Page 17 of To Hell

Under the Bratva, we were taught to be content with very little, and with time, our stomachs started to adjust to it. They said that if you have a big appetite, you must work more to fill it.

The more of everything you require, the more you work your body. We never got anything we didn’t earn, down to the air they let us breathe.

“What are you waiting for?” His coarse voice pulls me back to the breakfast in front of me, and I pick up my fork, not sure what to do with it or how to use it anymore.

For the past fifteen years, I’ve gotten used to eating with just a spoon or my hands, which makes the eating faster. It feels like trying to dig into corners of my memory that seem much too distant and foreign, but I can try.

I watch what he is doing to mimic him, but as he takes a slice of bacon to his mouth, I watch for a different reason. I've never seen anyone make eating so sultry.

As he swallows, I gulp down dry air, feeling my pussy pinch, wishing to be a slice of bacon right now and to be eaten by him.

He raises one eyebrow at me, and I shake off the dirty thoughts.

We fall into silence, with just the clattering of my clumsiness around the bowls and platters resounding in the room, as opposed to him not making a single sound.

I, on the other hand, can be heard from a mile away. Not my chewing but my etiquette. It’s rusty. Embarrassingly rusty. It takes up all my attention, and I can barely taste the food. I’m just swallowing for the sake of needing something in my stomach.

That and the fact that he is quiet, which I should take as his nature, doesn’t help the thread of anxiety weaving around my chest and knotting it with my stomach.

He hasn’t said anything about why he needed me here or what he expects of me. He has established that sex won’t be a part of it, which leaves me more confused than ever. I haven’t seen anyone who hires a slave and takes sex out of the itinerary. Let alone buy one.

He sets his cutlery down, takes the napkin, and dabs the corners of his mouth. Then he places it back on the table and reaches for a glass of water.

“The rules are simple,” he leans into his seat. “Do as I say,” his voice gruff and grating. I freeze, a scoop of baked beans mid-air.

“I bought you to be my servant,” he picks up the glass of water again and takes a small sip. This time, I gulp with him. The iciness of his tone and the fact that I do not know what that entails make me a nervous wreck. “If you disobey me, I will sell you back to the Bratva.”

No. I shake my head. I would rather be here than with them.

And I'm sure he'll follow through on his threat. Others might have talked about torturing me till I begged to die, but not him. If I disobey him, he'll just send me back.

“Are we clear?” He pins me with the coldness of his coal eyes, and I nod, accepting this fate.

He takes a minute to observe me, and I drop the scoop of baked beans back in the bowl. I feel nauseated, and my stomach roils.

“I know what you are, Zoe,” he sets the glass of water down, studying me.

He knows what I am.

What part of me does he know?

Chapter Ten

ZOE

Imade it.

The one thing that was on my mind yesterday when I stepped from the plane into the bustle of Milan to get ready for the fashion contest.

Valerie Moore came through. The road to the hotel is lined with signs featuring her and the contest details, and the competition hall is packed with contestants donning chic T-shirts emblazoned with the logo.

It’s an intelligent way of publicizing the event.

Months ago, this event was only a dream, but now I’m here to witness it live because I’m one of the contestants who made it to the grand finale.

I made it.

This is not how I thought today would be, with Virgilio not by my side, making jokes and lending me some of his confidence. But I’m happy I’m here for the both of us.

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