16. Dinner Time

Sixteen

Dinner Time

W e finally reach the top of the stairs. My legs tremble, and my body threatens to collapse. Each breath is rigid, my chest heaving as I gasp for air. I press my hands against the rough, cold wall beside me, resting my forehead on my arm to steady myself and catch my breath. Sweat drips down my face, stinging my eyes, but I don't have the energy to wipe it away.

The guard's impatient voice cuts through the haze of my exhaustion,

"Move along." His tone feels sharp, devoid of any sympathy. Frustration boils over, and I snap,

"I'm trying as hard as I can, man. Just give me a break." My voice rasps out.

His smug comment only fuels my determination to push forward despite the fatigue. I see the sneer on his face and how he is looking down on me, which ignites a fire within. I straighten up, my muscles screaming at me, and take a shaky step forward. The pain in my legs feels excruciating, but I refuse to let it stop me. I will keep going, no matter what it takes.

"Now, is that any way to treat one of my guests, you guys?" Marklov's voice cuts through the air, startling me into standing at attention.

My heart races as I snap upright. The sudden movement blurs my vision. I nearly pass out from moving so fast; if I had to guess, my iron levels must be dangerously low. My legs feel like jelly, and a wave of dizziness washes over me, but I force myself to stay upright, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Marklov or his guards. The tension in the room thickens, and I can feel every heartbeat pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears.

Marklov stepped into view, commanding and intimidating. He scanned me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, his eyes lingering on my haggard appearance.

"You look… stunning and like you could use a decent meal," he said, smirking as he took in my exhausted state.

His words dripped with a mocking tone, making me feel both self-conscious and defiant.

"Vamos, let's not keep you waiting, Little Sinister." He gestured for me to follow, moving smoothly and deliberately, exuding an air of control that left no room for argument.

As we make our way to the dining area, my eyes trace every part of each room we pass. A large display of windows comes into view, revealing a beautiful, dark, and gloomy scene outside. From what I can see, we're in a wooded area, and the tree line looks fuckin' massive. I bet it means he's smart enough to keep me away from other houses, which are probably miles away. The isolation is palpable, and each step makes me feel that escaping isn't just a matter of running—it's about surviving.

Seeing his life, where he lives, sends so many thoughts to my head, but the main ones hovering are how he got all of this. And Who is he really? After I left home and Mom died, he ended up in prison. That was the last I heard about him, thanks to his face being spread all over the news like wildfire. Before that, he always made sure my mom was selling her body to make money so we could "make ends meet." He controlled every aspect of our lives, ensuring we depended on him. I remember the late nights when she would come home exhausted, barely able to stand, while he counted the money she made. It was a miserable existence, and yet, here he is, somehow having amassed all of this. Something's not adding up. How could he go from prison to this level of wealth and power? It's like a missing puzzle piece, a dark secret lurking beneath my nose.

The dining room is lavish, with a long table set and an array of dishes that look straight out of a gourmet restaurant. Marklov pulls me out a chair and gestures for me to sit, and despite my exhaustion, I can't help but feel a sense of defiance bubbling up inside me.

As I take a seat, Marklov walks along the table and sits across from me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Te ves hermosa mi peque?a siniestra, you look beautiful," he says softly.

"Thank you…Master," I let out.

"Eat," he commands softly, but an edge to his voice makes it clear it's not a suggestion.

I pick up a fork and start to eat, the food tasting like something only from a dream.

He leans back in his chair, watching me intently.

"You must have many questions," he says, almost reading my thoughts. "And I have answers, but they'll come in due time. For now, eat and regain your strength. You'll need it." His words send a shiver down my spine, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm being drawn deeper into a web I may never escape.

I can't keep up this facade for much longer. I've gulped down at least eight cups of water, trying to calm the gnawing anxiety. I've eaten so much that I feel like I might throw up, but I force myself to keep going. I savor each bite I take as if it might be my last because the truth is, it very well could be at any given moment.

No matter how hard I try, I can't shake the thought of Ghost. His image haunts my mind, and I just need to know if he's alive. If he is, it will give me a semblance of hope, a reason to keep fighting. If not, I guess I'll just play along with their twisted game until I either get killed or manage to escape.

Marklov clears his throat loudly, once again disturbing my thoughts of Ghost.

"I hope that you are enjoying the dinner. I had it specially prepared for you." I couldn't tell what he was hinting at.

"Thank you… Master," I reply to him.

"Tonight will be busy. I have some…company coming over for a get-together, and you will be my plus one." My mind begins to race as thoughts of escaping come into my mind.

I hesitate momentarily. Is Marklov really going to trust me in a room full of people?

"If you try to pull any funny shit, you will be punished. These people are not your everyday people. These people are heartless. Their blood runs cold. Most of them work with me. So I'd love it if you would set a good lady example." I bow my head down, playing with a pea that is left on my plate.

