His Kitten

ROSIE

My eyes were heavy, but I was aware of my surroundings. Well, sort of. Aware enough to know I didn’t want to open my eyes.

I could feel a cloth in my mouth, tied in place.

Rope dug into my wrists, pinned behind my back so I couldn’t move them. The same as my ankles. The rope bit into my flesh, chafing my skin. I was lying on something soft, though, not on the floor.

I forced my eyes open, then I panicked.

I was in a room. Light shone through a large window. I was on a sofa. But that’s not what had me panicked.

Standing in the room were two large men, similarly dressed to the ones that had grabbed me. Seeing the daylight streaming through the window, I assumed that had been last night.

I struggled against the bonds and tried to scream through the gag, but it came out as a whimper.

As soon as they heard me, one of the men looked over in my direction. They were different from the men last night. Who were they? How many of them were there?

“Sembra che la nostra piccola puttana si sia finalmente svegliata.” He scoffed. [It looks like our little whore has finally woken up.]

He started to walk toward me, causing me to panic more.

I felt tears trickle down my face. I hadn’t even realized I was crying as I strained against the bindings and squealed through the gag.

His hand wrapped around my throat. Tight enough to be a threat, but I was still able to breathe.

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

I quickly nodded, whimpering through the gag.

He licked his lips and looked across at the other man, smirking. The other man 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 gripping my throat chuckled.

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

Then I felt his hand…sliding underneath my T-shirt, his fingers gliding across the skin of my stomach.

I screamed and arched my back, trying to pull away from him. His grip around my neck shifted as he grabbed my hair, yanking my head back.

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

I could tell it was some sort of insult. I had never been a screamer or a crier, but now I couldn’t help myself as I sobbed through the gag, and tears streamed down my cheeks.

His hand moved to my breast and gave it a sharp squeeze.

“Così reattivo.” He smirked. [So responsive.]

I screamed again, in between sobs. His hand let go of my hair. “Ho detto di stare zitto!” he growled. [I said, shut up!]

With each syllable, his hand slammed down on the bare skin of my upper thigh.

It hurt so bad. All I could hear was the sound of my heart thudding against my ribcage and the noise of my sobs through the gag. I screwed my eyes shut, trying to blot out what was happening, knowing that it would only get worse.

A third voice invaded my senses. It was deep, dominant, and authoritative.

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

I felt his hands leave 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, and my whole body started to shake. If it hadn’t been for the gag, I would have been sick.

“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.]

I heard several voices respond, “Sì, Don Marchesi.” [Yes, Don Marchesi.]

I felt bile rise in my throat as I realized who these people were. They were speaking Italian... they called him Don. This was the Mob. The Italian Mafia.

I felt the sofa dip as someone sat on it. I wanted to stop crying, but I couldn’t.

I felt a hand gently touch my head. I flinched and tried to pull away as I sobbed a little harder.

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

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

At least I could understand what he said.

I opened my eyes. Everything was a blur as tears clouded my 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 pulled at the ropes. The ropes fell away, and my hands and ankles were free.

Before I had a chance to do anything, I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist and another slide under my knees as I was lifted off the sofa.

I felt the urge to struggle and fight back, but this man had saved me. He’d killed the man that was about to rape me—I was sure of that.

Instead, I just carried on crying. I couldn’t help myself. I realized that 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 was working for? The reason why I had to hide in my room when he had business associates over?

Then I heard his voice again. Its deep tone soothing me when it really should be frightening me.

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

When he spoke to me, it was mostly in English. Sometimes a strange word would be thrown in, which I assumed was Italian.

The words were never spoken harshly, though. Not like the others had spoken. I guessed their words were curses or insults.

He carried me up the stairs of what seemed like a mansion. Even the staircase was double the size of a normal one.

Then he took me into a bedroom. I panicked immediately. Maybe I had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire.

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

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

“P-please…don’t…,” I whimpered.

He frowned, then he gently stroked my face.

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

***

I now had a chance to look at not only my captor but 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 put the thought from my mind.

For a Mafia boss, he wasn’t old. Probably the same age as my dad. He was a lot more muscular than my dad, though.

His complexion was darker too. His hair was dark brown, almost black and his eyes were dark brown. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, which did little to hide his sharp jawline or the scar that ran across his cheek.

He was dressed similarly to the other men. I say similarly because his clothes were clearly designer, while theirs were off-the-peg.

He didn’t wear a tie either, just a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone. A gold chain adorned his neck. His forearms had a large tattoo, which I could only assume continued right up his arm.

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

His thumb grazed across my cheek.

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

He stood up and walked across the room. He opened a set of double doors, which hid a walk-in closet.

When he returned, he was carrying a shirt and a pair of boxers. He put them down 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 really an option. Home was probably still crawling 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 lame 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 huge shower, a big corner bathtub with jets, and double sinks with mirrors above each one. There was a big heated towel rail on one wall, 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 that 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.