5

The car hummed along the dark road like a black panther, sleek and deadly, eating up the miles. The city lights bled through the tinted windows, turning my reflection into a night ghost. I was happy to see them. They were a nice change from the plain black I’ve been accustomed to. I could feel the presence of the big guy beside me. He was leaning back like he owned the world on all-inclusive basis. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Outside, the city oozed past—liquor stores that never closed, bars spilling drunks onto cracked sidewalks, and those sad 24-hour diners that reek of stale coffee and broken dreams.

I couldn’t make sense of it yet. I felt like I’d been caught in a riptide and dragged half a mile out to sea to drown. My mother had been wheeled off to one of his doctors as soon as we reached the car. The goon with the bad attitude promised me she’d get “the best care money can buy,” but somehow that didn’t make me feel like I’d won the lottery.

Now it was just me and the big guy in the back seat, the silence sitting between us like a third passenger. I caught myself thinking how his shoulder had felt under my fingers—hot, tense, as if the devil himself couldn’t hurt him. Or how his mouth had tasted—smoky, dark, and greedy.

I didn’t give away my thoughts, just sat there like a piece of luggage with a pulse. The big guy was breathing heavy beside me, arms stretched like a man who’d wrestled the world and come out yawning. He hadn’t said a word since we left the Rick’s place. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe silence was just his way of telling me I didn’t matter.

I kept my face blank, my eyes unfocused—just a blind girl, blinking through the blur, pretending not to count streetlights. My vision was coming and going, like an unreliable friend. I saw shapes, outlines, the occasional stab of detail—but I kept my act airtight. I wasn’t ready to let the big guy know I could see just enough to figure he was trouble.

My mother was in his care—and for her sake, I had to play along. The air in the car was thick with leather and whatever cologne he wore that made my panties moist. His presence was exciting and heavy—like gravity with a chain-smoking habit.

My sore mind was stuck replaying the same bitter loop: the hospital room, Ricky’s betrayal, my mother’s blank stare. I’d been sold off like yesterday’s catch at the fish market. Fresh today, rotten tomorrow. And now I was stuck in the hands of a man who could break me in half and wouldn’t even bother to inspect the damage.

I didn’t realize I was gripping my hands so tight my knuckles went white until he glanced at me, smirked, and made a sound that was halfway between amusement and disdain.

“You’re wound up like a cheap clock,” he said, his voice sliding through the air like a blade.

I swallowed down the bile crawling up my throat. “Maybe it’s because I was just handed over like a sack of laundry.”

He raised an eyebrow, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to take me apart and see how I ticked. “You’re not much of a prize right now. But I’ll fix it.”

That stung. I turned away, looking out at the city lights smeared across the window. It was better than looking at him—at the way his eyes seemed to peel my skin off, finding the bruised parts underneath.

“Why did you help me?” I blurted out, and my voice sounded weaker than I wanted it to. “Why did you take my mother?”

He didn’t answer right away, just poured himself a drink from the bar in the back. Whiskey, dark and rich, looked like it had soaked up a few sins on the way from the bottle to his glass. He took a slow sip, then glanced at me over the rim. He didn’t offer me a drink. I guess property doesn’t get a glass poured for it.

“Don’t get sentimental. I don’t help people. I collect rents. This time your mother came with the package.”

That word—“package”—was a nasty punchline. I jerked to face him, but he was too calm, too composed, like he’d just said the sky was blue.

“Package?” I echoed.

He feigned surprise, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He tossed it onto my lap, and I picked it up, trying to focus my blurry vision on the printed text. My eyesight was playing tricks, shifting between sharp and soft, but I could make out the important parts: my name, Ricky’s signature, and a lot of legal stuff. All that boiled down to one simple fact—I was officially a property. The big guy’s possession. The clauses were degrading enough to make bile rise in my throat. It was everything short of a receipt, complete with an inventory of rights he had over me—body, mind, and soul.

My stomach twisted like a knife had been shoved into it and given a good hard turn. But my face didn’t show a hint of emotion. “What is it?” I asked.

He pulled it from my laps and read it aloud, with grim satisfaction in his self-indulging voice. I didn’t flinch, just promised myself that one day he will pay for this voice.

“Ricky. He signed me over,” I summed up.

His lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yep. You were all he had left to barter. He needed to save his neck. You didn’t expect the little weasel actually fight for you, did you?”

I wanted to scream, hit something—anything to crack through the ice building inside me. Instead, I forced my voice to stay calm. “And you just signed the deal.”

He set his glass down and leaned back, spreading his legs like a king on his throne. “Sweetheart, I don’t let opportunities slip through my fingers. I didn’t take you because I wanted to save you. I took you because it was a good business decision.”

I stared back at him, blank and cold, with blind wandering eyes. For a split second, I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face with my fists. “You think you own me?”

He leaned in close, too close, until his lips were just a whiskey breath away. “You’re mine now,” he murmured, his voice a slow, dark drawl. “So you’d better get used to the idea.”

The car stopped like a coffin sliding into place. The engine purred once more and died.

Outside, the air was thick with coastal chill and the stink of money. The kind that gets laundered in blood and smoke instead of Swiss banks. I stepped out into the fresh air prepared to be auctioned at an al fresco estate sale.

The well-spanned mansion rose in front of us like it was carved out of God’s worst mood—dark stone, sharp edges, windows shaped like watchful eyes. It looked like a place Dracula would retire to - stone columns, gargoyles on the roof, and a heavy vibe of ‘trespassers are buried in the back yard.’ It had a lot of forest sprawling behind the finely cut lawn, and a neat drive that lead to the stone stairs.

