His Kitten

ROSIE

My eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but I was still somewhat conscious of my surroundings. I knew I didn’t want to open my eyes, though.

A gag was tied around my mouth, and ropes bit into my wrists and ankles, holding them immobile. I was lying on something soft, not the hard floor.

I forced my eyes open, and my heart pounded in my chest.

I was in a room, sunlight streaming through a large window. I was on a couch. But it wasn’t the room that scared me.

Two burly men stood in the room, dressed similarly to the ones who had grabbed me. Judging by the daylight, I figured that must have been last night.

I writhed against my restraints and tried to scream through the gag, but it came out as a pitiful whimper.

One of the men turned his head toward me when he heard the noise. They were different from the men last night. How many of them were there?

“Sembra che la nostra piccola puttana si sia finalmente svegliata,” he sneered. [Looks like our little whore has finally woken up.]

He started to approach me, and my fear spiked.

Tears I hadn’t even realized I was shedding streamed down my face as I strained against the ropes and whimpered through the gag.

His hand closed around my throat. It was tight enough to be threatening, but not enough to cut off my air.

“You’ll be a good girl, yes?” he asked, his English accented and clipped.

I nodded quickly, whimpering through the gag.

He licked his lips and smirked at the other man, who rolled his eyes.

“Sbrigati, Marco. Voglio scoparla prima che ritorni anche il vecchio!” [Hurry up, Marco. I want to fuck her before the old man returns too!]

The man holding my throat chuckled.

“Pazienza, amico mio. C’è un sacco di tempo.” [Patience, my friend. There’s plenty of time.]

Then his hand slipped under my T-shirt, his fingers tracing the skin of my stomach.

I screamed and arched my back, trying to pull away from him. His grip shifted from my throat to my hair, yanking my head back.

“Stai zitto, puttana!” he growled. [Shut up, bitch.]

I knew it was an insult. I’d never been one to scream or cry, but now I couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked my body, tears streaming down my cheeks.

His hand moved to my breast and squeezed it roughly.

“Così reattivo,” he smirked. [So responsive.]

I screamed again, sobbing. His hand released my hair. “Ho detto di stare zitto!” he growled. [I said, shut up!]

With each word, his hand slapped the bare skin of my upper thigh.

The pain was intense. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the sound of my own sobs through the gag. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out what was happening, knowing it was only going to get worse.

A third voice broke through the chaos. It was deep, commanding, authoritative.

“Stacca le mani da quel bambino, pezzo di merda,” he growled. [Take your hands off that kid, you piece of shit.]

The man’s hands left my body as he stepped away from me. Then I heard a loud bang and a thud. I knew what the bang was as it echoed around the room. It was a gunshot.

I sobbed even harder, my whole body shaking. If it hadn’t been for the gag, I would have thrown up.

“Chiunque altro la toccherà, avranno lo stesso destino di quel pezzo di merda,” he growled. [Anyone else touch her, they will have the same fate as that piece of shit.]

Several voices responded, “Sì, Don Marchesi.” [Yes, Don Marchesi.]

I felt sick as I realized who these people were. They were speaking Italian... they called him Don. This was the Mob. The Italian Mafia.

The couch dipped as someone sat down. I wanted to stop crying, but I couldn’t.

A hand gently touched my head. I flinched and sobbed harder.

“Shhh, piccolo. You’re safe now,” he whispered as he removed the gag.

His accent wasn’t as strong as the others, but it was still there.

At least I could understand him.

I opened my eyes. Everything was blurry through my tear-filled vision.

His thumb stroked my cheek.

“Così bello, così innocente,” he whispered. [So beautiful, so innocent.]

Then I heard him snap his fingers.

“Tu, taglia queste maledette corde e ripulisci questo casino.” [You, cut these damned ropes and clean up this mess.]

I heard footsteps, then something tugged at the ropes. They fell away, freeing my hands and ankles.

Before I could react, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and another slid under my knees, lifting me off the couch.

I wanted to struggle, to fight back, but this man had saved me. He’d killed the man who was about to rape me—I was sure of it.

