Married to the Mafia Boss

Katya

I was on my guard when I heard the stomping. Angry, fast footsteps marching towards my goddamn cell.

Standing so quickly left me a bit lightheaded, but I was ready for whatever crap Maxim intended to throw at me.

That miserable old woman had said a lot of things maybe in a bid to make me afraid and submissive like an obedient little tramp, but that was not me.

I did not submit to those that were inferior to me. I’d rather die fighting.

Three of them came. One aimed a gun at me, so I slowly raised both my hands in the air while another opened the cell for them to enter.

“Nice to see the Petrenko princess living in shit like a fucking pig,” the one with the gun said in Russian and spat at my feet while his comrades loosened the chain from the bolt on the wall and shoved me forward to get moving.

“Shove a dick down your throat.” I sneered back.

They shoved me to a different room in what I assumed was the underground floor of Maxim’s estate because I hadn’t passed even one window.

When they shut the door, the one with the gun gestured to me. “Strip, princess. Let’s see your royal tits.”

The other two guys stood back, laughing lecherously.Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

“You must be joking.”

He gave me a daring look and smirked. “Then you should start laughing.”

Around the time I became friends with Paulina in high school, I was a fighter.

If somebody so much as said something that pissed me off, I’d be on them with my fists. The constant fighting was how I had gotten better at it.

You only had to throw one bad punch to learn the right way to do it.

With my father, I got into trouble for fighting just once. Around the first time I got into a serious fight during a school vacation.

He’d chewed me out in Russian, not only for starting the fight, but also for not finishing it. For breaking my fingers and needing to get treated at the hospital because of it.

That was when he’d shown me how to throw a proper punch.

One that could dislodge a jaw without making me break my fingers.

I threw punches like a madman, kicking and scratching because they were trying to strip me. Two of the men attacked me, while the third tried to reel me in by the chain leash I was attached to.

My fists connected with their faces and abdomens, but they gained on me, kneeing me in the stomach, and forcing me towards a table. I was already severely wounded, and weak, so they managed to get me in a hold.

With a switchblade, they tore my dress and exposed me to the draft in the grey room.

The one with the chain attached to my collar yanked at it violently, trying to force me on the table.

It was a long battle, but they strapped me down on the cold surface of the table, and I was writhing, tugging at the binds.

“My goodness,” Maxim’s disgusting voice echoed into the room. He was standing by the door. “It was like trying to give a bath to a wild cat. I mean, darling Katya, look at what you did to my men.”

I didn’t bother with a retort. Instead, I calmed down, stayed still, and tried to gather my strength.

There was this feeling that I would need it for whatever Maxim had planned for me.

The men propped the table up, so I wasn’t lying down anymore and was instead forced to get a better view of the ugly room and Maxim.

“No smart words for me Katya? You’ll wound my delicate heart. I’ve always thought you were… fierier…disappointing.”

Before I could even process anything, a needle was buried into my neck.

Then, they set up cameras and tools, arranging different torture weapons on a smaller stand close to where I was propped while the room swam.

“I promised Alessandro a much better episode in this series, as a man of my word, I intend to fulfill it.”

Then he rained punches on me. My jaw, my chest, my stomach. Everywhere. It was as if whatever they had injected me with heightened the pain, or maybe it was because he was mercilessly assaulting old wounds too.

I was out of breath when he took a break, my head hanging as I tried to bring air back into my lungs.

“You know,” as he spoke, I heard the distinct ringing of steel clinking against each other-the tools on the stand. “I think I really wanted to be a doctor when I was a child. That was, of course, before I found my true calling, and maybe also before I realized I didn’t have enough of a brain to be a doctor.”

He came to stand in front of me again, stroking my hair. “Wow, even in a piss cell, your hair still manages its glamour, eh?” Then he dug his fingers in and held my head up. He had a scalpel in his other hand. “How about we play doctor? To help me relive an old dream.”

Then, there was a shattering explosion.