Mariella grew up in the foster care system, abused every day until she found solace in the most unexpected form; Mateo, the son of an Italian mob leader.
Fate brought the two together, but when it tears them apart, how is she supposed to cope? Espe...
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Mariella's POV
Yawning, which tears at my dry skin, I do my best to stay quiet. My wrists itch as though poison ivy is taped to the delicate skin. The thick, heavy, carefully knotted rope does nothing to help my discomfort.
I'm almost certain I look like an absolute mess right now. An agonizing ache of pounding has resided in my head since I was thrown down here a good four days ago.
And what a stressful four days it's been.
I quickly learned that fighting against large, treacherous men only got me into more trouble and pain after trying to get out of a sneering man's grasp. I, in all my years of living with bitter foster parents, had never suffered a slap as painful as his up until that point.
My cheek throbbed at the memory, and I am willing to bet money that a new, hand-shaped bruise now inhabited my face. Along with the many others, of course.
I have been punched, kicked, slapped, and disparaged repeatedly. And I am sick and tired of it. During a moment of bravery, I force myself to shoot up out of my slouched position on the grimy cement flooring, only to come crashing back down to reality.
Your ankles are shackled with chain, Mariella.
"Figlio di puttana!" I curse myself quietly. What was I thinking?
T: Son of a bitch!
I'm absolutely and officially one of the dumbest people I know. Now that I've made a ton of noise, and my ass is sore, they know I'm awake.
These people may have been intelligent enough to be able to abduct me, but they're so inefficient and ignorant, it hurts. From what I've gathered through their heavy accents, they're the Irish mob.
The exact mob that loathes Teo with everything, and has been trying to find me for ages. They may have finally found me, but their talks prove that they know nothing of my babies. I mean, how idiotic do you have to be?
No matter how unintelligent they are, I'm still at the disadvantage, which I am reminded of when the doorknob directly across from my spot on the floor begins to jiggle. The sound of keys reach my ears, and I know that I'm not going to be getting away with the noise I've made.
The only way they know that I'm awake is from listening closely to the speakers connected to the microphones placed sloppily around the room. Apparently, the big bad Mafia can't afford cameras in rooms.
Or they don't want the footage to be hacked and my location to be given away. I consider this for a moment, and although I know it's the truth, I'd really rather think that they're just ridiculous. Shaking my head inwardly, my body completely freezes up when the metal door slams open from the other side of my own personal hell.
