The Monster's Addiction (Completed)

Chapter 2

MIA

The length of time was starting to get lost on me as my throat grew dry and chalky. The bitter taste of my own saliva was making me nauseous, but that was the least of my concern at the moment.

I needed the fix.

I needed the fix desperately that I wished this man—this monster—would just have his way with me and let me have the drugs in return. The craving was beginning to churn my intestines—inside-out—sending bolts of spasms. I knew it would be a matter of time when the cramps would start.

I hated this feeling more than being r***d or beaten.

This drug withdrawal faltered my will to exist every moment of every day.

'I am taking you home,' he said. The words kept ringing for some time in my ears.

I don't have a home.

I don't want a home.

I wanted drugs.

As he carried me outside the house, several heavily armed men followed behind him. No matter how much I would grate and protest, I knew this blue-eyed monster wouldn't let me down. He didn't need to bark his orders, unlike the men I had seen before because threat layered his persona like a second skin.

"I will drive, leave," he ordered a man who held out the door of a car opened for him. Nodding, the man scrambled away quickly behind us.

Shoving me inside the car, he took the driver's seat before slamming the door with a loud thud. Unnerved and disconcerted with a fuzzy brain, I seized the fraction of the moment to unlock the door. And when it didn't, my fists banged frantically against the dark, tinted windows.

"Dammit!" He snatched the wrists away, locking them in his hand. "The glass won't break with a bullet, let alone your soft hands. You will only make it worse."

Instinct made me pull against his hold, but it took a mere tug on his part to make me collide against his solid muscle. An oceanic and masculine whiff caught my nose, bewildered, I inhaled it like a drug.

"I need...I need it..." My voice was coarse like sandpaper.

"I know," he murmured as if he understood. But he didn't. Nobody would.

When his grip slackened, I pulled my wrists free to thrash at him out of helplessness. But he was too quick. Gripping tighter than before, this time I saw true rage directed at me. "Enough! One: don't fight me, you think you can match my strength? Two: don't move an inch. Let me repeat it for your understanding; I don't want to hurt you. So don't make me. Clear?"

Words escaped me as I bobbed my head.

Disapproval flared in his eyes. "No. I don't read minds, girl. Tell me verbally that you have understood. You can speak, I know that."

"Yes," I answered meekly.

The stoic expression returned to his face, and he nodded as if he accepted my response. "Good," came the stiff approval. Reaching back, he pulled out a bottle of water behind the seat and placed on my lap. "The ride's not going to be long, but you're dehydrated. Drink up."

As I stared at the bottle—bewildered—he returned his attention to the car. The engine roared in no time, and he pushed the gas pedal to the floor, making the vehicle propel to its highest possible speed.

My memory slowly reeled back to all those times when I was placed inside a vehicle, hurdled into like an animal. It was always the same—tied, blindfolded, gagged so we would not know anything about the location. To this day, I still didn't know where I was.

"Where...where is this?" I dared to ask.

He threw me a disbelieving look but quickly amended and wheeled back his attention on the road. "You don't know where you were?"

I shook my head slowly, looking ahead. I felt his sideways glance on me, so I didn't bother to use my words.

"Chicago," came the clinical reply.

A small part of me felt relieved because this city was home—my home once upon a time. But this was not unknown to us or the whole world that Chicago was the longstanding center of Mafia and other illegal activities.

As the car drove down the streets, I could feel the weight of the situation. Despite having the loud sirens of hell ringing in my brain, I started grasping the circumstances—now more clearly than ever.

Another a*******n.

Another hellhole.

Another man's slave.

When will this ever stop? I wondered leaning back my head against the soft leather padding on the car seat.

I had no idea who he was, but that didn't mean I couldn't comprehend the imminent danger that he embodied. If one could bring Antonio to his knees—begging and sobbing—in a matter of a few minutes, what would he do to me?

