Strong-willed, badass and bounded by the chains of an arranged marriage, Isabela Arias dreams of the freedom to live and love as she chooses.
Being sold to the Italian mafia wasn't exactly on Isabela's to do list...
As she's forced to navigate the r...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Questa cagna!" Damien's straining wail pierces my eardrums as he smashes his cell phone against the wall. "I don't know what's worst — that she keeps getting away or that you motherfuckers keep letting her."
(This bitch!)
One of his associates with a vicious red mohawk on his skull clears his throat as sweat trickles down his bloody face. "We didn't do it on purpose, Don. We just underestimated her, that's all." His eyes widen a fraction as he gingerly swallows.
An appeased Damien leans his forearms on the pearly white walls of his living room, filling the noiseless area with his tame laughter. It's silent for a split second, only his shoulders furiously vibrating. Like a ticking time bomb, his laughter and sanity are thrown at the wall. While Damien's crew sends a cautious glare to each other, I remain hardened, unphased, watching the barren walls as if it was the most entertaining piece of art.
Once his laughter died, he replaced his sentiments of pleasure with a bullet right into his associate's skull. Cherry-red blood extends through the granite tiles, grazing the tips of his other two bronze-haired associates' feet. Color drains from their faces.
Damien holds the trigger and aligns the barrel at the brunette cohort's forehead. "Do you have anything else to add?"
His rugged face scrunches up with terror as he feverishly jerks his head. "N-No, Don. We will go back out there and search fo-." His sentence remains incomplete as a bullet permanently seals his fate.
Damien's tongue pokes at his left cheek. "Fica!" He mumbles under his breath as he collects saliva in his mouth and spits on the two dead bodies. "You guys must be wondering why I reached out to you."
(Pussy.)
One of his Capos appears, bearing straight down the line, and hands us a picture of a girl. Damien's arm is coiled around the girl's waist like a belt, nudging her closer as she forces an agitated grin on her face. Her brown locks cascade down her waistline, following the intricate floral designs of her dress.
"I've heard about each of you because of your exceptionally particular skills, and I'm in desperate need of help." Damien rakes his hand through his greasy, floppy hair. "That girl in the picture is my fiance. Unfortunately, due to my own compassion, I walked into the perfect trap and let her run away. Now, she's roaming through Sicily streets with nothing but my black business card."
Her doe-shaped eyes are decorated to the brim with thick, long black eyelashes, obscuring the repulsion in those cinnamon-colored irises. People have always said stories lie beneath the eyes like a mirror into a person's soul, and in his fiance's eyes, they couldn't be any more apparent. Snapshots like these are pieces of a bigger story, a more extensive outcome. From this picture alone, I know this girl would sign her soul over to the Devil himself before willingly coming back here.
But it's not my business to worry about the aftermath.
After all, I've been scouted out for my exceptional skills, as Damien so remarkably put it.
