Page 19 of To Hell

“I… I… I was trying to get away from him,” my eyes drop to my father’s lifeless body, and the feeling of relief floats through me, but it’s masked quickly by the terror of my situation.

“It doesn’t matter,” he clicks, “You have seen too much,” he aims his gun at me, and I scramble like a terrified rat to the corner of the room, bracing for my death.

“Wait,” the accent is different and forceful, but not enough for me to make it out yet. “We can use her.” That’s a Russian accent.

“I don’t like loose ends,” the Italian snarks.

“I will tighten those ends if it gets to that,” the Russian reassures, then snaps his fingers.

Footfalls pour in and then close in on me. I’m too numb to lift my head and peer at the faces attached to the pair of feet. So numb that, as their hands clasp around my upper arms, I do not fight back.

I’m alive, that’s enough for now.

For a minute there, I thought it was the end. I thought I was going to die just like my father.

They drag me on my feet, my black boots now too heavy for me to pull, and my white dress making me feel like a lamb to be slaughtered.

My eyes catch my father’s body in his uniform, the one he has used as a façade to abuse me all these years. The same uniform that just got him killed.

At least there is one less monster in the world.

Chapter Eleven

ZOE

He is as frightening as he is cold.

I know what you are, Zoe.

I force myself to continue eating, but each gulp weighs heavier by the second.

He knows me.

But how?

What could he possibly know about me? My past? That is something not even the Bratva knows. It died with my father that fateful day.

Even after his death, he made sure to keep punishing me in the cruelest way possible. He made sure I lived to regret leaving home in search of a better life every day.

I wished I had listened to him when he told me to give up on my stupid dreams.

I pick up the glass of water with a quavering hand and bring it to my lips, refusing to meet the eyes of my master.

He might seem different from the rest, but he is not.

He might make me feel safe, but it doesn’t mean he cannot make me miserable. It doesn’t mean he didn’t buy me to be a slave. It doesn’t mean I have my freedom.

“You have something you want to ask me about this arrangement?” He is calm, as if he didn’t just tell me to be his servant or else.

I shake my head and set the glass on the table, then pick up my fork as if to continue eating. But I’m tired of pretending to be enjoying the meal.

There is always a price to pay with men like him.

“Then we are clear? You understand your place?”

“Yes, Ettore,” I fork some fries and stuff my mouth so I don’t have to answer any more of his questions.

“You are not at all curious about my earlier statement?” He pokes.

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