The car came to a screeching halt as my body jerked forward, dragging me back to the present. I looked out the tinted windows at the mansion with a befuddled expression. An exquisitely built residence dotted with guards all around it. In a flash, the man was on my side pulling me out of the car.

"I—where..." I stammered, but he didn't bother to pay any attention.

The grip tightened a little around my elbows as hauled me into the mansion and through the stairs, only to halt for a moment when he barked an order at someone, "Ask Dominic to meet me in the office in 15." He, then, dismissed the man at the flick of his finger. A moment later, I found myself inside an obnoxiously huge bedroom plastered in grey walls and dark curtains.

"Sit down," he pointed at the couch, as he took his suit jacket off. Hesitantly, I did before he perched on the glass-top table in front of me.

"What are you going to do with me?" I blurted out before I could filter my words. One thing I had learned in my years of captivity that it is slightly easy to endure the torture if you knew what was coming for you. Be it r**e, the whip or the degradation of any other kind--it was easier to brace yourself for the incoming danger.

He watched me intently without letting a single emotion flash over his features, leaning in a little more threateningly than I would prefer. "I believe, some introductions are in order first. Do you know who am I?"

Did I want to know? I shook my head slowly.

"My name is Viktor Romano," he stated with a proud undertone.

My eyes squinted trying hard to recall the name 'Romano' I have had heard somewhere before. And no sooner, the recollection of memory filled me than my eyes went wide in terror.

Romano was a name every person who lived in Chicago knew. A family so powerful, so ruthless that they had the whole city under their will. Their word was law in Chicago and nothing off-limits for them. They were known as criminal royalty for generations.

"Yeah, you heard of us," he judged reading from my expressions.

"What are you going to do with me?" I repeated, this time more terrified than ever. And when his fingers closed around my wrists, the physical struggle began anew.

"Easy, easy, now," he urged. "We are just talking. I want to know your name." His fingers kept brushing over my bruised wrists in circular motions.

"Mia," I whispered hoarsely.

"A little louder," he pressed even though I knew he heard me.

"Mia...my name is Mia."

"Mia," he echoed, nodding with approval. "Where are you from, Mia?"

"Here... Chicago."

"You were kidnapped from this city? What about your family?"

I shook my head, swallowing a knot at the back of my throat. "My step-father...he sent me away."

"And your mother?"

"Dead," I whispered in a small voice.

He stayed silent for a moment, glancing down at the wounded wrists. "These wounds need to be sterilized. Scratches from rusted iron ain't good." He directly looked at me and asked, "Are you hungry?"

A heavy sigh weighed down my chest. "What do I have to do for food?" I asked. We, the slave girls, were not given food until we do something in return for the owners who bought us. And that was the way we had to earn each day's meal.

His eyebrows furrowed, regarding my face for a bit. "You don't have to do anything. You have to eat," he specified and got on his feet. "You need it to eat," he said with conviction this time. "Don't leave the room until I come back. That's washroom,"—he pointed across the room—"get fresh if you want. I'll arrange clothes for you by then." He didn't bother waiting for my answer and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Everything happened so fast and so differently—my mind was spinning. Sweat beads covered my forehead, breathing labored, and it was more than twenty-hours I had my fix. I knew these symptoms far better than anyone else. My body kept alternating between the feeling of extreme coldness and then insanely feverish—like my skin was on fire or something.

In this particular state, there wasn't a single trail of rational thought left in my mind. Desperation turned into something ugly leading from one wrong decision to another.

Walking up to the door, I peeked out into the long corridor leading to the staircase. It was empty—there was no sign of guards anywhere.

"Run. Run for your life," the ugly inner voice rose above all the garbled thoughts swarming in my head, and I did what it told me.

I sprinted. But I didn't even make it to the stairs as a huge arm enclosed against my waist. A sharp tug and I crashed against a wall of hard muscles.

Even before I could yelp, his other hand clamped over my mouth, his hot breath against my ears. "You are too predictable."

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