Brutal Hunger

Three years ago

My small frame, shivering, hid behind Elisabetta, who'd been my guardian for four years since I arrived in Sicily. A cruel fear and overwhelming sadness enfolded me, streaming down my eyes. My chest heaved with every breath, my stomach revolting at the urgency tugging at my excretory system as I watched the terrifying figure stalking into our living room.

The Capo Die Capi of Cosa Nostra, Maximo Viltinó Rochetti IV. He was that man who should never set his eyes on me again. The man who was out for my blood. He'd haunted me for years. I'd been on a run since then. But tonight, with him and four of his men in our living room, I realized that I'd reached a dead end.

Four years ago, a notorious crime lord who went by the code name Lord forcefully sent me on a mission to kill Maximo in exchange for my foster family's life. Then I was only twelve. I couldn't kill a breathing human, not to mention someone as powerful as Maximo. I couldn't have pulled the trigger if I wasn't pressured.

Call it a taboo, call it naiveness... I fell deeply in love for the terror standing before me with his cold gaze tunneling through mine.

Dense silence followed his entrance, mine and Elisabetta's tremulous breath sounding like a background orchestra, the tension swelling. He drew in a long smoke from his large cigar, his gaze, now dark, moored in mine. Victory and dark intentions sat clearly as day in his eyes.

He blew a cloud of smoke from his nose and slightly parted lips. Something about the way he delivered the action, together with his black long overcoat, fedora hat, and latex gloves, sent goosebumps through my skin.

"Look who's hiding from me. Shouldn't Little Cruella be pointing a Beretta right at my head like the other time?"

Elisabetta's body tensed up before me, and I quickly realized she was in a shock. Guilt spread through me. My hands uncoupled from her dress as I reflexively stepped back, only looking up to find her eyes questioning me, her brow furrowed.

"Your daughter is just like her father, Fiore."

Daughter? Father? Confusion tugged at my insides, crawling onto my expression. I tried to string the words together, but the further I tried the unfathomable and impossible it got. I became the one to throw a questioning gaze at Elisabetta while she played the guilty one with her head lowered, avoiding eye contact with me.

Elisabetta, who'd been my caretaker for four whole years, was my mother. Now it was clear why she was shaken up back in the church when the Cosa Nostra family came to hold a memorial service for their late boss. I wasn't the only one running from Maximo. For some reason I'd die to know, my mom also had something with Maximo.

Why did she keep the truth from me all these years? Rage and sorrow engulfed me, winding up as unconstrained sobs. What could be worse than finding out a sweet truth in a bitter situation?

"You can't stop me from using your daughter as a tool for my vengeance, Fiore, that's a serious offense."

My confusion rose. Vengeance?

"But we can make the consequences less unbearable." He held out a hand to me. "Let's go, Laura."

Terrified as I was, my eyes danced from his face to his hand. My body, compelled by the fear he instilled, willed me to take his hand. But knowing that his hand would drag me to hell kept me still, even though I was hopeless.

I'd run away from church and left Elisabetta when I saw Maximo. I never would've returned home tonight if I hadn't thought that coming to take Lord's mask would save me from Maximo.

I'd had the mask with me for years as evidence that I'd seen Lord's face, knowing Maximo's biggest prey was Lord and telling him the secret would save me. But it seemed it was stupid to think the mask would save me from Maximo.

He was here to take me, not because I tried to kill him, but because he wanted to use me as a tool for his vengeance for something I was unaware of, something my parents caused.

Maximo's eyes darkened. He put his hand down. A deadly smirk spread across his face, revealing the cigar that hung between his teeth. He took the cigar in his fingers. "Get her."

Two among the three of his men charged toward Elisabetta and me. A panicking Elisabetta wrested my hand and pulled me behind her, falling to her knees.

"Maximo, please. Laura had been through a lot as a child. She knows absolutely nothing about this. Laura shot at you, I know, but someone had made her do it. Tell him, Laura, tell him who made you do it," she cried, shaking me vigorously, panting.

I gazed at him, my lips twitching. The words stuck in my throat but I couldn't let them out. Maximo wouldn't believe me. He was unyielding, the type to finish what he started regardless.

