Mafia King’s Stubborn Slave

I found myself confined to my room on his command, but my determination remained unyielding. I'm pretty certain he's aware of my stubborn nature—Marcel, of all people, should understand it best.

I enjoyed the freedom of youth, revelling in being unpredictable and quirky, much like a wild horse in the open. Moving quietly, I skillfully turned the golden lock of my door, allowing me to open it without making a sound. Marcel's voice reached me, instructing, "Shut it; Sandra is upstairs." Another voice, distinct from Marcel's, retorted, "Bring her down then; I'd love to meet the person you're so infatuated with, calling her a slut."

The mention of my name caught my attention, and the sound of it nearly justified my inclination to disobey Marcel's orders. I traced my fingers along the painted wall, the dark shadows providing cover as the night outside left the various windows devoid of light.

In my hands, I clutched one side of a grey t-shirt that was oversized and marked with profane words in Caps "DIRTY BITCH!". It clung to me as I stealthily moved, motivated by the desire to challenge the restrictions imposed upon me.

The vast bannister that looked over the living room—I crept to it. Slinking down the wall and peeking through the cracks in the wood beams, I made sure I wasn't seen through the thick spaces between the bars.

My breath held in my throat as I bit my lip.

My eyes were trying to squint just enough to see what was happening. But seeing it would only do half the justice because I could hear every word of the downstairs conversation as it echoed around the tall ceilings.

"You fucked up, Peters." An unfamiliar voice as he used my last name, a voice that sounded almost inhuman. It was deep and masculine, and it sounded like he carried himself in high regard. "Again." The voice yelled..

"I didn't have a fucking choice," Marcel growled. He stood in front of someone—I couldn't see who. "I would do it again, though."

My body froze as a laugh carried through the room—a wicked laugh. An evil, indescribable monstrous laugh. The kind that would haunt a child's nightmares. Hell, it will haunt mine.

I saw a glint of a shiny object, and then the odd voice of the stoic man spoke again. "You won't get a chance to do it again." The man deadpanned. I was confused for just a second, but the confusion melted into something a lot more sinister now.

Then I watched as a bullet flew into Marcel's forehead, his body hitting the ground with a thump that made me scream. Blood was collecting in a puddle beside him.

I watched as all the people's heads snapped at me. My body is sliding down one of the vertical poles of the railing. I was scared shitless, with tears sliding down my cheek.

My eyes fixed on the dead body on my floor—my brother's dead body on the floor.

"Grab her." I heard the man say, and seconds later, arms wrapped around me and threw me down the stairs. My back and arms hit the pointed steps as I eventually landed flat on the bottom of the staircase. My body groans like fire as I fall on my back.

my eyes meeting a man who stood towering above me as he thought himself a god as I lay under him, like he thought I was his subject or one of his projects.

A shadow cast over his face, his eyelashes making his eyes covered in evil, and if I didn't know better, I would have thought he was the devil himself. He crouched down and placed the pretty little barrel of his gun on my forehead.

My entire body begged me to flinch away, and a big part of me pleaded with me to get away from his sickening gaze. But the other small part of my consciousness kept me in place.

He killed Marcel; this man murdered him. Killed him like his life was nothing but collateral damage.

My eyes drew to his; they were so twisted grey that I swear they were black. They looked void of emotion, void of life. His eyes looked like he could set a city on fire and watch innocents burn without remorse.

One look into his eyes, and anyone could tell that he was a hitman.

He stared right back at me as I lay motionless, my body feeling like if I even tried to lift it, my bones would shatter like glass.

My gaze didn't even compete with his, yet I wouldn't let myself look away. This wasn't cat and mouse; this was hunter and deer, and I was like a deer caught in headlights.

"Do you want to know what hell is like?" He whispered to me as he moved the gun under my chin, the metal burning my skin.

My mouth stayed sealed as I stayed quiet, refusing to answer, even though a part of me still ached with curiosity.

A twisted fuck like him—I wouldn't doubt he knew what hell was like

The dangerous man stood to his feet, and when I failed to respond, he kicked me in the stomach, sending me across the slippery marble floor.

One of his henchmen cocked his gun and moved towards me, and I closed my eyes. Never before felt so ready to die. That fear was replaced with anger and grief.

The authorities would likely label this as a break-in at my home, leading to a sombre funeral where people would express condolences and lament the tragedy. It would be a gathering of insincere individuals from my life who only pretended to be friends because of my wealth. However, I wouldn't be around to witness any of it because I'd be dead, of course.

Just when I had resigned myself to death, an unusual man, attired in a suit with a stain of blood on its white shirt, robbed me of that fate. Just like he had done with Marcel.

"No, don't end her life yet," the sinister figure uttered as my head rested on the frigid floor, and my vision of him swirled into a blur. "I want to keep her alive, just until she longs for death."

"Place her with the rest of the whores."