Chapter 4: Broken girl with anxiety

Belle Rose

I trace my fingers over the soft cotton dress that’s been neatly folded and brought in by the man. I have five minutes. Five minutes to change and pull myself together.

The ticking clock makes my heart pound harder, and a dull headache starts to throb as I switch out of my waitress uniform and into the new blue dress.

It fits like a glove, hugging my curves while still allowing my skin to breathe. My heart rate spikes. What are they planning to do with me? Why do they want me in this dress?

Five minutes until what? Now it’s probably three, and that thought makes me start to pant.

I can feel a panic attack coming on, my breath getting shorter and a knot forming in my stomach.

“Chocolate,” I whisper, trying to slow my breathing. “Rain in summer... cats yawning... snow falling on my hair... the smell of fresh cut grass...” I start to hum to myself, feeling my heartbeat slow and my breath steady. A wave of calm washes over me.

“~High up above, the angel sleeps, soon she will come, to rescue me. Be patient and wait, for she won't be long, hold on 'til then, and sing this song.~“

The door swings open again, and the same man is there, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. He expects me to follow him. At least he’s not dragging me out.

I trail after him, my eyes darting around the room outside the dank cell I was in. We’re surrounded by dark grey walls, with spotlights on the ceiling casting a warm but menacing glow.

We’re in a hallway, narrow enough that the man and I are squeezed together. His face is a blank mask, stern and hard. He stands so straight it’s like he has a metal rod up his ass.

He doesn’t even glance at me as I stare at him with wide, wild eyes. I force myself to look ahead, where doors line both walls.

At the end of the hall, we turn into a grand foyer that’s much brighter than the gloomy hallway. He leads me into a small room with a square table lit by candles.

“Sit,” he orders in a gravelly voice. I hurry to the table, meant for two. Who else is coming? He leaves without another word, the silence in the small room echoing in his wake. I stare at my hands, my nails scratching against each other in growing anxiety.

“~Gattina~,” a voice calls out. I jump, shooting up from my seat. The man in the suit is there, handsome but dangerous and cruel. He chuckles as he watches me, then takes the other seat and gestures for me to sit.

“My name's Belle,” I tell him, finding a strange burst of courage. It fades quickly when he smirks at me, leaning back in his chair and sipping the wine on the table. “Why am I h-here?” I stutter, my eyes darting around the room.

There are warm yellow lamps creating a cozy but unsettling atmosphere. Then I see the gun he set on the side table when he walked in.

He probably has another weapon on him, but he wants to intimidate me further.

“You're here because I own you,” he says simply. He doesn’t explain further, and my anxiety spikes. But why does his voice make my panties wet? Maybe I’ve peed myself a little in fear.

I try to speak, but my lips just move without making a sound. He raises an eyebrow at my silence and grins. “W-what do you w-want from me?”

“Because I own you, you'll be my waitress, and do whatever else I tell you to. You'll obey my every word,” he says.

“You don't own me,” I blurt out, then shrink back in my chair as he glares at me. His face twists into a rage, then relaxes into a humorless chuckle.

“~Bambina~, you're mine,” he growls, his eyes darkening and his body tensing. “If you disobey me, you'll be punished. Understand?” He tilts his head at me, his gaze forceful. I nod frantically, and he relaxes, smirking again. I realize I’ve been panting in fear and anxiety. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I mumble, biting the inside of my cheek to distract from the pain of my right hand digging into my left forearm. I’m drawing blood. “What's your name?” I ask in a small voice.

“Lorenzo Calabria.” Calabria? Oh, God. No. No, no, no. How can this be happening? Stay calm. He doesn’t know who you are. He’s never met you before. Just act normal. As normal as you can in front of your mafia kidnapper. “But you, ~gattina~, will call me sir, or master, or boss.”

“Like I'm your slave,” I mutter, louder than I intended. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? Usually my anxiety leaves me speechless, but now I’m finding a strange, inappropriate confidence. I wait for his reaction, which is surprisingly amused.

“Good to see you're catching on,” he teases. “I was being polite by calling you a waitress. But you said it, not me.” A tall, slender woman saunters into the room with a tray in her hand. She shoots me a deadly glare, then finds every excuse to touch Mr. Calabria.

“Boss,” she whispers seductively. “Come to my room later.” He looks at her blankly, then rolls his eyes and waves her away. She sets down food in front of him and a small portion for me, then smirks at him one last time before hurrying out.

“He lays down the law, clear and simple. “Rule one: you answer to me, and only me. If any of the other guys want something from you, they go through me.

“Rule two: you call me what I tell you to call me. Rule three: you respect me. Fear works too. But if you disrespect me, you’ll regret it.

“Final rule: don’t let the other guys touch you. Break these rules, and you’ll be punished. My way.”

His smirk is cruel, but the way he says “you’ll be punished” sends a shiver down my spine and a warmth pooling in my panties. Why am I reacting this way to this man? My captor?

He’s taken me, claims he owns me, sets rules that I have to follow to avoid punishment, and I’m drawn to him. Could this be Stockholm syndrome?

I used to think that was the most absurd idea, but now, I’m not so sure.

I should be repulsed by him. I should want to look away, to escape.

That’s how I’ve felt with other men who’ve used me. But now, I’m not sure what I’m feeling.

Can I really blame this man for kidnapping me when he saved me from such a miserable life? I can’t imagine things getting worse, or better. Maybe I’m destined for this dark, abusive world.

It keeps finding me.

No, I can’t let this happen. I hate him. I’ll make myself hate him if I have to. I may be broken, but I’m not weak. I’m strong.

I need to find a way out, and I need to be smart about it. If Tony Calabria finds me here, I’m not getting out. I need to escape, and soon. I’ll follow orders, be obedient, and wait for the right moment.

“You live alone,” he says, and while I wonder how he knows that, I also wonder why he’s bringing it up. I just nod. “What about your parents?”

“They’re dead,” I say softly, still shaken by his commanding tone.

“You have no one? What about the guy from the diner? He seemed pretty upset when he saw you.” Enzo raises an eyebrow at me, curious.

“He’s a friend,” I say quickly, not wanting J to get involved any more than he already is. Enzo said they were going to rough him up a bit, as a warning. I wonder if J is okay. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about him, considering I might not be okay. That thought takes over my mind, causing a dull ache in my head. It’s like someone put a brace on my head and started squeezing.

“No,” he snaps, making me look at him. “Don’t lie to me. Do you want to be punished?”

“No...” I whisper, my stomach knotting with fear. I try to think of calming things... puppies playing in the park... cotton candy and bubbles at the fair... clouds against a bright blue sky... a full moon in a pitch-black sky... anything but this life...

“Tell me the truth about him,” he orders, his voice barely raised but each word is a threat.

“H-he...” I stutter, trying to calm myself down. “He gave me a job when I had nothing. He asked me out yesterday a-and he kissed me. This morning, I was attacked and I couldn’t go back to my apartment, so he offered for me to stay with him.”

“Attacked?” he asks, his honey-colored eyes darkening to black in an instant.

“My n-neighbor,” I say, not feeling the need to elaborate. He knows what I mean by attacked, even if he doesn’t know all the details. I’m not sure it matters how he interprets it, I’ve been attacked in every way possible, emotionally scarred for life.

Why is he so angry? He’s no different from the rest of them. He sees me as an object to use. I’m not sure if it’s worth fighting, worth trying to escape. Fate will just trap me again. Life is just cruel.

“Get out,” he growls, and I don’t argue. I hurry to the door and find the stoic man waiting for me.

“Fucking trouble,” he mutters. What does he mean?