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."

Sandra's POV

The throbbing pain in my bones heightened as the chilly bite of a concrete floor seared my skin. My heart raced, and my breath quivered as I reluctantly opened my eyes, the weight of fatigue pressing on my eyelids like burdensome stones.

Attempting to rise, I groaned, but my strength betrayed me. I slumped back onto the floor, my face pressed against the damp, chilled surface, dampened by water from a broken pipe. The rhythmic drip of water seemed to mock my feeble efforts.

The room, devoid of any furnishings, remained shrouded in darkness with no hint of light. Normally, I'd find comfort in the shadows, but now they evoked terror. Questions flooded my mind: Why was I here? Why did they kill Marcel? Why didn't the man just end my life?

Clutching my side, I winced, only to realize my fingertips grazed my bare skin. Running my hand over my body, I discovered my clothes were gone. They had stripped me down to everything but my black-laced bra and explicit thong, callously depositing me in this desolate place.

A solitary tear traced down my cheek was swiftly wiped away. This wasn't the time for tears; I possessed resilience. Gripping the wall, I used it as a makeshift support, pulling myself onto my knees. Every inch of my body protested, urging me to surrender and succumb to my fate.

Yet, my story remained incomplete, and my destiny unsealed. If death awaited, it would be met with resistance. Marcel wouldn't have wanted me to surrender; he would have wanted me to fight.

Licking the dryness from my cracked lips, I yelled, my voice dry but strong, "Let me out of here!". And when no answer followed, I hit the wall with my fist, scraping my skin on the rough surface.

Then, like a match getting lit in the darkness, a door hidden in the gloom swung open, and three men stood in the frame. They were all dressed with guns, and dark clothing fit their bodies. They were intimidating, and they didn't look like they were up for a calm conversation.

They walked into the room, their eyes glazing down on my body. Staring at my chest, they smirked. "She'll be a good fuck." One said to the others, and I scrunched my eyebrows.

"Fuck you." I spit, and they all looked down at me like I broke a sacred law. One stepped to me, his hand reeling back as he struck me in the face, knocking me off my knees and back onto the chilled floor. His rings were digging into my skin and ripping at it. Gasping for breath, I turned my head to look at him. "I hope you choke on a dick and shit your pants, you mother fucking coker." I said, and he scowled at me in anger. But for the other two men, I could see brief smiles on their faces.

"Someone needs to fuck some manors into this slut." The angry man growled, and the other two men laughed down at me. "What is your relationship to Marcel Peters?" He asked as he looked down at me, his eyes catching mine. I looked up at him.

He was covered in tattoos as they ran all over his arms, and jewellery lined his fingers and neck. "I asked you a question, cunt." The man growled as he leaned down and grabbed me by the hair, pulling my face to his. "What's your relationship to Marcel Peters?"

I felt crimson blood in my mouth and felt it spill off my lip and roll down my chin. Looking into his eyes, I whispered, "you guys killed him." He looked at me, his eyes blanketed with hate.

"Maybe you should have asked him before your boss shot him."

He stayed quite awhile before he threw me back down.

walking out with the two other men and slamming the door so hard it shook the room.

But I could hear him outside the door still, on the phone, and he spit daggers at whoever was on the other end.

Rolling over onto my back, I look up, trying to make out the ceiling in the darkness. I silently prayed that I would just die here, like this. In peace.

I'm not religious, and I am not a churchgoing girl, and I don't consider sex before marriage a sin. But as I looked into the darkness, I wondered if a god was really up there.

Was a holy being watching me suffer, or does he/she know that I can handle this? I liked to believe that someone up there was watching over me.

I've been in this situation before, once, a long time ago. Not as bad, but I remember looking up at a ceiling in darkness, clouding my vision. I had no clue why I was there or how I got there, but Marcel came and got me; he was younger then-probably 20-and he grabbed my hand.

He saved me, just like he always said he would.

The door swung open again, but I didn't bother to tilt my head to look. I got goosebumps and chills as I felt a pair of eyes on me, the light coming from outside the door illuminating my skin. "Look at me." The voice said that I could already could tell who it was. The man who killed Marcel.

So I kept my gaze averted away from him. Even though my heart pounded in my chest, I had lost every ounce of fear, and it was replaced with a dauntless sense of bravery. Maybe I even felt daring.

I felt him walk up to me, swift and steady. I could feel his eyes trailing me as he grabbed me up and held me to the wall, his hands gripping my skin so hard that it pinched.

And I slowly felt that fear slink back into my bones like a fever. It caused my head to spin, my heart to race, and my throat to fill with bile.

My body is trembling in his grasp; I'd say like a leaf, but a leaf hasn't trembled as much as I have.

I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes again, not after the demons I saw in them at the bottom of my staircase.

But his eyes didn't have the same restraint as they bore into me, and under the darkened grey abyss of his looking gaze, my skin set fire.

The thought of looking into his eyes made me want to curl up and gouge my eyes out dramatically. "Paul wouldn't have to have done that if you complied." He said this as he gripped my chin, studying the red cheek and the two scratches.

"I don't comply with the demands of a dishonourable man." I muster. "I listen to one person, and only one person. Me" I whispered

He grabbed me tighter, only to move me away from the wall and slam me back harder against it. My back hit it harshly. "Marcel Peters. Was he a good fuck?" He asked, his eyes searching for a reaction, like he wanted me to yell and scream. He was daring me to answer him.

"Or is he your father?" he asked again, but I stayed quiet. "Brother." He smiled as I scrunched my face. Marcel Peters was my older brother and the only remaining family member.

He laughed lowly as he moved his hand to my throat, cutting my air. My hand was going on top of his, but even if I tried, I could never win him again. He was bigger than me, stronger, and faster. "I bet you still fucked him. I wonder, because why else would he do so much to protect you?" He whispered, and my body filled with rage.

Sucking saliva from my cheeks and tasting the blood mix with it on my tongue, I spat at him.

He didn't even flinch, but he brought one of his hands to his cheek and looked at the wetness on his fingers before looking back at me.

I smiled, and I probably looked insane. Blood is staining my teeth. Sandra Peters wasn't just Marcel's little sister; she was a crazy, spontaneous, and twisted-minded woman. And in this moment, where I should be scared, I felt anything but.

His grip on my neck tightened, his free hand a fist, and he punched the concrete wall beside my head, and I heard it crack slightly.

"Why did you kill him?" I said, feeling venom on the tips of my tongue. Like I was a snake, his mother fucker.

But he didn't answer my question; instead, his face lit up with a smile. wicked, awful smile; it was almost sinister. "You should be on your knees, thanking me that I haven't put a bullet in your skull yet." He whispered in my ear. Lowly but full of conviction.

"Even if I were to get on my knees, it wouldn't be for you." I hissed breathlessly as he dropped me, watching as I coughed as air could enter my lungs again. "We'll see." He said it in a voice that made me shiver. before he walked out, whispering to someone who stood by the door.

The man nodded before walking away and talking into an earpiece.

And the bastard who choked me gazed, looking back towards me, he said

"It's a funny thing how far a person can be pushed until they break. I will find your limit."

I tried to prevent it, but my eyes widened slightly in fear, my body tightening. He smiled at that as he said, "I'm glad to know I have your attention."

His body stepped back until he was by the door again.

"You are sure that you have my attention?" I coughed spitefully and fearlessly.

With that, he stopped in the doorway, his body giving off the faintest of reaction

Though he just left, a smug chuckled echoing through the room like he knew something I didn't.

He left the door wide open, like he wanted me to run just so he could catch me.

And I felt trepidation fill me again.

I guess I had a right to be scared. And whatever I was doing here, I knew that they weren't about to just let me go. But if he was going to kill me, why hasn't he done it already?

Get up." A man spoke as he walked over to me through the open door. My back rested again against the wall as I was sitting on my ass, my knees hugging my chest. Looking up at him, he looked curious, but his demeanour was still cast away.

The shadows covered his face as he crossed his arms and said. "Let's go whore; trust me, it's better for both of us if you just come with me." He said. And I winced at the word. I have never been fond of people calling me things I wasn't.

