Escape from them
905 Words
The car rolled to a stop in front of the hotel, its tires crunching against the gravel. My stomach twisted as I spotted the silhouettes of men stationed at the entrance, their figures barely visible under the dim glow of the streetlights. Shadows swallowed their faces, but their rigid stance and the way they scanned their surroundings told me everything I needed to know. They were watching. Waiting.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I darted my gaze around, desperate for an escape. Maybe if I ran fast enough, I could lose them in the streets. But before I could act, Wallace’s iron grip closed around my arm, yanking me forward with a force that nearly made me stumble.
"When you get in there, do your job and don’t speak," he muttered, his breath brushing against my ear like a warning. His tone was sharp, laced with danger.
I bit back the urge to spit in his face. My body went rigid, but I let him drag me toward the entrance. I had no choice. Not yet.
Inside, the hotel was a world of its own—vast, elegant, dripping with money. The scent of expensive cologne clung to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee. A crystal chandelier loomed overhead, casting soft golden light across the marble floors. The rich lived well, even when they trafficked in filth.
Wallace pulled me toward the reception desk. The woman behind it, poised and expressionless, barely lifted her gaze as she bowed.
"Fraser?" Wallace asked, his voice quiet, controlled.
She handed him a card without question. No words. No hesitation. As if she had done this a hundred times before.
The elevator ride was suffocating. Wallace said nothing, and I wasn’t about to break the silence. My heart pounded against my ribs with every passing floor, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Fifty-four.
The doors slid open, revealing a long, carpeted corridor lined with polished wood. Two guards stood at the far end, their arms crossed, their eyes void of emotion. Wallace barely acknowledged them as he flashed the card. One of the guards stepped aside, unlocking the suite door.
And then we were inside.
A man lounged on the velvet couch near the bed. He was sharp-dressed, oozing arrogance. His dark hair was neatly styled, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked me over, eyes dragging from my covered head to my feet, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.
"Is she the high-class prostitute Zavi told me about?" His tone was smooth, laced with amusement.
My stomach twisted. Prostitute? I bit my cheek to keep from reacting, but my hands clenched into fists beneath the long fabric of my dress.
Who the hell was Zavi?
Wallace’s response was casual, as if he were discussing a fine bottle of wine. "My boss only gets the best."
And just like that, I understood.
Zavi—the mafia Don. The one who thought he owned the world.
The man tilted his head, watching me like he was evaluating a purchase. "She better be. You know what happens if she isn’t."
A silent threat. My throat tightened.
Wallace guided me forward, leading me deeper into the suite. I forced myself to take in my surroundings—the gold-accented furniture, the lush silk curtains, the soft glow of warm lighting. It was the kind of place meant to make people feel at ease.
Except I wasn’t.
I saw the camera in the corner. Well-placed. Watching. Recording.
My stomach churned. There was no way out of this.
Then my eyes landed on the wine table. A sleek glass bottle stood among the others—Spirytus Vodka. The strongest on the continent.
A plan started to form.
I turned, forcing a small smile. "Ah, there it is," I said lightly, moving toward the table. I uncovered the bottle. "Drink?"
The man shook his head, but his grip on my hip tightened, his fingers digging into my side. A shiver ran down my spine, disgust curling in my gut.
I masked my nerves, pouring two glasses.
He accepted his, swirling the liquid before downing it in one go.
I pretended to sip mine. "More?"
His eagerness made it easy.
By the third glass, his words slurred. "Gimme ‘nother. I’m best when I’m tipsy."
I smiled, refilling his glass.
He gulped it down. And another.
His eyelids drooped. His grip loosened. He was losing control of himself, and I was ready.
"Undress," he ordered.
I obeyed—slowly, drawing it out. My fingers trembled as I removed my niqab, revealing the sheer black gown beneath.
His eyes darkened.
"f**k," he breathed, drinking me in.
I giggled, crawling toward him, hands trailing over his chest. "More wine, master?" I cooed.
He laughed, drunk and reckless. "You're so cute…"
His lids fluttered. His body slumped.
I grabbed a pillow, slipping it under his head. "Tired?" I whispered.
He barely managed a nod before his breathing evened out.
Out cold.
I exhaled.
I pulled my niqab back on. Moved toward the door, heart hammering in my chest.
The guard looked at me.
"The master is sleeping," I murmured.
He nodded, stepping inside.
I slipped out.
The moment the guard's voice boomed behind me—raw, panicked—I felt the blood drain from my face.
"GET HER! THE MASTER ISN’T BREATHING!"
- Writer