Maximo raised his hand, signaling for his men to stop. "Any idea what it feels like to lose someone you vowed to protect with your life? Giulia had nothing to do with the mafia conflict when Benedetti murdered her."

What? My biological father killed someone. That was it, sister for daughter. My last hope faded into the abode of my terror. Could someone tell me that was a lie? Please.

Elisabetta sobbed bitterly. "I'm so sorry about your sister. I should've stopped him, but I swear to God I didn't know what he was up to. Please let my baby girl go. She's all I have."

This was too much for me. I was a murderer's daughter, for real.

"Did you just sing, Fiore, because I barely heard you? For the records, I loathe apology, and I kill people who apologize to me." He turned to leave, throwing the order over his shoulder, "Wrap up, Víctor."

He exited the room, leaving his steely-faced men behind. Elisabetta and I panicked. Tension and silence grew and stretched to what felt like countless minutes. The wait frightened me, leaving me dreading their intentions.

Maximo's consigliere, Víctor Gonzalez's eyes, came down to me, his stare so cold and sinister. "Kill them."

A fear-driven gasp, loud and hopeless, fled Elisabetta and me. We tumbled into panic, shivering. I gripped Elisabetta's hand tightly, bursting out in devastated tears. So this was how my fifteenth birthday would end? With I and Elisabetta's death. Was this how Maximo wanted me? Dead?

"Please, don't hurt my daughter, I'm begging you," Elisabetta stuttered tearfully, her voice shaky as she persistently pleaded.

Through my terror, I could see the surprise in the other men's eyes.

"Sir-"

"The boss's order. Shoot them!"

A gunshot precedes a sudden silence. Choking sounds followed. For a moment, it felt like I fell out of reality, and returned the second Elisabetta's hand holding mine went flaccid, and then she was quivering. I looked up. The question hit me. Was I hallucinating? I should be. If I wasn't... if I wasn't.... Emotions brimmed over me as Elisabetta faced me, blood gushing out of her neck.

"Run," she choked out, "please."

Tears rushed down my eyes. Not the tears I'd been shedding, but ones filled with pain, anger, emptiness. The look in her eyes was one I wasn't prepared to see. Regret, pain, more like a goodbye. Tears streamed down her eyes. If I wasn't hallucinating, then I... I'd.... Sorrow engulfed me.

"Mom!" I screamed, holding her to the ground. "Please don't leave me, Mommy, please." If only they knew how much I wished for a mother. Now my biological mother was gone the first day I knew her, the first day I called her mother. I wailed, cried my heart out, rocking her in my arms. This was my fault. I killed her. I shouldn't have known her. I should've run away and never come back.

I had a lot of questions for her, didn't even know her real name, and wanted more life ahead for us to live like mother and daughter. I never would've thought my fifteenth birthday would present me with my mother's corpse.

The sound of a gun trigger clicking above my head pricked my ears. Terror ravaged my emotions, and I remained motionless, sobbing. The second I looked up, reflexes hit me and I scrambled backward, rushing to my feet. Víctor held me at gunpoint. The ringing of his phone served as his distraction and an edge to me.

Quickly, I kicked the gun off his grip and ran up the stairs. As if he observed utmost respect for the person behind the phone, he didn't try to stop me, even motioned for his men not to shoot. I took that as a chance to run into my bedroom. With shaky hands, I locked the door from the inside, streaked to the open window, and jumped out of it.

Our house stood closer to the woods in a remote area. I bolted off into the woods, running as fast as I could, tears running down my face as the emotions clung to my heart. The farther I ran, my lungs starved for air, my throat went dry and sore, I gasped for air.

My mom was gone. The fault lay with me. I brought the bad guys home, I killed her.

Blinding lights shone brightly in the corner of my vision the second I ran into the road that stood across the woods. I whipped my head in the direction of the car, realizing it was two meters away from me. I willed myself to get off the road, but tension held me still, my eyes drawing wide open.

The next thing I heard was a loud thud, and I was flying through the air, landing head-first on the edge of the car bonnet with no time to catch myself. My body rolled along the cold, hard road. The last thing I processed was a metallic smell. Blood. Drops of blood rapidly streamed down my face from my bleeding head. Heartbeats filled my ears. I was afraid, so afraid. The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me whole was four pairs of running feet from the car.

