Entangled with the Mafia Don novel Chapter 55

Davina's POV

The air in the penthouse felt heavy, suffocating. Every breath was a reminder that I was still here, trapped, under his roof. My body still thrummed with the phantom tremor of that night in the basement. His face, purple and lifeless, was seared into my mind, and Ezra's eyes, those cold, dead eyes of a killer, haunted my waking hours and invaded my nightmares. He was a monster. A true monster, not just in reputation, but in brutal, bloody reality.

I moved through the luxurious rooms like a phantom, trying to make myself invisible. My entire being was dedicated to one, singular purpose: repaying the debt. Nothing more. It was my only escape route, the only path out of this gilded cage. I measured my life in numbers now – how much more, how many more hours, how much closer to freedom.

He was always there, a silent, imposing presence. I felt his eyes on me, even when he pretended not to watch. I kept my gaze fixed on anything but him. When he entered a room, I found an excuse to leave. When he sat for a meal, I ate quickly, my eyes on my plate, my answers clipped, formal. I built a wall between us, brick by agonizing brick, hoping that if I made myself small enough, cold enough, he would eventually forget I existed.

But it was a battle. A constant, exhausting battle within myself. Because despite the horror, despite the revulsion that churned in my stomach, there was still that insidious pull. A memory of warmth, a phantom touch, a fleeting whisper of how I'd felt before I knew. My heart ached, a confusing, unwanted pang that burned worse than any anger. It was a traitorous ache, a longing for something that no longer existed, for a man who was a terrifying illusion. Every time I felt it, I buried it deeper, disgusted by my own weakness. He had kissed me, manipulated me, mde me his, killed a man in front of me, and still, my body sometimes remembered a different kind of touch. It was a sick, perverse truth, and I hated myself for it.

He rarely spoke now, not like before. His commands were brief, his presence often silent, but always there. He had told me I would remain here until he decided otherwise. It wasn't a request; it was a decree. And I felt his control, unseen but absolute, in every locked door, every silent corridor. I was under surveillance, I was sure of it. Not just by the men he kept, but by him. And I had to ensure my face, my voice, my entire being, betrayed nothing but a desire for quiet obedience and eventual escape.

The debt was my shield. The debt was my purpose. And the debt was all I had left.

*************************

The days blurred into a monotonous rhythm of work and evasion. One day bled into the next. The sun continued its relentless arc across the sky, but I rarely saw it, locked away in the gilded cage Ezra called a penthouse. My routine was a desperate attempt at control: wake, eat, avoid, work, avoid, sleep, repeat. Every interaction with Ezra was a performance of detached efficiency, a relentless pursuit of the debt's repayment, my only imagined key to freedom.

My resolve to push Ezra away, to deny the confusing, traitorous longing that still sometimes flickered.

It had been nearly a week since the incident in the basement, a week of living under Ezra’s silent, watchful eye, when the shrill ring of my phone sliced through the oppressive quiet of the afternoon. My heart jumped, a reflex of alarm. I rarely received calls, and most of them were from my family. Bus since I was kicked out, my phone was constantly dead...

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify