Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
What the hell do they plan on doing with me? I’ve never heard of them taking a hostage, but then, how the fuck would I know what they have or haven’t done before? They don’t let people walk, so even if they have been plucking random girls off the street to keep as their personal sex slaves, I doubt any of them are available for a little chit-chat to discuss the ins and outs of their stay.
How are these guys not already locked up?
I try to concentrate on my breathing, desperate to calm myself so I can try and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do. My room is a little box with a small sink, an old toilet, and a hard looking bed in the corner. A change of clothes sits on the end and it has my lips pulling up into a disgusted sneer. Where the hell did they get these clothes and who did they once belong to?
The ground is made out of stone like you’d expect to see in an old castle from a million years ago, and damn, it’s cold as fuck against the soles of my feet. I’m just lucky that it’s the middle of one of the hottest summers we’ve ever had, otherwise I’d be shivering as well.
This is definitely some kind of twisted cell, but from what I can tell, it’s built in the lower portions of a huge home. Who knows, when it comes to the DeAngelis brothers, this really could be some old-century gothic castle. They’re made of money. At least, their rich as fuck father is.
Giovanni DeAngelis. The most powerful man in the country.
He’s the leader of the most notorious mafia family—the DeAngelis Family—and from what I hear, they’re not a family to be messed with. They’re solid belief is shoot first, ask questions later, so I can only imagine how Giovanni’s three sons ended up so screwed in the head.
They’re heavily into manufacturing all those fucked-up little pills that I see floating around the nightclub. They’re weapon dealers, smugglers, and I’m pretty fucking sure that they have every cop, judge, and prosecutor in the country on their payroll. That’s probably why the three fucklords who just locked me up haven’t been locked up themselves.
Anyone who stands in the way of a DeAngelis is guaranteed a shallow, unmarked grave. They’re nothing but dangerous criminals, definitely not my cup of tea, yet here I am.
Fuck this. What the hell am I supposed to do?
I don’t understand any of this. I have nothing to do with the DeAngelis brothers, the DeAngelis mafia family, or anyone in it. Hell, I don’t even flirt with the guys at the club, let alone allow them to know who I am or where to find me.
How do these guys know who I am? How did I get on their radar? Was I targeted or is this completely random? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.
My breath comes in a little faster and I quickly realize that if I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to end up having a panic attack. I stop pacing the cramped cell and move over to the bed before standing on it and trying to peer out the little window, but it’s too high up. I can barely reach the windowsill with my fingertips.
Glancing around the room, I realize there’s absolutely nothing that I can dislodge to use as a step up. The only information this window is giving me is if it’s day or night, other than that, absolutely nothing. Hell, I can’t even see the tops of trees swaying in the distance.
Throwing myself out my kitchen window and dropping four floors is looking pretty fucking good right about now.
With nothing to do, I drop down onto the ratchet little bed and scan over the clothes laying on the end. It’s a black tank and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s no way in hell that I’ll be wearing them. They probably belonged to some poor girl who was gutted for sport. Though, the way they’ve been pressed and folded suggests that a maid has tended to these clothes. I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re spoiled little rich boys.
Even if we are in some kind of old, abandoned castle, I’m almost positive that these assholes would still have a full roster of staff tending to their every need. After all, psycho little serial killers still need to eat.
My face drops into my hands and I close my eyes. The exhaustion of my night has more than gotten to me. I’d give anything to just lay my head down on the shitty little pillow beside me and try and forget everything that’s gone down, but I’m not about to allow myself that kind of vulnerability in a place like this. So instead, I listen.