The Mafia's Most Wanted Girl

VERONICA'S POV FLASHBACK I woke up with excruciating pain rushing through my body. My head pounded like a giant had stepped on it. Fire breathed through my neck, and merciless waves moved beneath my skin as I laid motionless on the bed. I tried to move my arms again and again, but they remained attached to the bed. It wasn’t just the pain—my hands were chained. I could hear voices outside, and within seconds, two men barged into the room. “Shuf! She’s awake,” the bearded man said with a creepy smile the moment he stepped inside. “Mahmood, can you do this? Nobody must know about this,” the other man, lanky and tense, asked, his face twisted in worry. “Yasin, Habibi, you have nothing to worry about. You’re my closest relative. I would never do anything to harm you. Naam?” “I understand.” “You’re doing the right thing. Keeping her here would put you in danger. Wallah, she’s strong. She’ll fetch good money.” They continued their conversation without even acknowledging my presence. I wanted to speak, but I had no idea what to say. I didn’t understand why I was tied to a bed, why my body ached like I was burning in hell, or why those men—who looked like they’d choke the life out of me if I spoke—talked like they were negotiating the price of a commodity. With pain burning beneath my skin, my mind drifted. I couldn’t concentrate on anything they were saying. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping for relief—or maybe to wake up from that nightmare. I can’t tell how long my eyes were shut or how far my mind had wandered before I heard their footsteps getting closer. When I opened my eyes, Mahmood was holding a syringe. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I took a deep breath and pulled together what little strength I had to scream. Yasin covered my mouth with his hand, and as soon as the syringe pierced my skin, the ceiling blurred and slowly darkened until my mind went blank. “We move tomorrow, Inshallah,” Mahmood’s voice echoed faintly as my consciousness shut down like a dying computer. ***** I don’t know how long I was out, but when I regained consciousness, I was lying alone on the cold, hard floor of a tiny, dimly lit room. I could feel the cold crawling on my skin like a nail was being dragged into it. The unbearable pain still throbbed through me. A chain was wrapped around my legs, but surprisingly, it loosened as I shifted. As I tried to process what had just happened, Mahmood barged into the room, carelessly holding a plate in his hand. “Thought you were dead. Welcome back to life!” I managed to sit up with my back against the wall, staring at him like I didn’t understand a word he’d said. “Eat now. Stay alive. I give you special treatment like I promised Yasin,” he added as he dropped the plate of rice on the floor. Suddenly, his cold, dark brown eyes lit up. I instinctively tried to move away as he came closer. “What a fine little bint,” he said slowly, almost in a whisper, his eyes glinting with mock sympathy as he raised my chin. His hand moved down to my neck and slowly toward my chest. I gathered all the strength in me and spat in his face. Mahmood chuckled, then grabbed me by the neck and shoved me hard. My head slammed against the wall. “Stupid sharmoota. Be grateful!” he cursed, then stormed out of the room. I stared at the plate of rice in disgust, praying to die right there. Tears filled my eyes as my stomach rumbled, and hunger twisted my insides. I prayed for death—not this pain. Lord, I can’t eat that garbage. That would mean accepting this horrible life. But as my strength faded, I crawled to where the plate was. There was no use crying over spilled milk—I had to stay alive. A surge of determination filled me. I must get out of this place tonight. That night, the moon shone brightly, casting light through the tiny window high up on the wall. After forcing myself to eat the evening meal, I began to plan my escape. Since my legs weren’t properly chained, I easily freed them. I crawled to the metal door and found it open. They had underestimated me. Fear clawed at my chest, but my mind was made up. As I crawled through the door, I heard distant footsteps and the groan of metal. I took a deep breath and kept crawling, even as the cold ground numbed my limbs. The moon came prepared that night better than I expected before I crawled out of that room—it lit everything like it had something to prove. Dang! This hellhole was a derelict warehouse. As soon as I spotted an abandoned car, I dragged myself toward it and hid behind it. I measured the distance between the car and the gate—my freedom stood right there, a few feet away. I whispered a prayer and moved as fast as I could. Yes—finally. I did it. I reached for the gate handle, but just as I gripped it, a voice rang out: “Move, you die!” It felt like an invisible dagger stabbed my chest. I raised my hands, but before I could turn around, more footsteps approached. Someone yanked my hair and dragged me back to the room, then flung me onto the floor. “La’anat Allah 'alayk! You make me angry! You... Wallah, I sell you by morning. I teach you a lesson!” Mahmood’s voice thundered. Suddenly, he pinned me to the cold floor, eyes lit with cruelty and surprisingly, excitement. I screamed and struggled, but he only grew more aggressive. “I teach you a lesson,” he repeated, slapping my face so hard that a sharp ringing filled my head. My right leg went limp as he pinned it with his own, showing no care. I cried and begged, but that only seemed to push him further. Just when I was about to give up, he stood—but not before punching me in the stomach. “b***h,” he muttered, leaving me in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Wallah, just because of Yasin!” he yelled as he walked away. I heard him shout to someone, “Shuf, she try to escape again. Hit her!” How I survived that night is beyond me. The creak of the door and the flood of daylight forced my eyes open. For a moment, I was blinded by the light. Mahmood appeared again, this time with a man wearing sunglasses and a khaki scarf covering most of his face. The man looked at me for a few seconds like he was inspecting a product, then nodded at Mahmood. Together, they walked out. “Bukra, we cross the sea,” Mahmood yelled to one of his men as he left. My name is Veronica Xanders, and this is how it all began—my story. I put this down so you can learn nothing but the truth and understand how harsh life can be, in a world where it wouldn't have been this hard if people didn't make it so. They might try to downplay my struggles and say it was all a lie and that is why this book found you. “Yalla! Get in the truck!”