I heard them before I saw them—leather soles scuffing gravel, voices low and menacing, steeped in violence and vintage port. A handful of men stood in a loose cluster by the stairs, the gang’s brain trust I reckoned. You could tell by the way they didn’t flinch when the big guy got close. Their fear had moulded into loyalty—or maybe it was just a well-managed hatred.

He stepped out first. I followed, careful to keep my steps deliberate, my gaze just a fraction too wide, like someone chasing shadows. The blind act had to hold.

The older fat guy with a face like rusted sheet and a voice you could sand wood with, gave me the once-over and curled his lip.

“Bringing home another stray, huh?”

I was used to being looked at like I didn’t belong. This was different. This was someone inspecting the bruises on a fruit before tossing it into the discount bin. My eyes were full of a blank expression. But I noted the rusty face of that old guy. Leo Christofides may be blind, but she remembers things, and she pays her debts with interest. Eventually, but without fail. It is too bad I have a soft spot for the big guy. Even I have the right to indulge myself after being engaged to a randy loser like Rick Marconi.

The big guy’s didn’t stop walking, just nodded at his mates like Caesar dropping by the Senate. He didn’t blink at the old guy’s comment. Just smiled, slow and feral, like a guy who enjoyed making other guys regret things. Then he turned and said it—smooth, casual, like commenting on bad weather.

“Not a stray,” he said. “My wife.”

The word hit me like a slap. Just sharp enough to sting and leave a red mark no one else could see. For a second I forgot how to stand. I am this elk’s bloody wife. The word didn’t belong in the big guy’s mouth. Not next to the salty taste of human blood all over it. Not after the contract he recited to me like a supermarket receipt. My throat closed up like it had something nasty to hide. Who knows? Maybe it did.

The old men muttered behind us—one coughed like he’d swallowed a bullet the wrong way. Another grunted, “Didn’t think you had a sentimental streak, man.”

The big guy ignored them, of course. The power doesn’t explain. It just walks ahead and expects you to follow.

But I wasn’t ready to go along with his mood swings. I was processing the “wife” remark, and couldn’t decide what to make of it. So I looked past the big guy, as if he was just an empty space filled with foul smell. His head turned, just enough for me to see the corner of his mouth twitch. I couldn’t see it as far as he was concerned. The big guy abruptly turned his head to me.

He must have remembered I was blind.

He came up to me and his large, warm hand slid to the middle of my back, casual to anyone watching, but it might as well have been a shackle. I didn’t hate it that much, and that made me feel sick.

He leaned in, just enough for only me to hear. “Play the part,” he murmured. “Trust me—it’ll be better that way.”

Trust him. No kidding. That’s the trouble with men like the big guy. They don’t shoot you in the back. They hand you the gun and let you do it yourself.

I straightened up, blinked hard to push through the blur that came and went like a weak signal. I put on that tight smile I used to wear at charity balls—back when my life was pointe shoes and the illusion of success.

His gang parted to let us pass. One of them, a tall glass of vinegar with a gun-shaped bulge under his coat, muttered, “Hope she’s not as delicate as the last one.”

The big man turned his head slightly. “She’s made of steel.”

And just like that, the tension crackled. Every eye was on me, judging.

Silence fell unexpectedly. Not a word, not a sound of gravel under the feet. I walked along to the black double doors and stood in front of them. They were motionless and too shiny. I pushed them open and I looked inside. A hand I could have easily hide in took hold of my waist and squashed it like a squeaky toy. Then the hand moved me through that door and lifted me up a few steps. The large face turned to me. A deep voice said:

“Not bad, huh? Needs a woman’s touch.”

I shivered just a little. It was much colder inside. It was dark. From up above came vague sounds of busy human voices. But we were alone. The big guy stared at me and went on wrecking my ribs with his large hand.

“A stray,” he said, “I’ll throw him out. You’ll watch me throwing him out. You’ll enjoy watching it.”

He meant the old fat guy. That much was clear.

“I can’t watch it. I’m blind,” I said flatly.

He grinned.

“You will hear it then. All the better.”

Then he added, under his breath, like it was just between us and the ghosts in the walls:

“I told them you are my wife for a reason. You have to play along. I don’t want them start fussing.”

He didn’t explain why.

I guessed. And I didn’t like the idea. If the big guy’s marriage stunt was aimed at someone in his mafia circle—I wasn’t just a blind pawn.

I was a loaded weapon.

I turned toward him, lips curling into a tired smile. He didn’t react, didn’t care even to look at me. The big guy made a mistake forgetting I wasn’t born yesterday. I nodded, staring past his big ear. He grunted, letting go of my waist. The ribs didn’t seem to be broken, but the back was sore and numb. I sighed, and just as I breathed out, he grabbed my waist again. His lips brushed my ear—not a kiss, just an alcohol infused whisper. He didn’t bite my head off, not on this occasion. He put me back on the floor and walked ahead, hands in his pockets, calm as a sermon, leaving me standing in the middle of my new prison. It crossed my mind the wife thing wasn’t about me, nor it was about the ownership. It was about burning some other guy. I felt used and flattered at the same time. The middle aged maid with a mass of wavy salt-and-pepper hair appeared from nowhere. I couldn’t hear a sound as she walked across the polished parquet floor. Her soft hand carefully touched my elbow:

“Let me help you up the stairs, Madame.”