My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 48

Chapter 48: 49/I Am Killer

Chapter 49

Julie’s Point of View

I was utterly convinced that I had taken his life. The terror of the fact that I had become a "killer" gnawed at me from within like venom, running through my veins and paralyzing my thoughts.

Even my confession to Robert was nothing but a surrender to this bitter reality.

At that moment, I realized with sudden depth that I had truly begun to lose myself in this cursed place; my action hadn’t saved me as I thought, but was rather the heavy stone that drowned me in a deep, bottomless swamp.

Robert and Carlos stood there, shock carved onto their features like statues of bewilderment, while I was in another world, completely detached from my body and the place, as if I were watching the scene from afar.

Suddenly, the silence broke in a way I didn’t expect; Carlos’s strange and mad laughter echoed through the room a laugh that carried not a single ounce of sadness or horror, but was instead charged with admiration and awe.

He said, still laughing hysterically:

"I don’t believe it... I truly don’t believe it!"

His reaction wasn’t pity for the person lying motionless on the floor, nor terror that he might have passed away; it was because of me.

He was laughing in amazement at the action I had taken an action that bore no resemblance to the image they had drawn of me.

For who am I in their eyes? Just a "commodity" or a weak girl... so how could someone like me have the audacity to shatter a customer’s head?

Carlos paced the room with restless steps, his eyes shining with a brilliance I didn’t understand. He said, shaking his head:

"You shattered my expectations, Julie... just as you shattered this bastard’s head!"

Then he added with a tone full of a mix of mockery and admiration:

"I knew you were crazy, but not to this extent!"

Yes, perhaps I am truly crazy. There is no other explanation for what my hands committed, and no justification for this void that began to consume my soul.

In the midst of my daze, I saw Robert approaching me with his steady, cold footsteps that disasters do not shake. He stood before me, looked at the wreckage, then shifted his gaze to me, saying stonily:

"You are a bold girl, Julie."

My breath hitched for a second. Did he say "bold"? Am I the only one who realizes the ugliness of the situation? Am I the only one who sees a corpse stretched out on the floor?

I answered him with a strange calmness a calmness that hid hurricanes of terror and regret behind it:

"I have become a killer... doesn’t any of you see this truth?"

Not a lash of his eyelid flickered; instead, he looked at me in a mysterious way, as if seeing in me a piece of art whose value increased after being stained with blood.

He said with deadly brevity:

"It’s not important."

I was collapsed on the floor between them, unable to believe what my ears were hearing. I couldn’t grasp the magnitude of the mess I had fallen into. These aren’t just human traffickers; they are mentally deranged. Yes, that is the only logical explanation for everything happening!

I said to Robert in a stifled voice, while images of the accident passed before my eyes like a bloody film:

"I hit him on the head because he tried to approach me... You are the one who sent him to me! You are the reason!"

Suddenly, I jolted from my place as if struck by lightning; I remembered at that moment who my real enemy was, and who was the hidden driver of all this misery.

I lunged at Robert with all the oppression I possessed, and began to strike his chest with my hands, hitting him randomly and angrily, with muffled screams tearing through my throat:

"You are the reason! You are the one who made me a killer!"

But he remained standing with pride and steadfastness, like a deaf mountain unaffected by the winds.

His chest was so solid that I felt my blows were nothing but a gentle massage that didn’t move a single part of him.

My pride froze when I saw him extend his hand toward my face; I closed my eyes and stopped hitting, waiting for a resounding slap or a shove that would throw me to the ground... but instead, I felt a light touch, a soft swipe of his fingertip on my forehead.

He withdrew his hand coldly, looked at his finger then at me, and said with a provocative calmness:

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