My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 123

Chapter 123: 124/The Ghost of Violet

Chapter 124:

Julie’s Point of View

After I finished bathing, I stood before the mirror trying to gather the fragments of myself.

I dressed quickly, then my eyes fell on Robert’s white shirt lying on the edge of the bed. I approached it slowly, and with an involuntary movement, I raised it toward my face and inhaled its scent; it was the strong scent of "Oud," a fragrance that fills the lungs and makes the heart leap.

Suddenly, I realized what I was doing, so I threw the shirt violently onto the mattress as if I had touched a coal, and said with a faint rebuke: "What is wrong with you, you crazy girl?"

Breakfast was placed on the cart, but a lump in my throat prevented me from tasting much; I settled for a few small bites, while my stomach was churning from tension.

I left the room and walked in the hallway toward the office, and every step was weighing heavily on my shoulders. I stopped before the door and closed my eyes tightly, trying to erase those embarrassing images from my memory; the scene of my body as I removed my dress before him yesterday was haunting me like a nightmare, making the blood flow profusely toward my cheeks.

I took a deep breath and encouraged myself with a strong press on the door handle, then opened it.

I froze in my place; the office was not empty.

There was a strange man sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the room. His features were sharp as a sword, and his black hair, which gray had begun to invade, gave him a terrifying prestige.

His black eyes were piercing everyone who fell under their gaze, and his elegant black suit increased his stern dignity.

I felt a slight shiver running through my limbs under his scrutinizing gaze. I swallowed my saliva with difficulty and took one step inside the office, then said in a voice that tried to be steady despite the tremor: "Good morning... sir."

The man’s gaze was fixed on me in a suspicious silence, so I said in a tone dominated by confusion: "Sir, do you hear me?" He continued to stare at me strangely, and I felt a desire to laugh from the intensity of the tension, saying to myself: "He must be deaf."

I approached him and raised my hand, waving it slowly before his eyes: "Sir, do you hear me? I am talking to you."

He finally said while blinking slowly: "Yes, what were you saying?" I was truly surprised; perhaps his hearing was heavy, so I took a deep breath and raised my voice until I felt my vocal cords tighten: "Good morning, sir—that is what I said."

He placed his hand on his ear quickly as if I had shouted in his face, and said with grumbling features: "I think I need a doctor; you have torn my eardrum."

I put my hands on my hips and said impulsively: "Because you didn’t hear me at first, I thought there was something wrong with your ears."

He shook his head and said in a calm and provocative tone: "And I think there is something wrong with your tongue, because it is sharp, it seems."

I answered sharply: "Yes, sir. Do you need Mr. Robert?" He said coldly: "Yes, I need him, but they told me he left the club. I will wait for him here."

I said while averting my gaze from him: "Fine, shall I bring you a cup of coffee?" He said curtly: "I don’t want any."

Then he looked at me intently, and I felt his gaze piercing me, and he pointed with his hand to the chair: "Come, sit here."

I approached cautiously and sat down, so he initiated a question: "Yes, what is your name?" I said briefly: "Julie." He replied with a mysterious smile: "Your name is beautiful, Julie," then he followed: "And what is your mother’s name?"

I felt my heart beating with apprehension. What is wrong with this crazy old man? I said with annoyance: "Why?" He said: "Nothing, only your name is beautiful, and I thought your mother was the one who gave you this name."

I answered, my eyes watching his movements: "My mother’s name is Meredith, but I don’t really know who gave me the name." He shook his head, muttering: "Hmm... and what do you do here, Julie?"

I said bitterly: "Personal assistant to Mr. Robert." He said while narrowing his eyes: "But your age seems young; how did you come to work here?"

I exhaled deeply and said: "I have told this story to many people; my father sold me and here I am, a prisoner as you see."

Then I tilted my body toward him and said curiously: "And you, sir, what brought you here? Because you don’t look like..." I closed my mouth suddenly and felt heat invading my face when I realized what I was about to say, and he understood my meaning immediately and said bitterly: "Surely you are saying how a disabled man could come to a club to rent girls."

I said quickly while rubbing my hands together: "No, not at all. I meant that you don’t look like that type; you look like a respectable man." I prayed to God that he would believe me, but he pretended to do so and said: "Fine, Julie, I will take those words as a compliment."

Then he asked me again: "Where do you live? I mean, where is your home?"

Why does he keep asking? I said in a slightly sharp tone: "Sir, don’t you think you ask too much?" He said calmly: "Not at all, I am only occupying my mouth." I said: "I think you need a cup of coffee; perhaps your mouth will be occupied with it instead of questions."

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