We were most afraid of this night, the night of the Pakhan auction, because it meant we would be put up for auction and sold into slavery.

All ten of us sat in our various states of mind. The Pakhan made sure we looked attractive by forcing us to wear heels, balconette bras, and G-strings, and even oiled our skins to make us glow. In a few minutes, we would be heading backstage, leaving this large room behind for good. Yes, for good. Whoever wound up rejected at the auction would be as good as dead, so we prayed we got bought.

We were like lost pets, itching to be sold to our new masters, even though we knew we would either get lucky or wind up in the wrong hands. As captives of the Pakhan, we were robbed of our freedom, surrounded by hostile individuals who mistreated us, and eventually killed us for small transgressions. We craved freedom, much like humans do for water.

Three years ago, I woke up at a hospital and met a couple who claimed they were my parents. I had trouble believing them, probably because my skin seemed distinguishable from theirs.

They sheltered and provided for me, both medically, but they never addressed me by name. They neglected me, and most times they were hostile towards me.

The last time I remembered I ever felt happy in my life was the first time they showed me kindness. That was the day they'd promised to enroll me in school. A naive me was excited about going outside, making friends with other kids like I saw on TV, play.

Did I ask what a school was? No. Because they made me believe it was the best place for kids like myself.

They bought me a uniform and made me feel loved. I was excited, so excited.

I knew something wasn't right about the couple whose names were unknown to me. I should've escaped, but I couldn't. Not that I didn't want to, but because I was sick, and needed a wheelchair to move around then. Also, because I wanted to go to school.

My fake father drove to a suspicious factory building instead of a place surrounded by kids. And that was where my happiness died, that was where I saw him... the Pakhan of Bratva, Mikhailov. And... that was when I realized I'd been sold to him. I realized that I wasn't going to school, but I was going somewhere a child shouldn't be.

I was scared. I'd fallen off the wheelchair, grabbed my father's foot, and cried to him, pleading with him to take me back. But then he grabbed my face and said to me,

"I'm not your family. I don't know who you are, I don't even know your name. I found you on the verge of death and took you to the hospital. Not because I cared, but because I planned to sell you off someday."

My days of crying ended with so much pain and slave training in the Pakhan's captivity. Now I could walk again, I'd do what I'd always wanted to do since I was brought here. Escape. Tonight was my chance. All I needed was freedom to be me, freedom to be called a name for once.

Questions had gnawed at me since then.

How come I didn't have any memories to rely on? Who was I, even? Had my real family lost hope in searching for me? Having no iota of memory, I created pictures of family and friends in my head and gave them identities just to make myself feel human, feel like I belonged somewhere.

The door flung open and five rogues moseyed in with AKs in their hands. Frightened, we jolted to our feet and fell in lines opposite of each other, our heads to the ground. One rogue strolled past us, combing his eyes through us.

He halted a few steps from me. "Ладно, суки. Time to go."

"Sir." I ensured to keep a civil tone.

"What?"

"I... need to use the restroom, пожалуйста."

He hesitated for a while, his gaze burning through my skin. With his hand, he signaled for one of the men to take me to the restroom. "Вернись через пять."

With a hostage bag over my head, disabling my vision, the man walked me through a distance not too far from the room. Soon after the door handle clicked, he pulled the bag off my head and I came eye-to-eye with a cramped and feculent restroom. My stomach twisted at the filth. I swallowed down the sudden burst of nausea, trying to avoid slapping a hand over my nose.

The man stood there, his eyes urging me to hasten up. Ordinarily, we slaves didn't have any shame here. The Pakhan's workers knew what we had behind our clothes.

"My poop smells bad." I pulled a disgusted face, waving my hand over my nose to make him grasp what I meant, seeing as he didn't understand English.

He closed the door after glaring daggers at me.

A sudden rush of adrenaline surged through me, my whole body kicked into action. Nervous and wobbly, I climbed onto the tank cover. I fiddled with the window, trying to figure out how to open it.

The window suddenly made a high-pitched squeaking sound as it slid ajar. I gasped, tensing up.

