. Drugging them. Stealing their money.
But I had never sold my body.
That was a line I had never crossed.
"I am not a w***e," I stated flatly, looking up at him.
I didn't owe him an explanation.
But I wanted him to understand.
A moment of silence passed, but his expression didn’t change.
"That is none of my concern. You are mine, and you will do anything I command. Prepare to lose it tonight," he said, his voice cold.
I underestimated the demon.
He was coldhearted.
Devoid of any empathy or compassion.
I refused to back down.
"Why? Why are you doing this to me? I do not owe you anything, but my father does. Why the hell are you doing this?"
He turned his back. "You will not question me. I own you."
Then he left.
That motherfucker with his dicky handsome face doesn't own me.
No one owns me.
And the sooner he realizes this, the better.
- Writer