Instead, I just kept crying. I couldn’t help it. I was in the hands of the Italian Mafia, and I had no control over my future.

Was this my dad’s doing? Was this who he worked for? Was this why I had to hide in my room when he had business associates over?

Then I heard his voice again. It was deep and soothing, though it should have scared me.

“Just relax, gattina. Sei mia ora,” he whispered. [Kitten. You are mine now.]

His words to me were mostly in English, but every now and then, an unfamiliar word would slip in. I figured it was Italian.

His tone was never harsh, unlike the others. Their words, I assumed, were filled with curses and insults.

He carried me up the stairs of what looked like a mansion. Even the staircase was twice the size of a regular one.

Then, he led me into a bedroom. Panic set in immediately. I wondered if I had just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

He gently laid me on the bed. I watched as he took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

He carefully removed the cufflinks from his shirt, gold with a diamond centerpiece. He placed them on a dressing table, then rolled up his sleeves with care.

“P-please…don’t…,” I whimpered.

He frowned, then gently stroked my face.

“I’m sorry, piccolo. The men downstairs…they should know better. I would never…,” he soothed.

***

Now, I had a chance to really look at the man who was both my captor and my savior. His face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Why would I?

He was an Italian Mob boss; I’d never seen him before. I pushed the thought away.

For a Mafia boss, he wasn’t old. Probably around my dad’s age. But he was much more muscular than my dad.

His complexion was darker too. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and his eyes were the same shade. He had a neatly trimmed beard, which barely concealed his sharp jawline or the scar that ran across his cheek.

He was dressed like the other men, but his clothes were clearly designer, while theirs were off-the-rack.

He didn’t wear a tie, just a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone. A gold chain hung around his neck. His forearms were covered in a large tattoo, which I assumed continued up his arm.

“Why…why am I here?” I whispered, my voice breaking.

His thumb grazed my cheek.

“All in good time, gattina. For now, I think we need to find you a change of clothes.”

He stood and crossed the room. He opened a set of double doors, revealing a walk-in closet.

When he returned, he was carrying a shirt and a pair of boxers. He placed them on the bed and pointed to another door.

“That’s the bathroom, gattina. You probably want to get cleaned up. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, then you can have something to eat. Does that sound OK?” he asked.

I wanted to scream, “No, I want to go home.” But that wasn’t an option. Home was probably still swarming with cops, and my dad wouldn’t be there. I suddenly realized I should be calling Uncle Daniel.

“Do you have my phone? I was supposed to call my uncle.”

He chuckled. “Of course you were, gattina.”

I suddenly realized how silly that sounded. That’s probably what every kidnapped person says—my family will be looking for me.

I looked down at the floor and sighed. I’d lost all my fight after today.

“I’ll leave you to get cleaned up, gattina.” He chuckled as he nodded toward the bathroom.

As he headed to the door, I looked up and called after him. “My name is Rosie.”

He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, gattina.”

I watched him as he opened the door and left, confusion on my face.

How did he know who I was? I still had no idea who he was.

I picked up the clothes and headed to the bathroom. It was huge. Bigger than my bedroom back home.

There was a massive shower, a large corner bathtub with jets, and double sinks with mirrors above each one. A large heated towel rail on one wall was filled with fluffy white towels.

I closed the door and locked it.

I felt dirty. All I could think about was that filthy bastard’s hands all over me.

Was it wrong that I wasn’t sorry he was dead? I shuddered. Not just at the thought but also because the person who had saved me had no hesitation in shooting him.

Even if I thought about escaping, the fear of being caught was ten times worse. He would probably shoot me too. I just wished I knew why I had been taken. It was for more than just squatting in that house.

I stripped off my clothes and looked between the bath and the shower. A shower would be quicker, but a bath might help me soak away the stress and the ache in my shoulder muscles.

I didn’t know how long I had been tied up, but it was long enough for my muscles to feel sore.

I started to run the bath; steam began to fill the room. I stepped into the tub filled with hot water. As I sat down, I winced and glanced at the top of my leg. It was still red from where the dead man had hit me.

I leaned back in the bath, letting the hot water relax me. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine I was anywhere else other than here.