"Do I make myself clear?" He slams his hand on the table, causing me to jump upright.

"Ye…yes, Master." I stuttered out to him, trying to keep my voice steady.

A part of me wants to sit here and break down, but an even more significant part of me just wants to close my eyes and escape this nightmare for a while. "Can I go to the bathroom, please?" I asked.

"Please, what?" He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for me to correct myself.

"Please, Master." I huffed out. Those words leave a taste of disgust lingering in the back of my throat.

He stands up and strides over to where I'm sitting, shoving away the food surrounding me. I divert my eyes to the floor, starting to count the lines of the tiles. Each line becomes a lifeline, a way to escape the reality of the moment. Marklov's shadow looms over me. When I reach twenty-three, he extends his hand, gesturing for me to take it.

"Come, Bonita," he says in a voice that tries to be reassuring but fails to hide the underlying authority.

His presence is overwhelming, and the room seems to shrink around us. Hesitantly, I lift my hand towards his, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me.

I lift my hand, and I can't help but notice how badly it is shaking. I take a deep breath, trying to calm all of my senses. I know this sick bastard feeds on my fear, and I'll be damned if I do anything to help him feel any more sense of power over me.

As I rise to my feet, I can feel his gaze fixed on me, tracking my every movement. I grasp his hand, the warmth of his skin colliding with my chilled touch.

Marklov leads me out of the dining area, guiding me towards what seems to be a living room. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with books that seem more decorative than functional. He catches me gazing around the room.

"You and your mother could have had all of this, but she was nothing but a sick whore, and you were a spoiled brat," he barks at me, his words stinging and causing anger to bubble up inside me.

I want to defend my mother, but I can't. The words catch in my throat, choked by the rage that courses through me. I want to slit this man's every artery and watch him bleed out, relishing each drop of his essence, but I can't. My hands tremble with the urge to act, but they remain bound by my current helplessness. I want to eliminate every single sick individual who works for him to ensure they face the consequences of their cruelty and corruption. Only time will reveal if I can.

We approach an entrance, and Marklov opens it for me, extending his hand and gesturing for me to enter. As I step inside, a massive vanity stretches along one wall, adorned with elegant fixtures and a beautiful marble countertop. The stand-up shower features multiple heads, promising a luxurious experience with its cascading streams of water. The toilet is freakishly clean, almost sparkling under the soft, ambient lighting that makes every detail pop. The entire space is just oddly comforting for a room to shit and piss in.

I turn to close the door, but Marklov's hand crashes against it, halting me.

"Ah ah, the door stays open, Little Sinister," he sneers.

The message is clear—no privacy allowed. I take a deep breath, acknowledging Marklov's power play, and step back, leaving the door wide open.

As I passed the mirror, I stole a quick glance at myself. Damn, I really pull this dress off well. It's red and reaches just above my knees, hugging my curves perfectly—if I wasn't bloated from stuffing my face like a vulture. My face, though, that's what gets me. The makeup. I never wear makeup; I don't see the point. But now, staring back at me, it's like a mask hiding the pain that I am going through.

As a kid, I hated makeup. It wasn't just a dislike; it was a deep-seated aversion. Every time my mom went out to meet those men, it was like a ritual. She'd dress in the skimpiest clothes, her face painted with layers of makeup. The sweet French vanilla perfume she wore was meant to drown out the stench of cigarettes and the heavy weight of her regrets.

I could always tell when she was about to leave. The way she meticulously applied her foundation, the careful strokes of mascara, all of it was a mask. It hid the pain in her eyes, the broken dreams she never spoke about. The scent of her perfume would linger in the air long after she was gone, a bittersweet reminder of the life she was made to live.

Those nights were the hardest. I'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was okay or if she'd come back. The makeup that transformed her face also transformed my world, filling it with uncertainty and a sadness that was hard to shake. It was a mask for her, but for me, it symbolized everything that was wrong in our lives.

I turn, facing my back to the toilet, dropping down my lacey underwear while I lock eyes with Marklov.

"You're a dream, Little Sinister. To have you as mine again is like finding a diamond in the rough." His voice drips with satisfaction.

The moment those words left his mouth, my blood started to boil. I want to smash the mirror, grab a shard, and gouge out his eyes. The thought of ripping his tongue out, shoving it up his ass, and telling him to fuck himself crossed my mind more times than I can count. Each syllable he spoke felt like a slap in the face, igniting a fire of rage within me.

But I can't act on it, not yet, at least. I have to bide my time and wait for the perfect moment. So, I force a smile, swallowing my anger, and play along. For now, I will let Marklove think he has the upper hand. Little does he know, his days are numbered.

* * *

The guests are going to be arriving soon. I'm too tired for this shit. I have been sitting here in this room filled with nothing but air for what feels like an eternity. I stared at the walls for so long that my head started playing mind ticks on me, and they seemed to be moving at times.

I start slowly nodding out. My body is screaming for rest . Finally, I hear the door unlock, and instead of being greeted by the guard who brought me in here a while ago, it is Marklov.

"Are you ready , Little Sinister?" He huffed out.

I sit here in silence . Deep down, a feeling pulses its way through my body . My adrenaline makes my skin feel like it is on fire.

I stand up with my fists clenched, trying to push those feelings down. I need blood. I need to hunt. I would love it if Marklov would just pass out randomly right in front of me, I would suffocate him and harvest out his organs and feed them to wild animals so they could shit him out, and he would have a piece of ass one last time.

Marklov's eyes narrow at me as he senses the tension radiating from my body's reaction.

"Good," he said, a twisted smile forming across his face.

"You'll need that fire tonight." He stepped aside, motioning for me to follow him.

I walk out, my mind racing with thoughts of revenge. Once we get to the grand room, it is filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, but all I could focus on was the pounding of my heart.

Marklov leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Remember, Little Sinister, play your part well, or there will be consequences."

I nodded, forcing a smile as I stepped into the room. The guests turned to look at me, their eyes filled with curiosity and intrigue. I can feel their gazes piercing through me, but I hold my head high, determined not to show any weakness. Marklov keeps his hand on my lower back, pulling me into him. There is no chance that I'd be able to get alone in a place like this. Marklov is well-dressed. He could almost be handsome if he weren't such a piece of shit.

Power radiates from the individuals in the room, from dark bosses to cartel members. My nerves are shot, every fiber of my being on edge. Panic grips at my mind, thoughts racing uncontrollably. I never handle large crowds well, and this room, filled with Marklov's "colleagues," is a nightmare. The atmosphere makes it hard to breathe, and my heart pounds rapidly in my chest. The sheer intensity of the situation overwhelms me, and I struggle to maintain my composure amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Every glance feels like a threat, every whisper a plot unfolding. The low murmur of conversations blends with the clinking of glasses, creating a cacophony that heightens my anxiety. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I can feel my hands trembling. The room seems to close in on me, the walls pressing closer with each passing second.

Marklov's presence seems the most powerful, his eyes scanning the room with a predator's gaze and a smile plastered on like a king. I try to steady my breathing, to calm the storm raging inside me, but it's futile. I force myself to move along with Marklov and blend in, but every step feels like navigating a minefield. Any wrong move is potentially catastrophic.

Marklov senses my panic and excuses us from his conversation with a group of men. "Excuse us for a minute, amigos," he says, trailing his hand down my arm to my hand. He plasters a fake smile across his face, gripping my hand tightly. We move to the kitchen. He pulls something out of his pocket.

"Take this," he commands.

It's a pill.

"No, I just needed a breather. I'll be okay," I say, turning down Marklovs offer.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it instantly.

"Place your hands on the counter," he commands.

I do as I'm told, my body stiff and trembling. I turn and place my hands in front of me. Marklov roughly kicks my feet apart and pushes my head onto the counter.

The sound of his pants unzipping made me quiver and push my legs together again. He pulls out a gun from inside his vest and places it against the back of my head. My eyes sting with the tears that I am fighting back.

"Don't show weakness."

"I told you to address me as Master and to obey every order I give you; if you didn't, you'd be punished. I am a man of my word."

He drags my underwear down to my ankles roughly, causing them to rip. He spreads me apart with no mercy, spitting on his hand and rubbing it along his length.

He forces himself into me, causing a surge of pain that makes me gasp. His gun presses cold and hard to my head, and his eyes are locked on mine. I can't control the yelp and cry that slips from my mouth. The swelling from him fuckin' me mercilessly in the bathroom adds to my agony. His hands clamp down on my hips with a vice-like grip, sending a deep bone-aching pain that radiates through my body.

I just want to turn around, grab his gun, and shoot him in the face until he is unrecognizable. He is pumping in and out fast and hard, moaning with satisfaction while I am pleading to be let go. He punches me in my ribs, making me gasp for air as he chuckles darkly, silencing me. When his thrusts begin to slow down, I try to glance down at my legs because I feel a warm gush of liquid begin to trickle down. In confusion, is it blood or his seed?

As he grunts and moans in his release, I am bent over, gasping for air with what feels like a broken rib. He stands up, pushing me to the ground.

"Fix yourself and hurry the fuck up. You don't want to miss the show." He said in a cocky voice.

Show? What show? Marklov never said anything about a show.

I grab the damp paper towels and attempt to clean myself. Then, I pull my underwear back up, trying to salvage what's left of them.

I can't move without a sharp pain sending waves to my brain, telling me something is wrong with my body. I wince out, putting pressure on my ribs where the blow left me altered.

Marklov roughly grabs me by my hips, forcing me to stand straight and walk next to him as if nothing had just happened. His face is serious this time instead of painted with false happiness. I limp, barely able to contain my pain.