Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**The Voices That Follow**

**Aurora’s POV**

I step out of my room before the sun has even fully risen. It feels far too early, yet I am driven by an urgency that thrums in my veins.

I can’t afford to be late. The thought of making a mistake sends a chill of dread through me. I don’t want to give them another reason to look at me with disdain, to harbor more hatred than they already do.

With a deep breath, I venture into the hallway, where the silence wraps around me like a heavy blanket. I take a moment to orient myself, my heart racing as I attempt to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of this sprawling house.

Each hallway seems to lead into another, and staircases spiral into more staircases, creating a dizzying effect that makes me question my sense of direction. I could swear I pass the same potted plant three times, its leaves drooping slightly as if it too is weary of this place. My stomach churns, a tight knot of anxiety forming within me, and my palms grow clammy. I can’t be late. I can’t—

Then I hear them. Voices, echoing down the hall.

They drift through a slightly ajar door, and I come to a halt, my breath caught in my throat.

I recognize that voice. It’s Andrei.

His tone is deep and cutting, sharp as a knife that strikes true every time.

Then there’s another voice—Matteo, I think. And then Jace. More voices join them, a cacophony of laughter and chatter that sends a shiver down my spine.

They converse in rapid-fire bursts, a blend of Italian and English spilling from their lips, the kind of casual dialogue that suggests they forget they might be overheard.

I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I can’t help myself.

“She’s not going to last a week,” Jace scoffs, his derision palpable. “Hell, a strong breeze might snap her in half.”

“È solo una ragazzina inutile. Un peso morto.” (She’s just a useless little girl. Dead weight.) Matteo’s voice is laced with contempt, and the words slice through me like ice.

A moment of silence hangs in the air, and then laughter erupts—harsh, cruel, and mocking.

“She doesn’t even look like much,” Nico chimes in, his tone dripping with scorn. “I bet she thinks she’s too good for anything. O forse sta cercando di fare la principessa.” (Or maybe she’s trying to play princess.)

Luka groans in exasperation. “She’s like a ghost. Always hovering around. Maybe someone should tell her we don’t believe in spirits.”

“Or talk,” Luka mutters under his breath. “Girl hasn’t said ten words that weren’t stupid.”

“Just the other day, she asked me what my favorite color was,” Leon adds bitterly, his voice full of disdain. “Il mio colore preferito. Like I’m twelve.”

“Aw, how cute,” Matteo mocks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe next she’ll braid our hair and ask about our star signs.”

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