Sahira woke to an unsettling silence. The sunlight streaming through the curtains was harsh, far too bright. She sat up abruptly, her chest tightening. It was late—far too late. Her boys never let her sleep this long.
Panic churned in her stomach as she scanned her surroundings. The bed, the walls, the unfamiliar furniture—this wasn't her home. The faint scent of men's perfume hung in the air, wrapping itself around her senses like a warning. Her breath hitched. His house.
Her gaze fell on the mirror across the room, and her heart thudded painfully as her reflection stared back at her. She was dressed in simple white garments she didn't recognize. The clean, pristine fabric felt suffocating, foreign against her skin. She shivered, and fragments of the previous night began clawing their way to the surface of her mind—shadows, his voice, his grip. Her pulse quickened.
A sharp creak shattered her thoughts. The door opened slowly, and Arsalan entered. His tall figure loomed in the doorway. His striking blue eyes locked on her, the eyes which always sent shivers to her spine. She hates those blue eyes. His lips curved into a cold smirk.
"Good morning, sweetheart," he said smoothly, his voice as sharp as the edge of a blade. "I trust you slept well."
Sahira instinctively slid off the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor as she took a step back. Her body bristled with unease.
He raised an eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his face. She moved toward the door, trying to get past him, but his hand shot out, gripping her wrist with ease. His hold was firm—not violent, but strong enough to stop her in her tracks.
"Where are you going without wishing me a proper good morning, sweetheart?" he murmured, his tone mocking.
"Let me go," she said, her voice trembling as she struggled against his grip. "I want to see my kids."
Arsalan tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Kids? What kids?"
Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she froze, disbelief flashing across her face. Then he released her wrist, his smirk deepening as he watched her. Without hesitation, Sahira rushed out of the room.
Her footsteps echoed hollowly through the house as she checked room after room. She flung open the door to the children's bedroom, her breath catching at the sight of neatly folded blankets on empty beds. Her hand trembled as she checked under the beds, behind the curtains—anywhere they might be hiding. The room was silent, void of life, and the weight in her chest grew heavier with each passing second. She raced to the playroom, calling their names, but was met with only silence. She couldn't hear their laughter, their tiny footsteps—nothing. Her throat tightened as if invisible hands were choking her, and her vision blurred with tears. They weren't here. They weren't anywhere.
Arsalan leaned casually against the wall, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes, his hands tucked into his pockets. His silence was maddening.
"Where are my kids?" she demanded, her voice rising as she turned to him. Her body shook with fear, but her tone carried a fierceness that refused to waver.
Arsalan tilted his head, his expression cool and detached. "Kids?" he repeated, as if the word were foreign to him. "Sweetheart, you've been dreaming again."
She glared at him, her tears threatening to spill. "Stop playing games, Arsalan!" she yelled, her voice breaking. "Tell me where they are!"
His smirk faded, replaced by a hollow look that sent chills down her spine. He stepped closer, and she retreated, her back pressing against the wall. His hand reached out, gently cupping her face.
YOU ARE READING
Mafia Captured
Spiritual"Leave me!" she screeched, her nostrils flaring, her face defiant even as her eyes betrayed her terror. His frown deepened, the momentary softness evaporating. Anger-or perhaps frustration-returned to his face like a mask snapping back into place. H...
