Underworld Princess

Chapter 9: The Damn Persian Rug

I'm just going to start publishing the random bursts of inspo I get for this story because I have been jotting down plot points for DAYS and I'm so excited to get to the drama.

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Ramos Escasina's princess.

That was what I was known in the underworld. Nobody knew my father's little princess was a lap dog - covered in scars and beaten if disobeying. I was my fathers most deadliest weapon, an emotionless assassin he sent after anyone who gave him so much as a headache.

"You're back," My father's voice boomed over the desk he sat at in the Escasina drawing room. The don's office.

"Yes father," I muttered wiping another pint of blood from my busted lip. His eyes didn't meet mine, nor did he bother to gaze up and assess the damage I'd suffered from his sadistic assignments. "He's dead Father,"

He grunted in approval, still not sparing me so much as a glance as I bled under my jacket. The man I was assigned to kill had put up a good fight, as far as surrounding himself with his entire gang in hopes that one of them would be able to drive a knife through my guts before I slit his throat.

Albeit it wasn't such a bad way to go, this jacket was waxed cotton and I'd be damned if I had a knife cut into its fabric after it cost me so damn much.

After a long pause, my father sighed, lifting his cold gaze up at me from his paperwork, "Ariella," he called my name gruffly. The only man in the world who addressed me with that godforsaken name.

"Yes, father,"

"You are getting blood on my new Persian rug," For fucks sake.

My gaze followed the little splatters of red liquid that were soaking into the white Persian rug beneath my feet.

Well, this was new. This damn Persian rug, usually i would just bleed all over his hard wood floor.

He cared about a rug more than his flesh and blood. I scoffed sardonically to myself before sidestepping off the dead sheepskin he values more than his daughter. "Anything else?" I asked him, trying to keep the attitude out of my tone in case he was in the mood to deliver a few lashes.

"No, get out of my sight," He shot back coldly, picking up his pen before delving back into whatever crap he was doing before I walked in. I tilted my head to the floor, giving him a bow of submission before stalking out of the room.

I despised this man more than anything in the world. If ever given the chance I would strip him of his skin limb by limb, but when he's the most feared crime boss in Colombia my chances of doing that and staying alive to see it were next to nothing.

I promised my mother I would live.

After her death, he had me shipped to the States to a military boarding school where I fought for my life to learn how to be the perfect killer for him. By the age of 16, he had me back in Colombia as his personal hellhound. Sending me assignments that made me wish I was dead every single second of it.

But I stayed. I stayed for my mother and nothing more for the next 4 years.

My last and final straw was when I turned 20 and my father had outgrown his use of a personal assassin. There was only one use for a woman in the underworld and no matter how much of a weapon I was, I was only ever going to be used for one thing.

To be a breeding machine.

I refused to be tied to the same fate as my mother.

Oppressed, used, and discarded.

I would rather die than be married to whatever man my father had me engaged to and quite frankly, I didn't stick around long enough in Colombia to find out.