Page 17 of Married to the Mafia

“Where would be the fun in that?” he replies. I can hear something near my ear and I take a minute to work out what it is. Scissors.

They snip down the front of my sweater. My favorite sweater. It’s sliced in half and then there’s an exhalation. “Oh, my,” the voice says. “So much bigger than I was expecting. You shouldn’t keep them hidden away like that.”

“I will fucking kill you,” I say, trying to roll away from him.

He rolls me onto my back, a firm hand in the small ofmy stomach, pressing in hard. “Is that anything to say to your future husband?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Of course, we haven’t been introduced.” He pulls the bag off my head and I’m looking up into a zit covered face of a guy in his mid-thirties.

He’s grinning at me and he’s got a hard on that he’s not trying to hide. His hair is plastered across his forehead and his front teeth are crooked. “Ricardo Belucci at your service.”

He leans down and squeezes my tits through my bra, a drop of drool forming at the corner of his mouth as he does it. “So ripe. So tasty. I like to bite them when they’re that ripe.”

“Get the fuck off me,” I snap at him, shoving his hands away. He stands up, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a gun. “You know, a woman can still get fucked with a couple of bullet wounds. You’d be surprised how much blood you can lose and still have a working pussy.”

He waves the gun lazily in my direction. “I think I’ll have a look at that pussy while we’re talking about it. What do you say, future wife?”

I’m staring down the barrel of his gun. The fear that was absent before is pouring over me like a waterfall. I’m terrified of what’s going to happen. The guy’s insane.

“Don’t act so scared,” he says. “I’ll be a good husband.” He reaches for the waistband of my yoga pants. “As long as you put out when I want you to.”

He pauses, shaking his head. “Actually, I think I preferred you with the bag on. I don’t like them looking at me. They always judge me.” His voice is changing, turning angrier. “Stop looking at me!”

He grabs hold of the bag and shoves it over my headagain. “That’s better. Now I can do it properly without you judging me. Women are always judging me, but I’m in charge now. When we’re married, you’ll have to do everything I say and if you don’t, my father will have you killed so you better behave.”

His hand is back on the waistband of my yoga pants, yanking them down my thighs. I try to fight him, but with my ankles bound, there’s not much I can do. My heart is pounding, and I’m desperate to get free. I just want to get away. That’s all I want.

There’s a snip of the scissors and the yoga pants are whipped away from my ankles. “That’s better,” he says. “You know, I can see the outline of your cute little pussy through those panties.”

He yanks them upward, almost lifting me off the ground with them, giggling as he does it. “Camel toe,” he says, his voice almost a moan. “I like it. How come you’re not wet yet? Frigid, are you?”

“Let me go,” I say, squirming from left to right.

Like I said, one instant can change your life.

There’s no noise. No sound of the approach. Just a thud. That’s all there is to tell me something has happened.

A thud and a thump as a body hits the ground.

“What the fuck?” Ricardo’s voice wheezes. The wind is knocked out of him. “You? Do you know what my father will do when he hears about this?”

Another thud. A punch or a kick, maybe. Then gunshots and yelling. Engines are nearby, cars or vans driving fast toward me.

Suddenly, I’m being picked up and carried through the air. I’m over someone’s shoulder, my legs flailing. “What’s happening?” I say. “Who are you?”

I get no answer. It’s a man, I can tell that much from thesize of his hands. Strong too, he’s carrying me without panting. I can smell him. He smells good. Why am I even noticing that?

I’m loaded into a van. Is it the same one? I don’t know. No, this is different. It’s carpeted instead of metal under my feet. Thick carpet. What does that mean? Is it an RV?

Whoever is carrying me lowers me to the floor of the van. Something is attached to me and I don’t know what it is, but I work it out when we set off. It’s ropes holding me in place.

When we take the bends, I don’t move. I’m laid here wondering what the hell is going on. I try to ask whoever it is driving the van but they don’t reply. It’s like talking to a brick wall.

The van picks up speed, and my head throbs. It’s not just the panic, it’s the heat. It’s getting hot back here. I’m sweating and I need a drink. The bag over my head makes it hard to breathe, but it’s not taken off me even when I beg.

I try to focus on the moment. I need to concentrate, wait for the right chance to escape. The entire time I’m lying here, I’m fighting the bonds around my wrists and ankles.

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