My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 5

Chapter 5: 5/Pink Chain

Chapter Five :

Julie’s Point of View

"Fathers ready to sell their daughters"... this sentence echoed like a corrupted tape repeating the same thing. I tried to turn it off, but I couldn’t.

I sat on the floor, placing both my hands over my ears; perhaps I would succeed in blocking the sound from entering, but what I realized was that the sound was originating from the inside.

It was growing like black mold in the corners of my mind, whispering to me that the world I knew had collapsed, and that the person who was supposed to protect me was the very one who sold me to this monster.

Olivia entered the room, and the sound suddenly stopped. She looked at me with eyes full of hatred and said:

"You’ve only been here for a few hours and you’ve already turned this place upside down. Where did you come from? I don’t think you’re from New York; you look like an underdeveloped country girl."

I smiled while still lying on the floor and said:

"I really want to stand up and respond to you, but you know what? I feel a bit tired, so I won’t."

She said to me, consumed by the fires of rage:

"Mr. Robert is looking for a special customer to buy you... a customer who likes wild boars."

The blood boiled inside me again. She now knew my weak point and played it every chance she got. So, I tried to keep myself together and said:

"I heard that wild boars are dangerous... please take care of yourself."

Her expression changed and she said:

"We’ll see, you pig,"

and left the room to leave me with my looping record.

The room returned to its coldness, and that corrupted tape began to spin in my mind louder than before. "Fathers ready to sell their daughters"... Now, it was no longer just words Robert had said; it had become a reality threatening to tear my future apart, and Olivia’s words confirmed to me that I was nothing more than a coming deal waiting for the worst buyer.

I closed my eyes, and time took me back to the day I was in my room, drawing a rainbow and coloring it with various bright colors. Suddenly, my father burst into my room like a black cloud... with his presence, all my colors disappeared, the beautiful rainbow vanished, and it became just lines in shades of black and gray.

He was carrying a brown bag in his hands, from which he pulled a beautiful pink dress that looked like a princess’s dress. My eyes sparkled and I smiled in amazement:

"Dad, is this dress for me?"

He replied as if blaming me:

"Your school principal called... she said there’s a damn party and every student must attend."

Then he added:

"Don’t you dare remove the tag attached here... I will return it as soon as you get home."

The smile vanished from my small face and I nodded in agreement. The words couldn’t come out, but he was pressing me in every way possible. He said in a serious voice:

"Do you understand what I’m saying, Julie?"

I replied, unable to even hear my own voice:

"Yes, Dad... I understand."

My father left after placing the dress in the closet with a gentle touch I had never seen before.

I went to open the closet as soon as he left and stood there contemplating that beautiful dress. Even though it wasn’t mine, and even though it was just a garment to display my father’s fake affection in front of people, an 8-year-old girl ignored all those facts and stared at it as if it were magic.

Steve’s voice interrupted my thoughts: "Julie, you’ll look like a princess in this dress." I laughed and said: "Stop it... you know I can’t be."

He looked at me while pushing his long blonde hair off his forehead, making the green of his eyes appear more vivid, as if the color green loved him so much it drew other marks all over his body. He said:

"Pink suits you... it’s enough that you aren’t stained with green."

I felt a pain in my heart, a pain a girl my age shouldn’t know, but those marks drawn on his body carried shades of green; every mark told a different history, and all of them spoke of one monster we called... "Dad."

I felt guilty toward him even though I wasn’t to blame. Steve was only four years older than me, but those years stretched every day to become much more.

While I received coldness, he received an extra dose of daily beatings. His mere presence in the house was enough for my father to pull the belt from his trousers and embrace his small body with utter brutality. I approached him and hugged him with all the strength a child possesses, my tears falling on his blue shirt, and I said:

"I love you, Steve."

He patted my back with his hand, saying:

"And I love you, Julie."

His touch wasn’t that of a twelve-year-old boy; I swear he felt fifty years old.

Steve left the room, leaving me to finish admiring the dress, for tomorrow would be the long-awaited party.

The next morning, I woke up to my father’s voice screaming:

"Where is that stupid boy? Where did he go?"

My brother Steve was used to waking up early and sneaking out of the house before my father noticed; he was like a fugitive from an inevitable fate.

I was waiting for my share of the family "hymn," and I didn’t wait long. Soon he burst into my room, growling:

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