The Mafia's mistress (His temptation)

I always knew my mother didn’t love me. Even as a small child, I could feel it. Other kids had mothers who held their hands, who smiled and laughed with them. But my mother barely looked at me, and when she did, her eyes were hard, as if she resented me just for being there.

I didn’t understand why, not at first. But as I grew older, I started to understand the things she whispered to herself late at night, when she thought I was asleep. “If only I hadn’t gotten pregnant,” she’d say, her voice bitter, “my life wouldn’t be like this.” I didn’t like hearing those words, but deep down, I knew she blamed me for everything that had gone wrong in her life.

My mother got pregnant with me out of wedlock, and my father didn’t want a baby. I don’t remember him; I’ve never even seen a picture of him. He left before I was born, long before I ever had a chance to meet him. I used to wonder if he thought about me, if he ever felt bad about leaving us. But I don’t think he did. To him, I was a mistake—something he wanted to erase, something he walked away from without looking back.

It wasn’t just my father who abandoned us. My mother’s parents—the people who should’ve helped her—turned their backs on her, too. They said she’d brought shame to the family by getting pregnant without a husband. To them, I was proof of that shame. I was the child that shouldn’t have happened, and because of that, they acted like neither of us existed. My mother was all alone, and she had no one to rely on.

So, we lived alone in a tiny apartment. It was dark and cramped, and everything inside was old and worn. The walls were thin, and we could hear our neighbors arguing or playing loud music late into the night. It was never a place that felt like home, not to me. Home should be warm, safe, and filled with love. But our apartment was just four walls that trapped us both inside.

As I got older, I noticed the bills piling up. They were everywhere—on the table, the countertops, even stuffed into drawers. My mother would stare at them for hours, her face tight with worry. And whenever I asked her if something was wrong, she’d snap at me, telling me to mind my own business. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. Those bills were like a ticking clock, counting down to the moment when everything would fall apart.

It didn’t help that I was there, just one more mouth to feed. I couldn’t do anything to help, and to my mother, that made me a burden. I’d hear her talking to herself sometimes, saying things like, “If I didn’t have to take care of her, I could get back on my feet.” She acted like everything that had gone wrong in her life was because of me, like I was the reason she couldn’t find happiness.

I tried to stay out of her way as much as I could. I’d keep quiet, do my chores, and stay in my room. But nothing I did was ever enough to make her happy. If I tried to talk to her, she’d push me away. If I asked her to spend time with me, she’d roll her eyes, as if I were just a nuisance. She made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me, and over time, I stopped trying.

One night, when I was lying in bed, I overheard her talking to someone on the phone. Her voice was low, but I could hear the desperation in it. “I can’t keep doing this,” she said. “I don’t have the money to take care of her.” There was a long pause, and then she added, “She’s useless to me. She’s only making things harder.”

My heart sank. I had always known she didn’t love me, but hearing her say those words hurt in a way I couldn’t describe. I curled up under my thin blanket, trying to block out her voice, but the words kept echoing in my head. “Useless.” “A burden.” I’d heard those words before, but hearing her say them so clearly felt like a knife to my heart.

The next morning, she barely looked at me. She seemed different, colder somehow, like she had already decided something and there was no going back. I wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but I was too afraid of what she might say. So, I stayed quiet and went about my day, hoping that whatever was bothering her would pass.

But it didn’t.

A few days later, she told me to get dressed. She said we were going somewhere important, but she wouldn’t tell me where. She just told me to hurry up, her voice sharp and impatient. I quickly put on my best dress—it was old and faded, but it was all I had. As we walked, I felt a strange sense of dread growing in my stomach. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

We arrived at a large, dark building, and my mother led me inside without saying a word. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume, making me feel sick. A tall woman was waiting for us. She had a hard look in her eyes, and when she saw me, she sneered, as if she already knew everything about me. I didn’t like the way she looked at me—it made me feel small and worthless.

“This is her?” the woman asked, looking at my mother. My mother nodded, barely glancing in my direction. The woman walked over to me, her eyes cold as she looked me up and down, like I was a piece of meat she was inspecting.

“She’ll do,” the woman said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. She pulled out a stack of money and handed it to my mother, who took it without a second thought. My heart stopped as I realized what was happening. She was selling me, trading me away like an old, unwanted object.

I looked at my mother, hoping she’d change her mind, hoping she’d look at me and realize what she was doing. But she didn’t even meet my eyes. She just took the money, turned around, and walked away. The door slammed behind her, and the sound echoed in my ears, final and unforgiving. I was alone.

The woman’s voice snapped me out of my shock. “Follow me,” she ordered, and I had no choice but to obey. She led me down a dark hallway, the air thick with the smell of smoke and perfume. My heart was pounding, and I felt like I could barely breathe. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, but I knew it wouldn’t be anything good.

She took me to a small, bare room with a cold metal bed and a thin, tattered blanket. She told me to stay there and locked the door behind me. I sank down onto the bed, my mind spinning with fear and anger. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. My mother had sold me, just like that. She didn’t even hesitate. To her, I was just a burden she could finally get rid of.

Sitting alone in that cold, dark room, I felt a wave of anger rise up inside me. I hated her for what she had done, for all the years she had made me feel worthless, for abandoning me like I was nothing. But that anger quickly turned to fear as I thought about what might come next. I didn’t know where I was or what these people wanted from me, but I knew I was trapped.

For the first time in my life, I truly understood what it meant to be powerless. I was just a girl with no one to help her, no one who cared if she lived or died.