Page 41 of Dark Mafia Heir

Vivienne screams, but Luca holds her back before she can lunge at me. “No! Antonio, don’t!”

It’s a little too late for that as I pull the trigger three more times until only one of the men is left.

Prowling towards him, I drop to a squat in front of him and press the gun to his temple. “Tell Peter I’ll be sending his daughter’s head to him if he pulls a shit stunt like this again.”

15

Vivienne

Sigh.

Groaning, I roll over on the bed, lying on my back as I stare at the ceiling. It is another day to start again. Well, it's more liketryagain in my case. How does the saying go?If the going gets tough, rather die trying?

That can’t be it. I’m not going to die trying. I’m going to fucking succeed in getting out of this place, however I can.

I sit up, lean against the soft headboard. The covers slip below my breasts, and I don’t even pull it back up. What’s the point anyway? I slept naked and frustrated, and woke up even more frustrated. I might as well behave like the captive that I truly am.

Each time I remember the icy look in Antonio’s eyes when he unashamedly admitted to kidnapping me from the restaurant, I want to put a dent in that perfectly handsome face of his. Heartless bastard!

Folding my arms, I brainstorm alternative options I might need to use to execute a proper escape from Antonio Mancini’s fortress, but the only solution that presents itself is sex.

Mind-blowing continuous sex with the cold-hearted monster.

In a normal world,where ordinary innocent people carry on their day-to-day lives, it is understandable to advise a girl my age not to consider such a hopelessly degrading option—sex. I should maintain my dignity, prioritize my self-respect, rather sacrifice myself than willingly present my body to the Italian devil.

But there are two major problems:

The first one is, this world of guns, violence, and endless running streams of red is anything but normal. And here, a girl has to compromise to save herself.

The second one is, in this complicated case of mine, even compromising is not enough.Having sexwith Antonio will not be enough to earn his trust and finally be rid of him. He is a man of means, a man with the looks. A man with everything.And every single fucking thing; power, charm, charisma, intelligence, and all of those potentials work to my disadvantage. Sex with me can be sex with any other woman. One snap of his slender fingers or a commanding bat of his short eyelashes, and a hundred of them would gladly fall at his feet.

Sunken by the weight of burdens, I slip back into the covers, finding no strength to continue the rest of the day. The air is warm, the sheets are comfortable, my life is officially screwed over, and I miss my sister so much. My chest aches like a sledgehammer slammed right through, leaving a big fat hole behind. My father always said I was the stubborn one, the onewho preferred things to go her way, the one who pretended to listen but hated to do what anyone else demanded of me.

I used to think he was right, until now.

Now, all I desire is to go back to sleep, and pretend that I can dream the rest of my life away till it’s all over. With the rest of my future looking bleak, sex can be put on hold, but sleep can’t. I am sure as hell not going to cry.

A soft knock on the door startles me. My heart lurches to my throat at the idea that I might have accidentally conjured the man himself from my thought, but soon enough, the hammering stops.

Antonio Mancini waiting by the door for my permission to come in? Ha! Laughable, indeed. If it was him, he wouldn’t bother to knock. Only normal people with respect for others do that.

I don’t get up, but my ears strain to pick out the smallest sound that can help me identify the stranger at the door. “Who is it?”

“Agatha.”

Oh.

Dragging the covers to my chin, I sink my head deeper into the pillow. The thought of how I threatened this woman with a knife to her throat lingers.A fucking knife, for Chris’ sake.Maybe I’m burying my head in subtle shame, or maybe I’m just pretending to be sick. She can interpret it either way when she comes in.

“The door’s unlocked.” Because the man himself would stir up a disastrous storm if he finds out, I keep the door locked.

Again, Vivienne, you are not the owner of yourself.

Like hell, I’m not.

The door clicks shut behind the old woman when she shuffles into the room bearing gifts: toiletries and something that looks like a pink maternity gown from view. Sitting up, I clutch thecovers to my chest. Her brows dip, and a pout takes shape on her lips. She places the gown and tubes of toothpaste, cream, and a bunch of other things at the foot of the bed, walking over to the side to put the back of her hand on my head.

“Are you well, child?”

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