Don't Mess with A Mafia Princess

The door creaked open, revealing a burly man with rough stubble and a malicious gleam in his eyes. His presence filled the room, oppressive and suffocating. He leaned against the doorframe, flashing a lecherous grin that made my skin crawl.

"Wench, you'd better not try to run. There's no escape," he said, his voice oily with false charm. "How about this—be a good girl and let me have some fun with you. In return, you can be my mistress. Forget about those one thousand dollars altogether. What do you think?"

His tone was laced with entitlement, as though he expected me to be grateful for such a vile offer. My pulse quickened with both fear and anger, but I forced myself to stay calm.

As he spoke, he moved closer, his eyes gleaming with lust as his hand reached toward my waist. His breath reeked of stale tobacco, the stench making my stomach twist in disgust.

I rolled my eyes, masking my fear with defiance and moved away swiftly. "I wouldn't even sleep with a mafia don and you think I'd stoop to taking some lackey? If you're looking for a prostitute, try the streets! You shameless, disgusting—"

Before I could finish, his expression darkened, and in a flash, he clamped his thick hand around my neck. The pressure was immediate and suffocating, cutting off my air. Panic surged through me as I clawed at his hand, but his grip was unyielding.

"I'll give you one last chance," he growled, his face inches from mine, his foul breath making me gag. "Think carefully before you speak!"

I struggled desperately, but his grip only tightened. Realizing I couldn't break free by force, I choked out, "Let's... talk this out..."

He loosened his hold slightly, a smug grin spreading across his face as he released me. I stumbled back, coughing violently, the air rushing into my lungs in ragged gasps.

"So, you're saying you're willing to have a little fun, huh?" he said, his voice dripping with triumph.

Before I could respond, I caught a glimpse of movement behind him. A middle-aged woman had entered the room unnoticed. Her sharp eyes locked onto the scene and I could sense the rising storm.

An idea formed in my mind and I decided to play along. Masking my trembling hands, I straightened up and sneered, "Don't you have a wife? Why are you even thinking about sleeping with me? Aren't you afraid she'll find out?"

The man's expression twisted with annoyance and his voice grew louder. "Don't mention her! She's as fat as a pig!" He spat on the floor in disgust. "If you want to be my mistress, I'll shower you with gold and jewels—"

Before he could finish, a loud smack echoed through the room as the woman behind him slapped the back of his head with surprising force.

"You lecherous old creep! How dare you mess around right under my nose? I'll kill you today!" she shrieked, fury evident in her voice.

The man whipped around, startled. "You crazy hag! Don't you dare lay a hand on me!"

Their argument escalated rapidly, voices overlapping in a chaotic mess of shouting and insults. Seeing the opportunity, I decided to fan the flames further. "If you can beat your wife, maybe I'll consider being your mistress. But if you can't even handle her, what kind of man are you?"

The man's face turned an alarming shade of red and with a roar of frustration, he shoved the woman, who retaliated immediately. They were soon locked in a fierce scuffle, oblivious to everything around them.

Seizing my chance, I crouched low and slipped out of the room. The hallway was dimly lit, but I didn't stop to take in my surroundings. I limped toward the staircase, the earlier beating leaving my leg weak and throbbing with pain.

Just as I reached the door leading to the stairs, a shout rang out behind me. They had spotted me. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I pushed forward, ignoring the searing pain in my leg.

From the second-floor railing, I caught sight of my dad in the restaurant lobby below, surrounded by his entourage. He was heading toward the exit, his usual composed demeanor intact. Relief and desperation flooded me in equal measure. This was my last hope.

I opened my mouth to call out, but before I could utter a word, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me backward.

Panic flared in my chest. I thrashed wildly, but the grip was too strong. Realizing I couldn't break free, I made a split-second decision. Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I stomped down hard on my assailant's foot and twisted in his grip. He yelped in pain, his hold loosening just enough for me to turn and shove him with all my might.

The force sent him tumbling over the second-floor railing. Time seemed to slow as he flailed in the air before plummeting toward the ground below.

The restaurant lobby had an unusually high ceiling—the second floor was equivalent to a regular third floor. Falling from such a height would almost certainly result in serious injury, if not death.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on it. If I didn't escape now, I'd be as good as dead. I didn't even have time to brace myself as I flung myself over the railing.

A loud splash echoed through the lobby as I landed in the massive fish tank positioned in the center of the room. The glass shattered on impact, sending water, shattered glass and flopping fish scattering across the marble floor.

Pain shot through my body as shards of glass sliced into my skin. Blood dripped from small cuts on my face and arms, pooling beneath me in the growing puddle of water. Though the fish tank had cushioned my fall somewhat, my legs and arms throbbed with pain, leaving me nearly immobile.

A shocked silence fell over the lobby, broken only by the sound of water dripping and the soft gasps of onlookers.

Just as my vision began to blur from the pain, I saw my dad turn his head, alerted by the commotion. His eyes locked onto mine, his expression darkening with a mixture of shock and displeasure.

"What's going on here?" he demanded coldly, his voice carrying an authority that silenced the entire room. His gaze flicked to Frankie, who had rushed over with his men. "Frankie, are you up to something behind my back again?"

For over twenty years, my dad had always been gentle and approachable in front of me. I had never seen him so cold and distant, yet exuding such an intimidating presence. Perhaps he had only ever shown me his most tender side.

My dad didn't recognize me. Of course, he wouldn't. My clothes were torn and stained, my face was smeared with blood and my hair clung in damp strands to my skin. Even if I tried to call out, my voice would be nothing more than a rasp, too weak to carry across the distance. How could he possibly see through this broken, battered figure and realize it was me?

Frankie, drenched in cold sweat, stepped in quickly, trying to smooth things over. His shoulders were tense and he bowed slightly as if to shield himself from the cold, cutting presence emanating from my dad.

"No, no, Boss! I'd never go against your orders!" he stammered, forcing a strained smile. "She's just a new employee. She caused some trouble—I'll handle it right away!"

He shot a quick glance at his men, his eyes sharp with warning. "Hurry up and get her out of here! If she ruins the boss's mood, you'll all be sorry!"

I knew that if they dragged me away now, I wouldn't survive the day. Frankie wouldn't let me leave this place alive—not after everything that had happened. I was running out of time. My dad was turning to leave, his men parting the way for him. Desperation gripped me like a vice.

Summoning every ounce of strength left in my trembling body, I lifted my bloodied arm. Pain shot through me like fire, but I ignored it. My fingers closed around the whistle hanging from my neck. The cool metal felt familiar and grounding, a tiny piece of my past in the chaos of the present.

I brought the whistle to my cracked lips and blew.

A clear, sharp note rang out, piercing through the tense silence of the lobby. The sound cut through the air like a blade, distinct and hauntingly familiar. It wasn't an ordinary whistle—it had a unique pitch, one that couldn't be mistaken.

This whistle wasn't just a trinket. It was a gift from my dad, one tied to a memory I could never forget.