I Am Not A Prostitute: Mafia Romance (18+ Only)

Chapter 4

  The satanic man pulled me through the halls, his hands rough against my skin.

He pulled me in front of a door and knocked.

I felt panic wash through me as I waited for whatever terror was behind the door.

My hands shook by my side as he looked at me, his eyes unmoving.

"W-what's going to happen?" I asked carefully as his grip on me loosened.

He glared at me, his eyes stone, and he said nothing.

He seemed to be contemplating whether I was even worth answering.

He finally spoke, "just do as you're told. When you go in there, stand still, and when you're asked a question, answer it. Don't lie. This is probably the last time we will ever talk." He said gruffly.

"A-Are you one of the men that took me?" I asked.

He scoffed, and gave me a look that said 'do you really think I'm going to answer that'

"You s-said it yourself. You will never speak to me again. I just need some answers." I refused to beg.

He frowned his dark brows as he looked down on me, "yes. I was."

"You do know...that I'm not a prostitute, I was just walking home from m-my birthday p-party.." I was trying to get this man to feel something, anything. I was trying to control the tears that were filling my stomach and I swallowed down a cry.

His eyes went a little wide with surprise, but he said nothing. His eyes remained cold.

His eyes were dark and he finally looked away from me almost as if he couldn't look at me.

I noticed a scar on his chin, it was faint and faded, from a long time ago. Black ink covered his arms and neck. Drawings and symbols that I didn't know.

I frowned as I black inked writing along his neck, it read.

"вы ложь , и я правда"

It was old Russian for "you are a lie, and I am the truth."

I frowned at the writing, wondering what it meant, but it was hard concentrate, all I wanted to was cry.

The tattoo had to mean something to him.

Even a man as cruel as him, had things that were important to him. Maybe I could hit a 'soft spot' and he would take pity on me.

He wouldn't have permanently inked a saying onto him, if it was useless.

I needed to be smart. I couldn't cry, men like him don't feel anything for crying girls.

They're killers at heart.

"What's your name?" I asked suddenly.

It was a stupid question, I know.

Because why the fuck would it matter?

But I guess I wanted to know because I wanted to know someone. Anyone. It didn't matter that this man tried to rape me in a filthy bathroom only an hour ago.

When I get sold off to some murderous rapist, I want to have the knowledge that I at least knew someone from this hell.