Entrapped by the Mafia Lord

I never knew my family; my mother was a junkie and abandoned me in the hospital after I was born, so I was placed in a foster home. My foster parents, Annie and Jordan, were not really financially stable, but they were just fine. We lived in a house with few rooms and a living room that served as our kitchen. It was full of people, though.

We became a crash pad for anyone in the family who needed help and a place to stay, which was pretty much everybody. Jordan had a clash with a colleague at work and killed him by accident, so he was arrested and locked up for a long. My foster mother became a drunk, and she blamed the lousy economy and government. I blamed the stuff they kept snorting up their noses. As time passed, an uncle, Uncle Ruby, moved in, and he told my mom he "needed" a comfortable bed; he then moved into my room. Occasionally, I found myself sleeping in a chair on the front porch. It was a shock when I managed to graduate high school, although I knew I could never get into college.

My days blurred into one another, a cycle of work, sleep, and the occasional fleeting moments of reprieve with my boyfriend. The motels and houses I cleaned varied from barely livable to excessively luxurious, each job presenting its own set of challenges. Some people were kind, others dismissive, but I focused on the money I needed to save.

At the bar, the nights were long, filled with the chatter of patrons, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional brawls that I learned to navigate. It was a rough crowd, but I found a strange comfort in the predictability of it all. The regulars knew my name, and I knew theirs, their stories weaving into the tapestry of my own life.

As months passed, I started squirreling away whatever money I could. Every dollar was a step closer to freedom. I dreamed of moving to a small town, finding a stable job, and perhaps renting a modest apartment where I could finally have a space to call my own. The thought kept me going, a flicker of hope in the otherwise dark days.

My boyfriend, despite our transactional relationship, was my constant. He wasn’t perfect, but he was there, and that meant something. We talked about our future sometimes, about leaving everything behind and starting anew. Those conversations gave me a sense of normalcy, even if I knew deep down that they were just dreams.

One night, after a particularly grueling shift at the bar, I sat on the motel bed, exhausted. My boyfriend had dropped me off, but I couldn’t muster the energy for our usual routine. Instead, we sat in silence, the weight of our lives pressing down on us. He took my hand, a rare moment of tenderness, and for a brief second, I allowed myself to believe in a better future.

As I lay down to sleep, I thought about Uncle Ruby and the others I had left behind. I wondered if they had found any semblance of peace or if they were still trapped in the cycle of addiction and poverty. It was a reminder of where I had come from and why I needed to keep pushing forward.

I knew I'd leave there as fast as I could once I turned eighteen.

I worked at the bar at night and took cleaning jobs at motels and people's houses for several hours. My boyfriend drove me and my belongings to work every day. His payment was a quickie on the motel's squeaky and uncomfortable bed or in the car. Once he left, I saw him again when I had a job next.

The motel manager could have been more excellent. He took my money, just like anyone else who stayed there. I had my own TV and room; soon, I learned to avoid Mr. Iggy, the manager, just like I avoid my uncles.

The work at the motel was hard and thankless. Mr. Iggy refused to buy me simple protective equipment like gloves. My hands were raw and red from chemicals and sometimes itchy; after a couple of months, they became a part of me.

The motel clients were mostly old, grimy, and grumpy men who always tried to grope me daily, but I was fast. Years ago, I learned how to avoid my uncle's unwanted touches. I kept my distance and stayed out of trouble.

I didn't have any other issues staying in the motel; I mean, I had my own room and could lock my door; I had food three times a day, and nobody stole what I bought, although I rarely had fresh vegetables and fruits; canned foods were cheaper and storable. I knew I couldn't eat like that forever, but it was still an upgrade for me, though. Then, at the bar, my boss was a charming man, Mr. Lo; he never gave me any reason to complain and always paid me on time, I didn't have to come to work every day, but I got called in some nights.

During my days off, I take the bus down to the coast. There is a place where the tourists never go. If you climb the steep slope down, you have your own rocky beach. I loved my off days.

