Page 5 of Tormented Angel

I smile at my sister-in-law, grateful for how supportive she’s being, but I’m okay. I’m dealing with this in my own way, and I know I’ll get through it. Things are just a bit rough right now since everything is so fresh.

Chapter Two

Mona

It’s been three long years since I was brought here after that fateful night. We’re in the second week of March… and in May, it will mark my third anniversary of being a slave to Duarte Oliveria—if I can even call it an anniversary in the first place. I suppose slave is even a nice term for what I am, but I don’t know what else I should call myself.

I’ve been here for a few days since I was drugged in that restaurant. Hell, I was drugged when I woke up here. The last thing I remember after being in that restaurant was being locked in a small room. I remember the floors were so cold, but it was dark, so I couldn’t see what I was sitting on. I can only assume they were cement, or some sort of stone, because what else is that cold?

After I was there, a man came inside the room and choked me to near unconsciousness. I thought I was being killed and fought like hell, but the moment I felt a needle in my neck, I knew I wasn’t dying. When I woke up in the room I’m in now, I was confused. The room was the exact opposite of the place I had been in. It was big and well-lit, and there were four large windows. I remember the way the sun beamed in through the windows that day. It made my heart so happy. I thought I might get out of the situation I was in, but I was so very wrong.

I was so wrong it wasn’t even funny.

I ended up meeting Duarte, and everything went downhill from there. I was made to understand the severity of my reality—that I belonged to him. I was no longer a person with rights. I was a thing. An item. A possession.

So now, I’m sitting on the small white chair in my bedroom. There are two decorative pillows on it, in a sky blue color. One is a solid color, while the other is a mixture of white with the same shade of blue in a floral pattern.

My duvet and throw pillows all match this chair. It’s been this way for years. Since I’ve been here, actually. I don’t know if this was a guest room for Duarte’s friends when they came to visit or if he prepped this room for whoever would be his newest toy. Something in the back of my mind tells me that if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.

My headboard is made up of gold, and when I say gold, I mean literal gold. There are two side tables made of hundred-year-old wood, which Duarte has told me has been with his family for many, many years. Overall, this room is beautiful, but it doesn’t make me feel better. In actuality, the beauty of this room only makes the magnitude of being here even darker.

In my years here, I’ve come to understand who Duarte is as a man. He’s the head of the Portuguese mafia and the eldest member of the Oliveria family. He is vile and treats me with cruelty whenever he deems it necessary. When I first came here, he wasn’t so bad. He made it seem like he was going to make sure this wasn’t hell for me, and that’s exactly what he said. But I quickly found out he was lying when he raped me for the first time.

I tried to fight him, but he only beat me until I submitted to him. I know a lot of people in my position would have run for the hills. They would’ve been methodical and tried to get out of here as soon as possible, but I knew it wouldn’t be so easy. As a mafia leader, Duarte has people everywhere, all of the time. Running would’ve only ensured one thing—my death.

However, running is not ever an option now because I don’t have the luxury of simply thinking about myself. Duarte has raped me time and time again, and out of all those times, I ended up giving birth to two little girls. Vanina, who is turning three this year, and Ira, who will be turning two very soon.

I’m lucky enough to see my daughters every day and spend a lot of time with them, but any time I upset Duarte, he takes that right away from me. He’ll keep them away from me for a week, so I learn to do as I’m told. I’ll stay here for the rest of my life if it means keeping my little girls safe.

In some ways, I guess I should be thankful. I’m sure there are other women in my position who are forced to live in cages for the rest of their lives, but it’s hard to be thankful for being a human slave. A breeder. A toy.

If anything, I’m angry. I’m furious.

I can’t leave this place, and while I live in a lavish multi-million-dollar mansion, all I want is my freedom. Sure, I don’t have some of the worries that ordinary people have, but I also don’t have the same freedoms either.

I often think back to that horrible night years ago. I wonder why my uncle never showed up at the restaurant. I still worry he could’ve had a heart attack in the hotel room, but it’s not like I’ll ever find out. What I regret the most is that I stayed at that restaurant when he didn’t answer. I still ate and drank what they served me. What I should’ve done was leave and go back to the hotel, but I didn’t. So here I am.

I think if my uncle was alive, he would have done anything to come and find me. Which truly leads me to believe that he’s more than likely dead. Whether it was a heart attack or one of Duarte’s men who killed him… I know in my heart my uncle is no longer with me. He’s gone, and there isn’t anyone else who might ever come looking for me or even try to save me, which is why I have been here for this damn long.

I rise from my chair and walk over to one of the windows, opting to push it open since it seems to be a beautiful day out. Iron bars on the other side of the window are yet another precaution to keep me trapped in this forsaken place. However, like I said… even if I had the option, I wouldn’t leave my children here. I’d take them with me, but I doubt I would get very far. Duarte has connections everywhere, and I’m certain one of them would notify Duarte about my whereabouts. I just have to be okay with staying here for the rest of my life and pray he doesn’t grow bored of me one day.

I glance over at the door, centering my gaze on the area where I should have a doorknob, but I don’t. There’s just a metal plate over that area. On the other side of the door, there’s a deadbolt that locks me in here whenever I’m not needed or allowed to be out in another area of the house.

I know Duarte doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m going to run because I tend to piss him off on occasion, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a mother. He can’t even begin to comprehend I’d never leave my little girls. So he keeps me locked up here like Rapunzel. I guess I don’t help things some days because I do push him to the point where he strikes me. I try not to, but some days he gets the best of me, and my better judgment goes out the window.

Out of nowhere, there’s a knock on the door, and the deadbolt is turned. The door opens, and one of the older women who work in the house looks right at me, holding a dress on a hanger for me. “Mona, Duarte has asked that you ready yourself for a dinner party. The guest will be arriving within the next couple of hours. He’s made it a point that I emphasize you need to be presentable because he won’t accept anything less.”

I narrow my eyes at the old woman because I’ve never been told I need to look presentable. I always make sure I look good, but this dinner party must be quite important to Duarte, so I need to put some extra effort into how I’m going to look this evening.

“Okay, thank you,” I say, walking up to the older woman. She hands me the dress and then shuts the door, locking the deadbolt almost immediately. I head into my en-suite bathroom, hanging the dress on the back of the door.

It’s beautiful and is quite different than what I’m used to wearing to these parties. It’s a cranberry red and is a thin, almost silk-like material. There are two thin straps on the top, and the bust area is very exposing. There’s even a diamond-shaped cutout between my breasts, which I know will show a good bit of side and underboob.

The dress narrows down between the torso area and then fans out, with a ruched area near the bottom, giving it a fancier sort of feel. Overall, it’s simple yet beautiful.

I already took a shower this morning, so I head to my vanity where my makeup is. I pull my hair back and secure it with two pins, deciding to do my makeup before I curl my hair. I’m caught looking at my reflection. It would scare most people, but it’s something I have to live with.

Every day I’m constantly reminded of why I should never piss Duarte off. He isn’t the type of man who will only hurt me where others can’t see it. He’s whipped me right across the face, tearing off part of my eyebrow in the process. I have two permanent scars. One spans from above my eyebrow down to my cheekbone. The other goes from the end of my eyebrow to the front of my cheekbone. They’re a couple of years old at this point, so I don’t think they will heal any more than they already have.

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