Married to the mafia boss Series

I didn’t feel the phone vibrated all thirty-six times last night.

The clock reads five minutes before five in the morning. I got little to no sleep tossing and turning. The nightmares make it feel like I didn’t sleep a wink. My entire body feels groggy and eyes heavy with the need to rest.

The calls range from Liliana, to Angelo, to Christian, to Piero, and Nario.

Before I can figure out who to call first, I put in my hearing aid and call Christian.

The line connects quickly, “What the hell boss, we’ve been trying to contact you for hours!” He sounds frantic.

I grit my teeth, “Watch it,” I say annoyed with the lack of respect in his tone.

“Sorry, it’s just… Nario is dead.”

“What?” It’s impossible. I have a missed call from Nario he can’t be dead.

What if the missed call was him calling for help. And I didn’t answer. Fuck.

“What happened?” I ask swinging my legs out of bed and rushing toward my closet to pick out clothes for the day.

“We got a text giving us a location. Elio tried to see if he could trace it, but got nothing. Piero and I gathered men when you didn’t answer and headed to the location-”

“You what?”

“Sorry, but… you weren’t answering.”

“Then you fucking wake me up. You don’t go against me as Capo. You don’t make the rules, Christian. I do. I give the orders.”Christian is silent for a moment. “Nario’s body was found in the warehouse. Tortured. Brutally beaten with the Bratva’s mark on his chest.”

My fists clench and I’m tempting to throw my phone across the room. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

They must’ve somehow found out that Nario was a spy. One of us. I need to send Vasiliev a picture soon, one that doesn’t particularly paint his daughter in good lighting. A photo that will destroy him. Enrage him. He thinks he can mess with one of us… he’s sadly mistaken.

Vasiliev killed my best friend…

Boston is no longer safe.

War has just broken out.

Anastasia

Laying in the cold disgusting cell, makes me feel grimy and dirty. I always knew something as stupid as getting kidnapped would happen. Well, I guess it’s not a stupid situation rather a serious situation one. I can’t help but feel I am the one to blame for getting myself into this mess. Coming back to Boston was a mistake.

Mentally slapping myself, I try to mull over all the possibilities of what can happen in captivity.

If there is one thing I’m good at it’s pessimism-thinking of the worst possible scenarios that could go wrong-and self-pitying myself.

My father is all to blame.

Would he even come for me?

The two idiots pace outside my cell, pistols on their belts. I roll my eyes, if any one of them comes near me I am going to bite their fingers off and shove the amputated limb up their asses.

They give me disgusted glances, licking their lips. I would be scared, but if they wanted to do something they might have done it already.

Unless they were waiting for the blond haired man. He looked to be their boss in a crisp black suit. He reeked responsibility and power and there was no way dumbass number one and dumbass number two were in charge of anything.

All I can think of is great. Of course this would happen to me. Why wouldn’t it? Forced out of ballet-the only dream I have ever truly had. It is only fitting that I am here in this horrid smelling dungeon. Punished. God is punishing me for being born, I swear.

They won’t kill me. They want something out of my father and all I have to do is hope he’ll give in and I’ll be safe. After this I should seriously reconsider moving. Somewhere where I’ll be safe from the Mafia… the Bratva, too.Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

Maybe I’ll go completely off the grid.

Change my name and move to Hawaii.

Hawaii sounds really good.

The two idiots try and talk to me. I don’t even try; I blatantly ignore them. They have nothing good to say anyways, probably just sprouting filth.

I always received glances from boys and men. They never bothered me-their taunts. But I certainly never bothered with them. I’ve heard it all from the way my ass looks to the way my breasts look. The way my lips would look just great on their supposed big, fat-

Something hits me in the face. I look down to see a pebble. The two idiots are pointing and laughing at me. I’d rather be tortured than be down here with these two third-graders.

Of course I don’t really mean that. Torture is not something on my bucket list. A bucket list that has way too many things not crossed off and that is reason enough not to die in this dungeon.

My father better come through and give these bastards what they want. His business and the Bratva may be precious but I’m fairly certain my life is more precious.