Quickly pulling myself together, I pushed the window entirely open, careful to avoid more squeaks. I hadn't realized I held my breath until the window was open.

Sighing inaudibly, I looked out the window, examining the surroundings. There stood an exquisite backyard. A few men were on guard, but I doubted my movement could cause a lot of distraction.

I gasped, my heart tumbling down my toes the second the door behind me was kicked open. The furious man burst in, barking in Russian, pointing his rifle at me.

Hyperventilating, I hastily climbed down and threw my hands above my head, shivering, my eyes bulging like they'd fall off their sockets. "I'm sorry, sir. Mне жаль."

He reached for his phone and I quickly worked out he intended to report my action. I let reflexes guide, not realizing when I kicked him in the balls.

The phone slipped off his grip and he bent over with his hands cupping his balls as he yelled away his pain. I grabbed his AK and rammed it against his nape, just like they did to girls who disobeyed. He fell face-first, instantly passing out.

I stiffened, staring fearfully at the unconscious mass on the filthy floor. Was he dead? Having remembered my plan, I hurled the heavy rifle aside, kicked off my heels, and jumped out the window, landing lightly on the brick floor.

As I stood up to run ahead, I groaned and came to a halt as pain ripped through my legs. It wasn't a remarkable height, the pain allayed the further I trotted, sneaking and scurrying from place to place.

I often watched the guardsmen as I raced to the garden, which was dimly lit and bathed in moonlight, hoping its darkness covered me. There was a white picket fence far away, beckoning to me. It gave me the courage to keep moving, even though I was not sure if that was the exit. I streaked through the grove of trees, observing the guards.

One of the guards smoking near the pool cast an absent-minded glance in my direction. Frightened, I hid behind a tree, my heart racing. I dared to shoot him a glance after what seemed like forever. His back was to me as he spoke on the phone. Seizing the opportunity, I spun around and dashed to a different tree.

My body crashed into a rock-hard frame, sending my ass smashing into the grass. I let out a terrified cry. I was so terrified that I swung my head in the direction of the poolside guard. He seemed to have missed my scream.

Panting in terror, I looked at the 6'4" muscular figure towering over my 5'6". Flight and steady reflexes consumed me. I could not decide whether to flee or stay. The man who caught me didn't resemble a guard at all, but his intimidating appearance frightened me more than the guards themselves.

His elegant suit, pricey watch, and golden brown hair, neatly brushed back from his chiseled face featuring a thick stubble, gave him a prominent appearance. Additionally, he didn't look Russian. He emanated a sinister aura. One that was dark enough to evoke fear in people, one that exuded authority and respect even in the absence of words or deeds, and one that could make you flee at the glimpse of him. This man symbolized the existence of danger.

Why was he looking at me with such rage in his eyes? Who was he? My flight reflex took over and I picked myself up off the ground to run past him, but before I knew it, he'd closed in and grabbed my arm. Within seconds of letting out an ear-splitting scream, I found myself pinned to a tree. I realized at that very moment that my scream had alerted the guards.

"It is you."

I panicked and struggled to flee, but he grabbed my arm and propelled me toward the tree, holding my neck gently with one hand while shackling my waist with the other.

"Let me go, please. I'll go back to the other girls, I swear," my voice was panicky, couldn't repress my tears. I wished I could turn back time and reconsider my decision.

He leaned closer to my face, so close we were sharing the air from each other's breath. The hand on my neck inched up as he skimmed the soft pad of his thumb through my lower lip, effectively moving it to the side.

"It is you."

Why did he keep saying that?

"Are you going to report me?" I inquired, my voice stained with tears.

He didn't seem like he would. To my terror, his eyes glistened with a pure tendency to ruin the girl in his hold.

Without a single attempt to answer my question, he leaned into my neck, nuzzling the delicate arch of my neck. His ministration elicited a sharp intake of breath from me. I even shuddered. The sensation was one of a kind. It coursed through me like heated shivers, hitting the delicate area between my legs and causing it to clench.

"Found you," he whispered in the shell of my ear, and his fingers closed around my neck.

"Is this how far you can run, Little Cruella?" he said, his once-impassive bright gray eyes suddenly burning red with a fierce fury.

