My Tragic Mafia Life | ✔️

17

Josephine jerked when the water hit. Cold and frosty, icy and burning against bare skin. Slick blood rushed to her head, the haze of brimming lights sawing her eyes shut. Though she wanted them open.

"Wait up sleepyhead," She heard someone chirp in her distress, the sound of amusement running deep from the voice.

Another wave of cold water set her lurching. But she was halted back. Thick ropes of ugly brown prickled across her wrists, behind her, scuffing around her skin. She winced, the bounds revealing bright red claw marks.

In front of her, was a leveled Beatriz holding an empty bucket, her face arrogant and haughty. To the slim walls, all made of wood and snogs, stood more figures. Scruffy faces. Josephine couldn't tell who.

Through soaked clothes, she glanced down to notice her limbs were tightly strapped to a chair in the center of the room. All gazes ripping towards her. Her attention shifted to Beatriz. "What's going on?"

Not a good question. Nor a good choice of first words as the tan male she suddenly remembered prior revealed a smile that was not kind. "You know what, filth."

She didn't know, and struggling in her binds, a sneer from Beatriz at her weak-willed attempts, left Josephine's heart starting to hum frantically. The situation was strange. They were all strange.

"What were you doing last night?" Someone said, and all the figures jumped back. In the haze of the room void of sunlight, only oily lamps made of copper lit her views, a domineering male towered over Josephine.

Dante. Even in the barest glimpse of light, Josephine saw that he still wore his uniform. A bit unruly, battered in areas revealing his unkempt appearance, and the evidence of their brawl at school, but enough so to show off his toned body. Body of a demon.

Body of a man who shot guns at students.

Josephine flickered to the gun holstered at his side, avoiding his eyesight. Keen, and ugly on her. It was dark enough to convince her that he could fire into her any moment if he chose to do so. "What's your intention?" Dante said, cold enough to tell her that his question was a demand.

Josephine willed herself to look into his eyes, biting back on nerves. "Good morning." She said flatly.

Someone snickered behind her. A tightened glare from Dante, and the laughter was gone.

Josephine levied the words. Morning. Was it even morning? It had been late last night when everything occurred, but Dante hadn't refused her greeting... She must have slept here, bound in the chair.

Josephine shivered under Dante's gaze. It made sense that she spent the night given the aches and strains from each pull and twist Josephine gave the rope, and the response that came to each arm and leg, frozen and at unease and burning from their unnatural position throughout the night.

Josephine tried to survey the students, and was surprised to recognize the faces from last night. Deena and her hoops, Isla and her lover.  The one who likes going on all fours. Josephine recalled from below, catching flashes of lush, jaded hair. The rest of the figures churned memories, but Josephine only knew their faces. Not their names. Everything was dizzying, even the lights. Josephine groaned.

"You seem to have a hard time remembering," Someone snarled above her. When her distress couldn't reach the person speaking to her, and her limbs wouldn't bother to work, the voice helped. By gripping onto her hair, right at the roots so she could feel it tearing, and thrusted her face upwards.

It was the tan boy. In between Josephine's cries of pain, he eyed her full of disgust. "How boring. This is what the Russo's sent over to us?"

Isla's voice, near above a whisper but firm, firm and sturdy, leap against Josephine. "Houston," She said, almost wordlessly telling him to stop. But it wasn't a command, it was a warning. A piece of advice. "Don't be too extreme. She could be innocent."