There’s so many things left for me to do and see. What about my new plans for Hawaii?

Sleeping in a cell is much harder than I thought. I knew it wouldn’t be easy given the lack of pillow, mattress, and blanket, but it took me hours to get to sleep. Worry crept into my mind and I couldn’t stop thinking of the idiots watching over me or the fear of their boss returning. That cold aura about him makes her shiver. His soulless eyes…

But I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because I wake up in a panic.

Standing at the bars of the cell is the boss of the operation. Mr. Crisp Suit is talking to me. I rub my eyes and try to focus on his words.

Frustrated by my lack of answering he walks away but not completely. When he turns around his lips are moving again and he’s angry. He’s talking too fast, his pacing picks up, he kicks something and pulls his hair.

I gulp scooting back in my cell. This guy seems deranged. He certainly looks like the type to torture even if my father agrees to whatever demands.

The thought pops in my head-what if they don’t want anything from my father? What if they just want me?

Improbable but not an impossible scenario.

Something worse than death is being violated in the worst known way possible. Against my will. Closing my eyes tight, I try to disband the negative thoughts from my head. I’ll make myself go crazy if I start to imagine the horrible things they’re capable of doing to me-small, defenseless me.

I was raised to be tough. Daughter of a leader. Not to mention growing up in Russia-you had to have a tough shell. I have a tough shell, but it’s one thing pretending to be tough going through everyday life, chin held high. It’s another being stolen, looking at your captors stronger than you while you’re tied up, no weapon in hand. Them hating you before they even know you. Deciding you’re the enemy. Plotting and planning pain whether it is mental or physical-no remorse or empathy.

It’s hard to act tough, hard to be tough, when death is staring you in the face.

Looking closer at the face I realize that death has a name. His name is Angelo Ricci.

Years ago before I lived in Russia, before my career with ballet was beginning, my father would bring work home. Being the nosey child I was, I took his photos and asked questions.

Who is the family in this portrait?

My father pointed to the blond haired boy. He was cute with a smile so wide it made me smile in return. He was shorter than the other boy in the picture and his eyes held more happiness than the brooding dark-haired older brother.

Angelo Ricci.

The second born son of Marco Ricci-the man who killed my mother.

They will show no mercy, I gulp as I think.

The Ricci’s are ruthless.

My father told me all about them at her funeral. I studied them. I loathed them. I plotted my own revenge for a time. But Marco Ricci is dead and Angelo now sits on his throne.

I wonder what happened to the happy little boy in that photo. He no longer has the glimmer in his eyes. Like all the life has been sucked out of him. His posture is slumped and the tired bags under his eyes make him look older than he likely is. He looks exhausted as well as hardened from life. His heart probably just as black as his soul.

He’s yelling and pacing and dare I say, he looks upset. His rapid rise and fall of his chest. The way he frantically runs his hands through his hair.

Something’s wrong, my gut tells.

Is my father on his way?

Angelo points his finger at me, and vein in his neck bulges out as he shouts seemingly blaming me for something, I have no idea. He’s talking too fast, pacing and distracted. There is no way to calm this man turned beast. He continues on his rampage by kicking items on the floor and punching the concrete walls. His hands bloody and most likely broken.

He stops abruptly and looks over his shoulder, the two idiots have entered.

Must be their turn to babysit me?

Angelo takes a deep breath and in a second collects himself. Pushing his long hair back and running his thumb along his bottom lip, he looks like the serious boss again. The two idiots look worried though, they’re no longer playful and making goo-goo eyes at me. In fact, they’re looking at their boss like they’re concerned for him.

What the hell is going on?

The taller of the two pats Angelo on the back. The boss shakes his head and punches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. I can’t tell what they’re saying, they’re far away with their backs turned.

One of his minions points toward me, their attention solely focused on me, like an animal in a cage.

That’s exactly how I feel. An animal in this cage.

Take your aggression out on her, the tall one says. She deserves it now.

It’s payback, the other states.

Rolling my eyes I make a gesture and subtly let them know just how I feel.