Page 2 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
I watched him step out quietly, half his face catching the neon light, the other half still shrouded in the dark.
Perfect view. Sharp, intense, and menacing.
The camera shutter clicked. Shot taken—clean and mysterious. I lowered my camera and moved on quietly. Maybe it was best to leave before those Terminator-looking men discovered that I’d just taken a photograph of them.
Not everyone liked strangers taking photos of them without their permission, even if it was for a college project. And these guys? They looked mean—sharp suits, cold eyes—like they’d walked straight out ofThe Godfather.
Yep, I’d better disappear before someone spots me.
I had enough photos already anyway, so I headed back home to get some rest.
***
The vehicle pulled up by the sidewalk, gravel crunching beneath its tires as the Uber driver came to a stop outside my apartment. I stepped out of the car, the cool evening breeze brushing against my face.
Across the horizon, the sun was setting, its golden glow draped over the city. My boots scuffed on the pavement as I headed into the building, up the stairs, down the corridor until I got to my doorstep.
Under the hallway’s soft light, I reached into my pocket for my key, and that’s when I heard it—the moans.
“Yes, Daddy, fuck that pussy!” Olivia cried out, her voice muffled behind the wall, laced with sheer pleasure.
“You like that shit?” Drake’s voice followed immediately, louder than Olivia’s.
“Yes, yes—harder, baby. Fuck me like you own me!” she replied, her moans growing louder and more urgent.
My head dropped, fingers rubbing my tired eyes as an exasperated sigh fell from my lips. Classic Drake and Olivia, the neighbors who just couldn’t keep their voices down. At all.
The entire building knew when they argued; we also knew when they were fucking—like right now. They just didn’t know how to be quiet about anything.
“Sometimes, I wish I could just hit a mute button on those two,” a familiar voice spoke behind me, tinged with a hint of disgust.
I glanced back at the speaker: a woman in her late sixties with streaks of gray in her short black hair and a few wrinkles softening her face. She was carrying a grocery bag with leafy vegetables sticking out from the top.
“Hi, Mrs. Alderman,” I greeted her, wearing a polite smile.
“Why can’t they just be more like you, Wren?” She paused at her doorstep, two apartments away from mine.
I squinted my eyes, head tilting slightly to the side. “Uh…I don’t think I follow.”
“You’re reserved, very private, and well respected,” she explained, her eyes watching me from behind her glasses. “Drake and Olivia can learn a thing or two from you.”
I chuckled. “I’m flattered, Mrs. Alderman. But I think they’re just leaving their lives the way they want.”
“Well, it sucks ’cause everyone knows what their life is all about—too much information. Drake and Olivia have no privacy,” she replied.
Pete joined in on the conversation, his head sticking out of his door. “Come on, Mrs. Alderman, they’re just having a good time,” he said, smoothing his hand through his hair, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.
“Of course you’d say that.” She shot a quick glance at him, scowling. “I bet you jerk off to Olivia’s moans in your bedroom.”
My eyebrows arched in an instant, my jaw dropping in shock as I struggled to contain my laughter.
She pushed her door open, walked in, and slammed it shut behind her.
I did the same, locking mine behind me, and that’s when I burst out laughing. Her assumption was embarrassing, especially because it was most likely true. But it was also funny at the same time.
I tossed my keys on the table, strolled into my living room, and flicked my shoes off without slowing down. I grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, then increased the volume until it was loud enough to drown out Olivia’s moans.
The song playing on the TV station just happened to be Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph,” the same as what the busker had performed on the street earlier this afternoon.
