Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 3

**The Unplaceable End by Austen**

**Chapter 3**

A flight attendant approaches me with a polite smile, her demeanor practiced and professional. She gently places a tray in front of me, the aroma wafting up and teasing my senses. Grilled chicken glistens under the cabin lights, accompanied by warm, fluffy bread, a fizzy drink that sparkles enticingly, and a decadent chocolate tart crowned with a fresh strawberry.

My mouth waters involuntarily, a reflex I can’t suppress.

But I don’t eat.

I can’t.

Not when my stomach is so accustomed to emptiness. Not when food feels like a lurking danger—an embodiment of guilt, a symbol of weakness, a slip of control that I can’t afford to relinquish.

I fixate on the tray, watching as the warmth slowly dissipates from the food, leaving it cold and uninviting.

Silence envelops the cabin, heavy and oppressive.

Not a word escapes Raphael’s lips.

Nor does Andrei utter a sound.

Even the flight attendant remains silent, her eyes trained elsewhere, perhaps accustomed to the sight of those who don’t require assistance.

Or maybe they’ve already concluded that I’m not worth their effort.

The flight drags on, the quiet stretching into an uncomfortable void.

I lean my forehead against the cool window, watching the clouds drift by like ethereal specters, their shapes shifting and morphing into vague memories.

Sleep eludes me.

I merely pretend to be asleep, my eyes fluttering closed as I lose myself in thought.

When we finally land, it’s after the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving a twilight hue in the sky.

A sleek black car awaits us on the tarmac, its windows tinted like hidden secrets. A driver steps out, his expression stoic, and opens the door without a word. The silence feels orchestrated, as if rehearsed for this very moment.

Raphael gestures for me to slide in first. The leather seats greet me with an icy chill, and the silence that envelops us feels even colder.

I clutch my backpack tightly against my chest throughout the ride, its contents barely filling it—just a toothbrush, a few shirts, and my cherished sketchbook. That’s all I possess.

And the scars that remain hidden, invisible to the world.

The mansion that comes into view looks like it has been plucked straight from the silver screen.

It’s opulent. Excessively so. How did they amass such wealth? Do they gamble? Win the lottery? Perhaps they run a clandestine goat farm? I can’t fathom it.

We glide through massive gates and up a long, winding driveway. When the car finally halts, Andrei has already pulled out his phone, his voice low as he speaks to someone on the other end.

“Tell the boys to come down,” he instructs, his tone casual.

Boys? What boys?

Before we even reach the front doors, they swing open, and my jaw nearly drops as I take in the sight before me.

Five boys stand there, or perhaps they’re more like five weapons disguised as boys, their glares sharp enough to pierce through me.

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