Page 12 of Bratva's Captive

After thoroughly searching the entire massage parlor, we come to the realization that no one else is present. Shame, I always relish a good gunfight. Feeling a tinge of disappointment, we exit the building.

Standing outside, I turn to my soldiers and issue a firm order, "Torch it."

One of my soldiers promptly reenters the massage parlor. In a matter of seconds, the scent of burning fills the air. The soldier emerges and states, "I've ignited the room with the Molotov cocktails and gasoline."

"That should suffice," I reply, satisfied with the outcome.

As we watch the flames devouring the structure, a surge of power courses through me. Although we may not have located Alfonso, we have effectively delivered a clear message to him and the entire Outfit—do not fuck with the Bratva.

Climbing into the back of the Range Rover alongside Misha, I assert, "Perhaps now the Outfit will start taking me seriously."

"Does this mean war?" Misha inquires.

"Not yet. Bobby Vincenzio doesn't want a full-blown gang war within his city. I am merely exerting pressure to reclaim my territory. It's the first step. Besides, Alfonso deserved to lose his massage parlor for daring to threaten me."

"Do you think the Outfit will retaliate?" Misha questions.

"Let them," I respond dismissively.

"There's an engagement party scheduled for Alfonso's arranged marriage in a couple of weeks at the Windsor Hotel. It could be an opportune moment to launch an attack if you wat to start a war with the Outfit," Misha suggests.

I shake my head in response. "No," I reply firmly, "it's too public. However, assign some soldiers to surveil the hotel and keep tabs on the party and its attendees."

As the car gradually moves away from the curb, a smile creeps across my face. Revenge, indeed, is sweet.

Chapter 7

Adalina

On the day we leave for Chicago, I find myself standing outside the front entrance of our building, waiting for our limousine. My mother and sister engage in lively conversation while my father remains engrossed in his cellphone. I'm adorned in a tight pink silk shirt, white jeans with intentional rips, and a pair of high heels. These shoes, however, make me uncomfortable. My feet ache, but my father insisted I wear them to make a favorable impression on my new husband.

As I gaze at the brick townhouse that has been my haven for the past 18 years, a wave of emotion washes over me. I've always cherished the beautiful hardwood floors, which have borne witness to countless footsteps, and the lofty ceilings that imbue the rooms with a sense of openness and airiness. The kitchen has been the heart of our home, and I've spent numerous hours cooking meals on the expansive marble island, accompanied by conversations with our cook. The elegant chandeliers in the dining room and living room have never failed to make me feel refined and sophisticated. And who could forget the gracefully curved staircase that always made me feel like a princess? A smile forms on my face as I reminisce about the joyful moments spent with my sister, Delphina, playing on the rooftop terrace or simply reveling in each other's company. This townhouse has been more than just walls and a roof; it has been my sanctuary, my refuge, and my true home.

I feel a pang of sadness in my chest as Manhattan gradually fades from view through the limousine's windows. This city has been my lifelong residence, and now I'm bidding it farewell. The towering skyscrapers and bustling sidewalks have been a constant presence in my life, integral to my very identity. I've always held a deep affection for Manhattan, with its distinctive neighborhoods, each exuding its own allure and character.

Central Park, with its verdant serenity amid the city's frenetic pace, has provided me solace and respite. Countless afternoons have been spent leisurely strolling along its meandering paths alongside Delphina.

As we distance ourselves from the grandeur of Manhattan, a sense of loss envelops me. Our driver escorts us to the airport, where our private plane awaits. Once aboard, Delphina swiftly heads to the restroom, leaving me alone to contemplate as I gaze out of the window.

The private jet exudes luxury with its cabin adorned in plush adjustable leather seats. The aircraft itself boasts state-of-the-art features, including a generously sized flat-screen TV that keeps passengers entertained throughout the flight. Furthermore, the galley is fully equipped to provide exquisite in-flight dining experiences.

As the plane takes off, I find myself fixated on the clouds beneath us. They appear to move with both a gradual slowness and a swift pace, much like life itself. At times, everything seems to progress so leisurely. I try to recall the last instance when Mama or Papa inquired about my day or expressed concern for my well-being. When did my parents stop caring? I can't think of anyone except my sister who talks to me anymore. No one cares about what's going on in my head. It feels lonely.

After three hours of flight time, we touch down at O'Hare Airport in Chicago. The city seems somewhat grimy, unlike the pristine aura of New York City. The scent of cigarettes and urine permeates the air. This distinct aroma does not smell like home.

We proceed to Michigan Avenue in a limousine. Our accommodation is a lavish five-star hotel, The Chicago Windsor, situated along the renowned Magnificent Mile—the very same hotel where I am destined to be wedded to Mario.

Upon our arrival at the hotel suite, Delphina immediately heads straight to our assigned room. I follow suit, entering the typical hotel setup: two double beds, a wall-mounted flat-screen TV, and an opulent marble bathroom.

With a forceful motion, Delphina slams the door shut and collapses onto one of the beds. Her legs are crossed, and she places her hands upon them. Tears stream down her face.

I approach her, witnessing the sadness etched upon her features. She offers a fleeting smile, though it is tinged with sorrow, as she wipes away tears with her sleeve. "We're finally here," she mutters.

"What’s wrong?" I inquire.

Shaking her head vigorously, Delphina expresses her disbelief. "You can't marry Mario!"

I put my arm around my sister and whisper, trying to keep my voice from trembling, “You heard Papa, I have to marry him. Besides, I truly don't care anymore."

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