~CHAPTER 3~
I struggle against Mr Tattoo as he harshly drags me down the stairs. I saw some of their men pouring liquid all over the place.
The smell of gasoline filled the air and I realized they were about to burn down the house, but my father was still alive inside. Was he going to be burnt to death?
I didn't want to care, and I definitely didn't want to feel any pity for the man who had caused me so much pain. But it was hard to shake off the feeling of unease that settled in the pit of my stomach.
Mr. Tattoo dragged me forward and we emerged out of the front door and into the cool night air. The front yard was lined up with sleek black SUV cars gleaming in the moonlight.
Mr. Bulky hand was rough on my skin as he walked over to one of the cars and pushed me into the back seat.
I landed hard on the leather seat, almost hitting my head on the opposite car door, but managed to avoid it by mere inches.
I heard the front car door being opened then, it shut loudly. I looked up to see Mr. Bulky sitting in the passenger seat before my gaze shifted to the driver's seat, where a man sat with his back to me. I couldn't really see his face, as it was shrouded in shadows.
The car began to move smoothly away from the curb, and I shifted slowly to the car door, my mind already moving with thoughts of my escape.
I realized they didn't even tie me up, or was I less of a captive than I thought? I glanced at Mr. Tattoo, but he seemed oblivious to my presence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I looked out of the window, and I saw our house was getting burnt to the ground, with flames licking out the windows and smoke billowing into the night air.
I quickly looked somewhere else, not wanting to think of that man, my father, who was still inside. The image of him, being burnt to death seared into my mind, and I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. But I pushed it aside, focusing on my own survival.
As I looked out the window, I watched as we got farther and farther away from the roads I was familiar with. The streets became increasingly deserted.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to do. My body would get ached all over, but it wouldn't kill me, right? My hand grasped the door handle as I prepared to jump out.
I pulled on the handle, expecting the door to swing open. But to my surprise, it didn't budge.
I pulled on the handle again and again, but it wouldn't move, not even a little. I was starting to feel desperate, What was I going to do now? I looked around the door frantically, searching for any possible means of escape, but there was none.
Just as I was starting to lose hope, I heard Mr. Tattoo's deep voice, rumbling with amusement. "You should have known better," I looked over to see him already looking back at me and a sly grin planted across his face.
It was painfully clear that he had been expecting me to try and escape, and he was thoroughly reveling in the fact that I had failed.
I slumped back onto the seat, my body language screaming defeat. I also dropped my eyes to the floor, unable to meet Mr. Tattoo's triumphant gaze. Mr. Tattoo lowly chuckled before finally facing the front.
The next thirty minutes passed by in silence. No one made a sound, not even a whisper. The driver hadn't said a word, and Mr. Tattoo seemed content to simply sit there with his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I was left alone with my thoughts that were racing with fears and doubts about what lay ahead.
I raised a hand to my bruised face, feeling it swell and throb with pain. My eye was still tender from the blow my father had given me before the explosion, and my lip was split and sore,e, but at least it had stopped bleeding.
As I sat there, gingerly touching my face, exhaustion washed over me. I was thirsty and hungry, my body crying out for sustenance and relief.
I only ate once a day, and it was always at night, when my father was asleep and wouldn't notice. I would sneak into the kitchen, my heart held at my throat and scrounge around for whatever scraps I could find.
It was a miserable existence, one that I had been forced to survive on.
But even at that, I knew better than to ask or speak now. My eyes were dropping as I struggled to stay awake.
So I tried one last time, coming up with a new escape plan, maybe this one might just work. I cleared my throat, but my voice was so small, having not been using it.
"Um...um..." I thought Mr. Tattoo wouldn't even hear it.
But to my surprise, he turned his face around, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. "What?" he growled and I swallowed hard, trying to think fast.
I swished my thighs together, trying to act like I was pressed to urinate. Maybe, just maybe, they would stop the car, and I could make a run for it. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try.
"I...I need to pee," I tried to sound as pitiful as possible.
Mr. Tattoo raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my request.
"No." The answer was as expected, but I shook my head, refusing to give up. "Please," I begged.
"I really need to go." Mr. Tattoo snorted, turning back to face front, unmoved by my plea.
I decided to take a risk and started to cry, letting out a pitiful wail. I didn't remember the last time I had cried in front of someone; I always cried myself to sleep, but not when someone was around.
I sobbed uncontrollably, hoping that Mr. Tattoo would take pity on me; maybe he would see me as a vulnerable girl who just needed to use the restroom. I didn't care if it was a weakness, I just wanted to escape.
After some minutes of crying, my tears were running dry as it was a fabricated display of emotion, but to my greatest surprise, the driver, who had been quietly driving, spoke up. "Lasciala andare a fare pipì..." (Let her go pee...). he said them in Italian and I didn't understand the words, but his tone seemed gentle.
I saw how Mr. Tattoo's head snapped to the driver, his expression disapproving., "Il Don non sarà contento di questo" (The Don won't like this). His words were laced with a warning, and the driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting mine for a brief moment before returning to the road.