The gun trigger clicked next to us. Slowly, as if he was distracted from something he was entitled to, his hand slipped from my neck. I could breathe again now, but I was afraid that in a matter of minutes, with three of Mikhailov's guards, my breath would run out completely. I made a dash, but the stranger grabbed my arm and threw me into the arms of one of the men.

"не делай ей больно."

The men obeyed his command and matched me in the direction of the building. Who he was did not matter to me. I wished that our paths would never cross again. Did I?

I was hurled to the ground by the soldiers and ended up on my hands and knees in front of the most dangerous man I had ever known. The man I'd spent the last four years of my life being afraid of. Mikhailov Rasputa.

My breath was rough and erratic, and I could hear my heart pounding erratically. I shivered, dreading what he'd do to me. Never commit an offense that would provoke the Pakhan's wrath. Death, or anything that would still result in death, was the usual punishment he meted out.

After blowing a wreath of smoke at me, he leaned down, stuck his large hand in my hair, and tilted my head upward so I could meet his deadly, bloodshot eyes.

"Котенок. You spent a whole three years crying and trying to escape. I thought you gave up on that plan. I thought my discipline was enough to make you a good girl." He'd stressed the 'good girl', pronouncing the good starkly as if emphasizing it.

Shrugging his shoulders, he narrowed his red eyes, which were discolored from constant smoking. "What is this you did again tonight, on my special day?"

He sighed in resignation and retired to lean back in his seat.

"Our training wasn't sufficient enough to change you, eh?"

"Нет, хозяин, it was." Tears formed beads and fell from my eyes to the ground. I shouldn't have done what I did. I should've just been a good girl, even if I didn't like this hell.

He sucked his teeth, then sighed deeply. "What should I do to you, eh? Kill you for trying to repay me with evil?"

He then leaned down with one of his hands on his lap, and cupped my jaw with the other hand, lifting my face so that I maintained eye contact with him. "When I bought you, Котенок, you were disabled, sick, frail, a poor little girl with no family, no memory. Well, still no memory. I repaired the broken parts of you, sheltered you, gave you back your walking abilities, and gave you everything no master will give to a slave. And this is how you repay me."

His countenance changed to one of rage and anger played across his eyes as he growled his latter words, chilling me to the bone. I couldn't avoid shuddering.

"Here's what will happen, Kitten. You'll get me nothing less than twenty million dollars at the auction tonight. Anything less and I won't only kill your new master, I'll kill you together with him."

Having been the first on the lot, I stood behind the curtains. I was afraid, tensed like an elastic band about to snap, my hands cold and clammy.

Around my neck was a red collar with a leash attached to the ring at the foremost of the collar. Beside me stood a severe-looking blonde, who I estimated to be in her forties. The heavy make-up she wore did nothing to improve her cold appearance. She resembled the representation of evil. Something about the way she held the leash reminded me of the times the soldiers came around with their dogs in leashes. I felt like one of those dogs now.

"As y'all know, here in the Pakhan's auction, we sell slaves and items you won't regret buying. Tonight, we have mouthwatering slaves we'd love, love to offer. Speaking of which, I mean, high-quality slaves. Slaves who'd acquired a lot of slave training. Innocent, beautiful submissive slaves. Virgins. Disease-free and infection-free. Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce... the number one in the lot."

Without a warning, the lady pulled on the strap as she started sailing to the stag, dragging me along with the leash. I choked, nearly tripping over on my heels but I caught my balance and fell in steps with her.

Shame and fright hit me like a tsunami the moment I stepped onto the stage. The crowd of bidders wearing all kinds of masquerade masks to shield their identities unnerved me. The fact their eyes were fixed on my half-naked body sent shame meeting me with a great rush.

I didn't like being Mikhailov's captive, and I wanted out of this place. At the same time, I feared was afraid of leaving this place as a slave to someone who'd make me regret leaving this place. Just like other slaves, I prayed to be bought by a good master.

The auctioneer declared, "Just so you all know, this one here is the Pakhan's biggest deal," with an enthusiastic gesture and expression.

The lady held my shoulders and made me turn around, showing off my curves, and after that, she held the leash again like I'd flee if she were to leave it for long. I looked down at my feet. It was the punishment I got for trying to flee tonight.