But I stood anyway, my body screaming at me.

He looked surprised as he studied my face.

It was almost like he expected me to fight back with a few of my own coloured words. Or maybe even jump onto him and attack him at a chance of escape.

Not that I could; I was nowhere near as fit or tall as he was. "What, no reaction? They said you were spiteful." He chuckled. He had a sense of playfulness attached to him.

"I am when I want to be," I answered lowly, as he smiled slowly back, his teeth so white I would think they were pearls. His face grew sore, and he shook his head, and his face turned back into stone. "Let's go." He turned and walked out the door, and for some reason, I followed.

I felt almost like a damn dog

I clutched my arms around my body, the chilled air tingling my exposed skin.

"What's your name?" I asked lowly, barely a whisper. And he blinked like he was contemplating telling me. "Fargo," he said plainly.

The corridor was long and had so many twists and turns that you could get lost in there for hours if you didn't know which way you were going. But I guess that's maybe the reason why they hold people down here like prisoners.

I felt daring, so I asked, "Why am I here?" I assumed if anyone would tell me, it would be him; he looked a lot less shady and tense than the other men here. He glanced back at me, just for a second, before his gaze went back straight. "Because He wants you here."

I will have to guess who he is, but why does he want me here? Why did he stop my execution?

I knew better than to ask more, because I concluded that that was all he was going to say about that topic. Looking around as I walked, doors along the walls, I could hear crying sobs.

They were quiet, but I could hear them.

If I could, I'd unlock every door and then burn this place down. If I could.

"Pick up the pace; you don't want to be walking down here without me." Fargo uttered it like a demand, and so I walked faster and straighter.

My lips saying 'why'

"If someone catches you down here alone, they will shoot you." Fargo said it carelessly, like nothing.

My hands going to my chest, Marcel on my mind. I found it hard to believe that he was actually gone, and I found it harder to understand why.

How did my brother know these people, and what has he done to protect me that got him in so much trouble?

Who even were they, and why did they call the scary bastard of a man 'boss'?

The longer I'm here, the more questions fill my head.

Fargo stopped at a golden door, my eyes shining from the glare of it.

Fargo got a look in his eye-not a sad but a regretful look. His face tensed with a warning, and my heart started to beat with anxiety.

"When you get in there, do not talk. Do not move, and if he asks a question, you answer. If he tells you to do something, you do it. You can't do what you did to him back in the cells because he won't take that again, and he will kill you."

His words made me tense. "What's in there?" I asked as I fiddled with my nails, of which many had now been broken. Perfect for scratching people, though~

Fargo looked at me but didn't answer as he knocked on the door in a code before it opened, and he gazed at me one more time. His hand grabbed my arm so tight that I stumbled after him into the dimly lit room.

Through the darkness, I heard the door slam closed.

This was a vault that had to be kept sealed.

Fargo threw me to the floor, my hands barely catching me. A grunt came from my mouth.

My hands stung as they struggled to support me after all the abuse.

Pulling myself to my knees, it was quiet, and I shook as I lifted my eyes.

"Sandra Peters is the sister of Marcel Peters. Despite having a brother, there are no records of her parents. She went to ShallowCreek High School, where she passed the top of her class, earning her a scholarship to Yale, which she declined in order to stay close to Marcel." Fargo said as he walked over to where 'the boss' was sitting.

The chair was almost like a throne; no, it was a throne. His very own unholy chair, like he thought he deserved it.

"She has had no boyfriends yet, yet many sexual encounters over the last couple of years."

Widening my eyes, I glared daggers at the people in front of me. The four grey walls trap us all in like mice in a cage.

"Her brother had her distract men while he snuck around in their offices, cars, and houses," Fargo said as he crossed his arms, and I licked my lips. Was that what he was getting me to do? Back then, I was 18 and clueless, and I guess he took advantage of that.

"But we don't think Sandra had a clue about what her brother was doing or what she was doing," Fargo added

"Are you guessing, or do you know?" The man who choked me growled at Fargo, and I slid backwards slightly.