Page 19 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

The only thing I can really conclude is that I was kidnapped by one of my father’s enemies or rivals. Or maybe someone my father pissed off, and that list is way too long to go through in my head.

I guess if I can try and figure out what my father did to this guy, I can possibly figure out a way to convince him to let me go.

Does it even matter?

I’m a prisoner here as much as a prisoner at home.

At least at home it’s the devil I know.

***

The next two days are so freaking boring and stressful at the same time.

I don’t see a soul the entire time. Sometimes I hear people walking past my door, but no one comes in.

Whenever I fall asleep, I wake up with food next to me.

This morning I woke up and it was still warm. Even when it is cold, though, I eat it, because I don’t want to starve to death waiting to figure out what this asshole's plan is for me.

Today I follow the same routine I have been following every day since I was taken. I drink my coffee in bed, poke at my cold eggs, shower and then pace up and down in my bedroom.

It’s strange how quickly you can develop routines for yourself to keep your mind from going insane.

I’m still angry that I was attracted to the asshole who took me, and I am still constantly worried about the man that I bit.

Sometime in the late afternoon, I hear the door lock opening and freeze, feeling sudden panic.

A housekeeper walks in with a bodyguard behind her.

“Miss Sasha, please put this on,” the housekeeper says, handing me a blindfold.

“Why?” I demand.

“If you don’t do as she asks, I will be happy to help you comply,” the bodyguard says with a rough, deep voice.

I’d rather not piss anyone off just yet.

I take the blindfold and slip it over my eyes. It’s pitch black. I bite my lip when I feel someone take my arm and start leading me.

Without a word from the housekeeper or the guard, I am led through the house to an unknown location. I can smell food. Not scrambled eggs. Really nice food.

“Sit,” a deep voice commands.

I sit with the guidance of rough hands.

“Eat.”

“It’s a little hard to eat when I can’t see what I’m doing,” I say, annoyed.

“You can take the blindfold off for a moment.”

I slowly lift the fabric off my eyes and see that I am in a dining room. It is extravagant beyond words, and I actually gasp a little at the sight of it.

Crystal chandeliers hang over a long, dark reclaimed wood table. The curtains are all closed, so I can’t see what the view outside is, but I imagine it must be as magnificent as the inside.

The food on the table is also over the top.

Salmon, avocado, fresh salads, homemade breads, carpaccio, and to my surprise, a pink gin and tonic.

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