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“Roman?” I rasp.
There’s no answer.
Of course, there isn’t. He’s probably on the other side of the building, doing something illegal.
“ROMAN!” I yell, my heart already pounding against my ribcage.
I wait for a cruel voice to tell me I’m a prisoner, the way captors do when they taunt their victims in psychological thrillers, but the only sound in the room is my own heavy breathing.
“Somebody help me,” I scream, already knowing it will be futile.
Everyone in this mansion is either an employee of Roman Montesano or one of his equally dangerous brothers. Over a dozen people saw him carrying me out of the limousine like a hunting trophy, and none of them said a word.
They even fucking applauded, congratulating him for getting away with being a scoundrel. These people have probably covered up hundreds of murders.
Dread plummets in the pit of my stomach like an anchor, trying to drag me into the depths of panic. I pound on the door to the beat of my frantic heart, forcing in breath after breath after breath.
I can’t afford to lose my shit.
A year of living as Jim’s captive has shredded my nerves. I’m left with PTSD, paranoia, and the mere thought of being confined again makes me heave.
My therapist at the women’s shelter says I’m suffering from cleithrophobia. I’m not scared of tight spaces, only terrified of being trapped.
“HELP!”
Sweat breaks out across my brow, and my gaze darts from side to side. What am I doing? No one’s coming to my rescue. I’m a fucking prisoner. This is exactly what happened with Jim, but accelerated.
No amount of crying and screaming will set me free. The last time, I swore to myself never to end up in another abusive situation. I’m no longer that deluded young woman who gives men the benefit of the doubt. I can think clearly, strategize, and act.
Backing away from the door, I glance around the room for items to help me escape. There’s a huge bed, a matching dresser, a pair of bedside tables, each holding a heavy-looking lamp. Directly opposite the door is a floor-to-ceiling set of glass doors that lead to a balcony.
My heart skips a beat. I dash across the room to the French doors, but they’re locked. One quick search around its frame says that there’s no other way of opening it without a key.
Fuck these mafia bastards. What do they want from me, anyway? I’m a nobody. My debts aren’t even substantial enough to attract the attention of a bailiff, let alone a big player like Roman Montesano.
Unless he’s a sex trafficker.
My stomach, along with the anchor lodged inside it, drops to the marble floor and yanks down my heart. How could I have been so stupid as to ignore my intuition?
Shit.
If I don’t find a way out, my future could be a hundred times worse than death.
I spin around, wondering how the fuck I got myself into such a terrible mess. I’ve lost my clothes, my phone, my purse, my keys. My hope.
Shallow breaths ghost over the tops of my lungs, and the room tilts at an awkward angle. Fuck. What is this, vertigo?
If I ever get out of this, I will never again drink wine coolers, shots, or champagne. Those free drinks clouded my judgment. They made me think that running off with a mafia boss was a better option than the devil I knew.
Shivers run down my spine, and every inch of my skin erupts into goosebumps.
Jim all but said he was going to kill me for leaving, and I know he meant every word. God knows what would have happened to me in that cell. He gave me no choice but to run off with a man powerful enough to stand up to him. But now I could be facing months if not years of forced prostitution.
I didn’t escape an abusive boyfriend to end up enslaved by a crime lord.
I can’t let this happen.
My gaze falls to the dresser. I yank open each drawer, but they’re empty. I rush into a white-tiled bathroom, only to find nothing more useful than the toilet brush.
