~CHAPTER 8~
My eyes widened in terror as I saw the don swiftly raising his gun and he shot three times without flinching, the bullets whizzing towards me, and I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact.
If I was to die, I thought, let it be quick but the expected pain never came.
Instead, I felt Mr Tattoo's grip on me relax, and I was released from his grasp. I heard a thud, like a body falling to the ground, and my eyes fluttered open.
The don stood where he was with his eyes glazed over, frozen in a trance-like state. My gaze drifted downward.
Mr. Tattoo lies on the ground; three bullet holes marred his forehead, each wound a testament to the don's deadly accuracy.
Blood flowed from the wounds, pooling on the floor. Some of it had trickled near my bare feet, and I quickly stepped back, revulsion washing over me.
My breathing quickened as I gazed at the corpse. I had never seen a dead body up close before, and the stark reality of it was jarring.
The don seemed to finally come back to himself, as he took in the scene before him.
He looked over to me and I saw a flicker of something there, something that looked almost like crazed emotions.
I watched as he walked towards me, but I quickly pushed myself backward, desperate to create some distance between us.
I didn't feel safe near him, not with the way he was looking at me. His hand shot out and grabbed mine in a harsh, crushing grip.
It was far more painful than Mr. Tattoo's rough handling and I started to say, "Let me—"
"Shut up," he growled.
I knew that tone and I shut my mouth, intimidated by the aura of danger that surrounded him.
He exuded an aura of "don't fuck with me," and I knew better than to push him. I had learned from my abusive father that sometimes it was better to shut the hell up and endure, rather than risk provoking someone into violence.
So I clenched my jaw, swallowed my words, and looked away, trying to appear submissive.
I stumbled to keep up with his long strides as he dragged me like a rag doll to an elevator.
I was surprised by the elevator's presence, having assumed this was a small, rundown house.
But as we stepped inside, I realized this place was much larger and more complex than I had initially thought.
I wanted to ask about Mr. Tattoo's dead body, about why the don had killed one of his own men. But I didn't dare, unsure of my fate or the don's motivations.
Why would he kill one of his men, especially after what he had done to my father? I had yet to understand the reason behind my father's murder, and now, with Mr. Tattoo's lifeless body lying in the hallway, I was more confused than ever.
I glanced over at the don, but he wasn't looking at me. Instead, his gaze was fixed on something behind me. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized he was staring at the scars and wounds on my back.
Those marks were a constant reminder of the cruelty my father had and a painful testament to the abuse I had endured.
"You're hideous and worthless, and these scars will always remind you of that." The memory of how I got those scars flooded my mind, and my face burned with shame.
The familiar sense of self-loathing washed over me, but I pushed it back as I realized that I was half-naked; the dirty bra and underwear I wore offered little coverage, and I felt utterly exposed.
Panic set in as I frantically searched for something to cover myself with, but there was nothing in the elevator. No clothes, no towels, nothing.
The don, however, seemed completely unfazed by my state of undress. I looked away, focusing on the elevator doors, trying to distract myself from my embarrassment.
My mind began to wander, thinking of ways to escape, I hadn't forgotten my resolve to break free, no matter the cost.
The elevator doors slid open, and he grabbed my hand again harshly; what I saw was a dark hallway, but as we stepped out of the elevator, everywhere lit up, and I looked in wonder.
The hallway was transformed, revealing a lavish corridor lined with black polished floors, high crystal chandeliers, and intricate gold adorning the black-colored walls.
I glanced around, expecting to see servants or maybe guards, but there was no one in sight and I wondered if he lived alone.
Yet, the condition of the house suggested otherwise. Every surface and corner seemed polished. I wonder who took care of this place because the level of cleanliness and attention to detail suggested a team of diligent staff, but where were they? The silence was unnerving.
He continued to drag me down the hallway and my gaze fell upon a large, covered frame on the wall. It looked like a picture, but a piece of fabric draped over it, concealing the image beneath.
My curiosity piqued, not knowing if it was a portrait, or something else.
But before I could ponder further, the don opened a door and pushed me into the room.
My weak legs stumbled from hunger and exhaustion, and I fell to the ground.
Everything was white - the walls, the furniture, even the carpet. The space was so pristine and so devoid of color.
I looked up to the don, who walked into the room with an air of confidence after shutting the door behind him.
He strode over to a plush white couch and sat down. He looked like a king claiming his throne. I, on the other hand, felt like a peasant, discarded and insignificant.
My dirty white hair and dull golden eyes looked like a lackluster in this sea of all these pristine white.