Held By the Bratva

“Who hurt you?” For three years, I’ve been daydreaming excuses to get my gorgeous, older, mysterious neighbor into my apartment. I was thinking of a burst pipe, small cooking fire, dress that I can’t zip up, or a massive sign that said “I adore you, please take my V-card”. I didn’t think he’d invite himself in to save me. Mafia thugs came looking for my parents, and money. Hours later, I’m cowering in my wardrobe, still shaking, covered in bruises and dried unthinkable liquids, when soft footsteps echo through my apartment. My neighbor opens the door and stares down at...

“Who hurt you?” For three years, I’ve been daydreaming excuses to get my gorgeous, older, mysterious neighbor into my apartment. I was thinking of a burst pipe, small cooking fire, dress that I can’t zip up, or a massive sign that said “I adore you, please take my V-card”. I didn’t think he’d invite himself in to save me. Mafia thugs came looking for my parents, and money. Hours later, I’m cowering in my wardrobe, still shaking, covered in bruises and dried unthinkable liquids, when soft footsteps echo through my apartment. My neighbor opens the door and stares down at me, rage curling his lip. “Who hurt you?” Before I know it, he’s scooped me up into his arms and taken me to his penthouse. He won’t let me go, and smiles cynically when I protest he shouldn’t put himself at risk from the mafia. And I’m beginning to wonder… Who is the most dangerous predator here?

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