My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 26

Chapter 26: 26/Waiting for Hell

Chapter Twenty-Six:

Julie’s Point of View

I stormed into my room and locked the door behind me, my heart pounding in my chest like war drums.

For the first time, I saw that side of him; he was truly, deeply furious. His face had always been a cold mask of ice, devoid of features or emotions, but today he proved to me that the face I had been longing to see was actually my worst nightmare.

"You fool! How could you make such a fatal mistake?"

I struck my head with my hand as if trying to reclaim my sanity, which had deserted me back there.

I shouldn’t have sat in that chair, and I should never have dared to speak to that man called "Mendoza."

My eyes fell on the wall where the large television screen hung, and beneath it, a collection of boxes and bags were scattered on the floor.

I approached them with hesitant steps and opened them; they were the clothes and books I had requested, even the hair dryer and that watch.. everything was there.

I stopped suddenly, a lump forming in my throat.. Will he take all this back now? Will he punish me because I breached his fortress and meddled with his privacy?

I sat on the edge of the bed, hugging my arms tightly to my chest, like a little girl awaiting her father’s harsh judgment after a heinous deed.

The silence enveloping the place now was not comforting; it was the silence that precedes the storm.

These feelings forcibly pulled me into the past, to that ill-fated day when I was thirteen years old.

I remember how my father pushed me into my room with a force that shook my being, growling:

"I will hold you accountable for this!"

then locking the door with the key.

In that moment, I felt my soul slipping away. It wasn’t the punishment that terrified me, but the "waiting."

He had delayed my reckoning for later, leaving me prey to my thoughts that began to gnaw at my mind: Would he hit me? Would he deprive me of my studies? Would he kill me or lock me in the cellar? Those questions collided violently in my head until I found myself clutching my head with both hands, trying to stop the noise.

I asked myself bitterly: What was my mistake? What did I do?

After hours of continuous psychological torture, the door opened.

He entered, his face flushed with blood, holding a red paper in his hand, gripped so tightly it wrinkled.

He shouted, straining over his words:

"What is this?"

I answered him in a trembling voice that was barely audible:

"What is it?"

He approached me frantically and slammed the paper against my face so hard it fell to the ground, screaming:

"Explain to me what this is!"

I leaned down with trembling hands to pick it up, and when I opened it, the shock struck me like a lightning bolt.

It was just a simple letter from my schoolmate, "John." The words froze in my throat, and I spoke with difficulty:

"It’s.. it’s just a letter.."

But he didn’t give me a chance; he screamed a question in my face that pierced my innocence like an arrow:

"Did something happen between you two, Julie?"

His question was hideous, disgusting, and far beyond my comprehension at the time.

How could he interpret innocent childhood sentences of admiration in such a filthy way? I replied to him in shock and brokenness:

"What? What are you talking about?"

He uttered his words, which fell upon me like the edge of a sword cold, sharp, and lethal:

"Did you sleep with him, Julie?"

My God! He said it with a haunting audacity and a sickening clarity, without a flinch or a shred of shame for himself or me.

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