I'd spend hours diving and exploring the deep bottom. It was quiet under the water, and the fish never bothered me. I learned to hold my breath for a really long time and explored the underwater caves as far as I could. If I ever got enough money together, I considered taking a dancing class, but that kind of cash was a long way off for me. That was life for me, and I was finally happy. My little world wasn't very exciting, but it was mine.

I shopped after work at a mini store a block away. I went to the bar one night for my night shift and noticed a faint glow coming from around the back, so I went to investigate. There was a small wooded gazebo behind the building where rich folks smoked. I was trying to figure out what prompted me to explore; I should have called the manager, Mr. Lo, and let him check. I stumbled on a lot of broken bottles, cigarettes, and discarded syringes; the light was coming from somewhere in the center. I wove between the trees, watching the lights; it wasn't flickering like a fire. It was more like a steady pulse. That was the last thing I saw and could remember.

I woke up and didn't remember having gone to sleep; the room was dark with red lights and absurd paintings of naked women and utterly foreign to me; I bottled up and realized I was tied up naked, there were no windows, the room was pitch black and had red fire lights, I tried to let myself loose but all to no avail. My breathing was coming rapidly, and I figured I was hyperventilating. Suddenly, it felt like the paintings were coming alive and the room was moving; I couldn't move my hands and legs cause I was tied up, then I screamed for help, but it felt like the room was soundproof cause no one came to my rescue then I realized I was kidnapped but by who? And why, I couldn't help but think.

My mind just wanted to shut off and be back to the motel fixing Ramen noodles; this could not possibly be happening. I felt so humiliated, I wasn't fat, but I wasn't skinny either. My tummy and hips had a soft look that I loved. The same went for my enormous breasts. I longed to cover up all my private parts and my bush; oh boy, my bush was so huge, reaching all the way to my navel, then the dark curly hair covering my lover's abdomen. I hated it and never wanted to show it to the world, but here I am. I hadn't shaved my legs and armpit in ages; there was no one to impress at the motel, so I was a hairy mess. Then suddenly, two masked men walked in and carried me with the chair I was tied to. They took me to a very dark room, and suddenly, the lights came on. I was in the middle of other masked men dressed in a Mexican way but with a monster-like mask; my chair then started to slowly spin; it was like I was being showcased to be auctioned. I felt really embarrassed and began to scream. For help, no one came; they all were laughing and making comments. This was insufferable; the auctioneers would probably kill me for my bravado, but I didn't care. I was furious; the men talked for several moments while I was before them. I had run out of cuss words, so I just scowled in their direction and looked around angrily, and wondered which group of assholes I would stop in front of next. Hopefully, these jerks were done with me.

I watched with terror as the auction continued. It looked like I had been bought by one of the men because I was carried back into the previous room I was in. Still, this time around, I wasn't tied down to my seat, and suddenly, a strange woman entered the room with four men who bundled me blindfolded into a van, and that was all I could remember. A few hours later, I realized we were at the airport because I could hear plane sounds and a lot of "airport" noise, I barely managed to get on the plane with them without the airport security noticing something was wrong, and then I thought to myself "if only I could be a little stronger, I might actually escape this pitiful life and make something of myself." My body didn't seem to get the message, though, not after all the drugs I'd been injected with, not that I blamed it.

A few hours later, the plane landed, and we left the airport to a place I couldn't pinpoint in the dark of the night. I tried to listen to the little conversation the lady was having with a strange-looking man. Still, it was difficult to; in less than a minute, a sleek black car pulled up and immediately opened a bit violently, making me more frightened than I already was. I watched how five men hurriedly approached us, pointing a gun at us. "Don't move," they commanded coldly. The lady raised both hands as a gesture to show that she meant no harm; even as the commander walked closer to the lady and touched the barrel of his gun to her temple, she was looking at him in genuine confusion and betrayal. "What's going on, Jay?" she asked calmly in Italian.

Like someone in the mafia would do, I registered three things at once. Firstly, even though I was there, the men weren't sparing me a second glance. Two, a ray of light illuminated a signpost, making me realize we were in Spain. Third, if this lady doesn't work for the red-headed man who bought me, then who is she, and who are these people? Either way, one thing was clear: I was in trouble.

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