My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 88

Chapter 88: 89/CEO Robert Cross

Chapter 89:

Julie’s Point of View

Robert finally left, leaving behind air saturated with the scent of tension; that bastard violates my privacy as if my room is a military barrack he owns.

I picked up my shirt with hands trembling from sheer rage, thrusting its buttons into their holes with hysterical speed, while my chest heaved sharply.

He toyed with me, made me believe a disgusting illusion, and now he gloats, thinking I harmed myself for his sake.

"How many more calamities will fall upon me in this cursed place?"

I muttered as I stood before the mirror, where I let down my brown hair with a nervous movement,

my fingers skillfully combing the strands forward to hide that blatant redness on my cheek.

I stared at the lost reflection of my eyes, and suddenly a thought struck me that made the blood rush to my ears in shame:

"Was that harasser really staring at my chest?"

I shook my head hard to dispel the thought;

"Wake up, Julie! That psycho owns a club full of whores, why would he stare at you?"

I rushed out of the room straight toward the office, possessed by an overwhelming desire for revenge for my violated privacy.

"As long as you don’t ask permission to enter my room, I will invade your office too."

I pushed the door open forcefully without knocking, but silence was the only thing that greeted me.

I looked around warily:

"Where did that idiot go?"

I locked the door behind me with a suspicious calm and walked toward his massive desk.

I sat in the plush leather chair, feeling its cold texture send a shiver of false power through my body; I remembered the last time I sat here, when I faced Carlos Mendoza.

"Why not take advantage of his absence and dig into his secrets a little?"

The idea flashed in my head like dangerous lightning.

I pulled the first drawer cautiously; a luxury cigarette pack that looked more expensive than my kidney,

a heavy gold lighter engraved with a carefully coiled dragon, and some tissues.

I closed it in disappointment and moved to the second drawer.

Here, I found the treasure: stacked files.

I pulled them out and placed them on the marble surface, beginning to flip through them with eagerness and anxiety, listening intently for any movement outside.

The first file was for a stunning Black girl named "Helen Smith," with precise information about every detail of her life.

The second was for a delicate Asian girl named "Kim Sung."

I flipped through the files quickly until my limbs froze; my picture was there, and my name "Julie Michael" was written in bold letters.

I slammed the file shut as if I were touching something forbidden, and put the files back in their place.

I turned to the right drawers; I tried to pull the first one but it was stuck, then the second, but the lock was protecting them firmly. I struck the wood with my hand in frustration and whispered with resentment:

I read a list of clients’ names some ministers, others CEOs of global corporations all paying astronomical sums to Robert in exchange for "protection" and "information."

There were notes in his handwriting on the margins, brief words like: "Eliminate the loophole" or "Freeze accounts immediately."

I muttered in a trembling voice, my body shaking in his massive chair:

"My God... this isn’t just wealth... this is the enslavement of the world."

As I turned the last page, my eyes fell on a prominent brass stamp at the bottom of the document, a stamp that made the blood freeze completely in my veins.

It wasn’t just his company logo; next to it was the "Interpol" (International Police) logo with the phrase "Certified Security Cooperation."

I felt a sting of cold invade my limbs, and I leaned back until my body sank into the leather of the chair, the file still in my trembling hands.

My stomach cramped with bitterness and disgust; how could the world be this ugly?

The man who wears the mask of the law’s protector and a global citizen is the same monster who runs a secret underground club, selling women’s bodies and breaking souls away from the eyes of justice.

I muttered in a choked voice, my eyes still fixed on that cursed stamp:

"The Law... Robert and the Law certainly do not go together; this must be the joke of the century."

Suddenly, the door opened sharply, causing my body to jerk in a reflex.

He was tall, his pitch-black hair covering his forehead sharply, increasing the dread of his stance.

He fixed his harsh gaze on me, and from between pressed lips, his voice came out dry and powerful:

"What are you doing here?"