Chapter 5
Sophie
Even chained to the bed, I fall asleep. The adrenaline of the day drained me, and the body has a way of making sure its needs are met, no matter if the mind wants to stay up and keep guard.
I wake up with my arm chained in a twisted position. A groan escapes me as I try to move it, but it’s asleep. A figure sits on the couch, scrolling on his phone, the mask back in place.
There was no reason for him to put the mask back on.
It’s not like the image of him towering over me with his hand around my throat will leave my mind anytime soon.
His eyes were as dark as coal, so was his mussed hair.
His nostrils were flared, and his jaw was set in stone.
The tattoos peeking out of his shirt looked almost angry, straining underneath the strength of his broad shoulders and the thick veins in his neck.
I felt like he could crush me with a single snap of his fingers.
My free hand lands on my throat, checking for injuries.
He didn’t hurt me, though. Clearing my throat, I decide to ask for a bathroom break.
“I need to pee,” I say, though barely anything comes out. “I need to pee,” I repeat, this time louder.
The man’s eyes snap to me before he gets up. It’s not him.
This man is not the one I dubbed boss-man in my head, nor the other one who guarded me yesterday. He is slightly shorter, and his shoulders are narrower. Which means three separate men know I’m kidnapped and are in on it.
If I had any doubt this was a mob thing, it’s gone now. Guess Dad learned nothing from his previous experiences. And this time, I’ll be the one paying for it.
The guard unlocks my cuff, and I massage the aching wrist with my other hand on the way to the bathroom. I do my business and wash my hands before splashing cold water on my face.
Over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing. But there’s no escaping the thought I’ve been repressing since the moment I realized something was wrong.
Alan.
My dearest, sweetest, good boy. The light of my life. My heart rate spikes alarmingly, so I splash more cold water on myself, but it does shit to help. Tears form rapidly in the corners of my eyes while I try to rationalize what happened.
He was with me when I was taken. They probably left him there.
What if he’s starving on the street?
We were close to our building. He would have walked home. He also has a collar; someone could have taken him home.
Then what? They rang the doorbell and what happened when no one opened?
These men had no reason to hurt him.
What if he fought back, trying to save me? What if he bit them?
There’s no way to stop the flood of tears escaping my eyes. There’s no way to stop the hyperventilating breaths that make black spots appear in my vision.
A loud wail tears from me as I drop to my knees to the cold, tiled floor.
My skin is pulled taut, and I feel like it’s burning.
I push my nails into my palms as hard as I can, but it’s not enough.
Before I can fight my emotional pain with the physical one, I hear loud voices on the other side of the door.
“What the hell is going on here?” a voice roars out.
Three loud bangs to the door are enough for my adrenaline to pick up and for my pain to subside, almost imperceptibly.
“Open the fuck up!” the loud voice booms again.
Still on the floor, I reach my hand out to unlock the door, barely mustering the energy for it.
Boss-man stands there, fury emanating from him in scorching waves as his chest heaves. His eyes are still dark, but they’re also wide, as if he was afraid of what he’d found on the other side of the door. He watches me for a second before muttering something under his breath.
He reaches his hand out to me, and I do the same, not because I want to, but because he doesn’t seem like one to compromise. Shivers and sobs still wrack my body as he leads me out of the bathroom, sitting me down on the bed.
My brain suffocated with grief, I cry out, not thinking of the consequences, “Where’s my dog? What happened to him?”
Boss-man stops for a second, his face scrunching before saying, “He’s fine,” through gritted teeth.
My sobs continue, his words doing nothing to soothe me. “Where is he?” I say, more to myself than to him.
His calloused fingers turn my chin to look him in the eyes. The intensity in his eyes knocks the air from my lungs. “I said he’s fine,” he grits out, before placing his clenched fists into his pockets. Even through the thick veil of tears, I see his anger.
“Did you even get her something to drink? Or eat?” he yells at the other guard, who looks even shorter because boss-man is yelling at him. He doesn’t give him a chance to respond before continuing, “Deal with it. I skini masku.”
I don’t catch the last part, but the man grabs the top of his balaclava and snatches it off, showing me his face. His hair is longer and lighter than boss-man’s, and he sports a nasty scar on his right cheek. I’m still studying his features when boss-man slams the door behind him.
I curl up on the bed, hoping the guard is too distracted to cuff me back up, but there’s no such luck.
“Can you please do the other hand now?” I ask him, my cheeks still wet with tears, my voice hoarse from crying.
He dips his head and drags me to the other bedpost, cuffing my other hand. He draws his phone from his pocket and conducts a phone call fully in the foreign language.
Eventually, my breathing settles and my tears dry out.
My heart still has an iron fist wrapped around it, thinking about Alan alone on the streets, but a part of me relaxed after hearing boss-man’s words.
There’s no reason for me to trust him. But something about the way he said it, about the anger that was oozing out of his every pore, made it feel real.
Honest. Something in his gaze, no matter how frightening, eased a part of my anxiety.
The guard opens the door, grabbing a bag from the person on the other side. He drops the bag on the bed in front of me, barely sparing me a glance. I use my free hand to check inside, finding a few water bottles and a giant cheeseburger.
Wedging the bottle between my legs, I turn the cap and down half of it in one gulp, noticing how thirsty I was. The crying must have dehydrated me. I don’t spare a second glance at the cheeseburger, pushing it further away on the bed.
The human body can survive up to three weeks without food.
Most kidnapping victims are dead after 48 hours.
Meaning I’m way more likely to die at the hands of my captors than I am from starvation.
It would be ridiculous to throw eight years of avoiding animal products down the drain just because I’m hungry.
My brain is back in business, which means my panic attack has eased. Once again, I go over all the information I have. By the phone call I overheard last night, this is some sort of sex club. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
I’m kidnapped and held in a sex dungeon.
So far, they have done nothing to make me think I will be sexually abused, but they are mafia men who own a sex club.
The odds are… not good. I clench my thighs together in an instinctive, but totally pointless, attempt to keep myself safe.
Because if they tried to do anything to me, my chances of fighting back would be slim.
Another wave of tears reaches my eyes, and I roll into a fetal position on the bed, sobbing in silence.