My father sold me to the Mafia King-Chapter 57 - 58/Precious gifts

Chapter 58:

Julie’s Point of View

I stood frozen in my place, feeling as if my mind had stopped spinning; his final words were too heavy for my brain to process in an instant.

"Put someone in prison?"

I remained staring into space, waiting for a continuation of his speech, waiting for a name or a plan, but he pushed the chair back and stood to his full massive height, saying with lethal coldness:

"You will find out in the evening."

I didn’t let him pass; I lunged and stood in his way, blocking the hallway with my frail body against the mountain of his strength, and said with a tone full of insistence:

"Tell me now... I want to know who he is and why!"

He leaned his torso toward me slowly until I felt his breath close to my face, then whispered in a low, husky voice that sent a shiver down my spine:

"Be patient, Julie... patience is your primary weapon tonight."

He bypassed me and left, leaving behind the echo of his military footsteps resonating in the hallway,

and the sound of the door closing behind him was like an announcement of the start of the countdown.

I turned in a daze toward the waitress’s outfit thrown on the bed, feeling as if the room were tightening around me;

I was alone amidst hurricanes of questions and confusion, wondering:

Will I truly be a waitress, or just bait on the hook of a merciless hunter?

I slumped my body onto the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress sink under my weak weight while my head spun in a void.

It wasn’t the shock that paralyzed my movement, but rather that new weight Robert had thrown upon my shoulders;

the idea of turning from a victim into a tool to crush someone else.

I interlaced my fingers together tightly until my knuckles turned white,

staring into space and wondering: Will I truly have the strength to carry this guilt?

How could my hand, which trembled while holding scissors to end its own life, possess enough courage to shackle another human’s life with handcuffs?

I felt a bitter lump in my throat; winning my freedom no longer meant just survival, but rather implicating another soul in the depths of prison.

I looked at my trembling hands, wondering if I would succeed in this dirty game,

or if the price of my survival would be so high that I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror again.

The cook entered with rhythmic steps, placed the breakfast tray on the table, and left without saying a word.

The plates remained as they were, untouched by my hand; the smell of food only increased the contraction of my stomach,

and I felt a numbness preventing me even from looking at them.

After a while, the nurse entered. She approached me and examined my face quietly;

I had removed that annoying bandage since last night, leaving the wound to the air.

She took a small tube out of her bag and placed it in my palm, then said:

"There is no need to put the bandage back on... this ointment will do the job. Apply it regularly and the mark will fade gradually."

I stood before the mirror, my fingertips touching the cold ointment and spreading it carefully over the mark of the wound,

but my reflected features caught me off guard; I saw "my mother’s" face peeking out from my eyes,

especially in these clothes that increased the resemblance between us.

My mother, who in our house was nothing but a silent statue, a soulless body moving through the hallways.

Memory took me back to my teenage years when my greatest ambition was for her eyes to fall upon me,

to feel my presence as a breathing being beside her.

I used to sneak behind her into the kitchen whenever I saw her there,

offering with desperate enthusiasm to take over washing the dishes or chopping vegetables,

but rejection was always the master of the situation.

I remember that day well, when I decided not to surrender to her dismissal.

I said to her with a voice full of plea:

"Mom, I will prepare the salad today, please let me."

She replied without raising her gaze from the table,

in a tone devoid of any feeling:

"Julie, get out of the kitchen."

I ignored her order, gripped the knife, and began chopping tomatoes quickly,

trying to present her with a fait accompli, hoping she might smile or share the task with me.

But she stopped suddenly, and looked at me with a cold, vague look that I haven’t been able to interpret to this day.

Then she dropped whatever was in her hand as if she no longer cared for it, and left the place to lock herself in her room.

I remained alone amidst the silence of the kitchen, knife in hand, muttering with a lump in my throat:

"Am I a plague... or your daughter?"

The sound of the door opening cut through the tape of my bitter memories,

as Olivia entered with confident steps and a blue dress that highlighted her cold features.

She was carrying velvet boxes of varying colors and sizes in her arms, shimmering under the light as if they were hidden treasures.

She threw the boxes onto the vanity table and said in a tone dripping with venom:

"I never expected that a wild pig would receive all these gifts."

I blinked in shock, muttering without comprehension:

"Gifts?"

She walked toward me slowly, pointing to the scattered boxes, saying:

"These are jewelry for you, Julie."

I couldn’t connect the threads together, so I asked her directly:

"Did Mr. Robert send them?"

She burst into a loud laugh that shook the corners of the room, a laugh carrying all the meanings of contempt, then said in a provocative tone:

"You trust yourself so much that you think Mr. Robert provides you with jewelry?"

I felt the blood boiling in my veins; this wretch is always trying to belittle me, return me to point zero,

and link me to that bastard.

I clenched my teeth so hard I could almost hear them grinding, and said in a muffled voice:

"Olivia... who owns this jewelry? No riddles, tell me!"

She approached me, the glint of malice shining from her eyes, and said in a whispering, degraded voice:

"They are from your customers... those who enjoyed watching your last theatrical performance."