The truth was, I wasn't Mikhailov's biggest asset because of my beauty, curves, or whatever the bidders saw. Though the auctioneer mentioned I was the Pakhan's biggest deal to attract bidders, it was also because the Pakhan spent a lot to keep me alive and fit. My duty was to fetch his money back in plenty.

The auctioneer began the auction cry, my offer price starting from ten million dollars. Half the bidders raised their bidding paddles. My heart, once thumping in the fear of having no one bid on me, went calm. Not completely relaxed.

More and more bidders raised their paddles as the cattle rattle continued to increase from price to price until it got to seventeen million dollars and attracted the wrong bidder.

Yes, the wrong bidder. I could tell the bidder was an old man just by looking through the opening in his Baphomet mask-his gray beard was visible. He, together with his mask and his victorious, patronizing, and amorous smile made my stomach churn with fear and distaste.

"Will ya gimme eighteen million? Do we have eighteen?" the auctioneer repeated the calling over again. No one was raising their paddle, and they all seemed relaxed and unwilling to raise their paddles.

I could no longer contain my fear as I became extremely tense. I bit my lower lip, clenching my fists. Could someone raise their paddle, please? Just a few more million dollars to save my life.

"Item one gone to bidder 304 for seventeen... we have eighteen million, now nineteen. Will ya gimme nineteen million dollars?" the auctioneer echoed in excitement.

All bidders, myself included, turned to look at the bidder who had just placed the eighteen million dollar bid.

A lady? How could a woman be so wealthy?

With a dejected expression, the old man lifted his paddle to bid nineteen million, but the lady bid twenty, which made Oldie's lip sneer in anger and scorn.

I could breathe again thanks to the lady. No worry, no fear. I got Mikhailov the money he wanted from me. Delight rushed through me like a flash and quickly faded.

The auction cry continued until twenty-six million. The lady challenged Oldie again at twenty-seven million.

"Item one gone to bidder 105 for twenty... We have twenty-nine million dollars!"

My eyes traveled to the bidder who had his paddle raised. Familiarity hit me but I kept the effect out of my face. That hand. Did I know the bidder? His attire wasn't familiar. His face was hidden behind his golden mask, which had openings for his mouth and eyes. Then his hair was combed back, some strands parted to one side. Those were unfamiliar features.

But the wristwatch. Blue and silver. Could he be the stranger from earlier?

My heart fluttered at the thought of the bidder being the stranger. Fear and a weird craving entangled. I hoped for our paths never to cross... well, for that, I wasn't sure about my desire not to see him again. So crazy how my insides screamed in excitement for someone I'd wished against crossing paths with.

Was that even him? Any wealthy person could have that wristwatch. Even Mikhailov had one.

The thought of it being someone else wearing the same kind of wristwatch made my mood close down. It was foolish how I started rooting for the golden mask bidder.

At thirty million, Oldie lifted his paddle. When someone else put in a bid of thirty-one million, Oldie had come dangerously close to winning the lotto. An enraged Oldie took this as a competition when he raised his paddle at thirty-two million. I felt a rush of fear and excitement in my chest as the golden mask bidder raised his paddle to place a thirty-three million dollar bid. I wanted him to lose to Oldie and at the same time, I wanted him to place the highest bid. Crazy me.

A part of me supported the golden mask bidder, while the other part of me, fearing the golden mask bidder was the stranger from earlier, supported Oldie.

My eyes shifted from the golden mask bidder to Oldie as they carried on with their bidding competition.

"Do we have forty-nine million?" the auctioneer repeated his filler words more times. "Item one gone to bidder 203 for forty-eight million dollars!" the auctioneer declared enthusiastically.

At the auctioneer's proclamation, my heart fluttered in fear and something that felt like excitement. Was I excited about his winning, or I was terrified of him being my new master because I thought he was a weird stranger? Well, a bit of both.

I saw a frown etch on Oldie's lips. His nose flared as he raised the side of his upper lip, disappointment and anger were evident in his demeanor.

Bidder 203. My buyer, my master from this moment onwards. I stared at him for long enough, and I knew behind the holes in his golden mask that his eyes were watching me, his property forever.