Sold to the Mafia

The chill of the morning seeped through the thin curtains, a familiar companion to Ella's perpetual unease. She groaned, pulling a worn blanket tighter, but the relentless sunlight still found its way to her face.

Another day. Another sunrise she hadn't asked for.

Her body ached, a symphony of bruises, both fresh and fading. She dragged herself to the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a face that was a stranger's, marred by purple and yellow. With practiced efficiency, she cleaned the cuts on her wrists, the routine a grim comfort in her desolate existence. The shower's warm embrace was a brief respite, washing away the grime but never the pain.

What was the point anymore? Her mother gone, her father a drunk, and Ella, forever trapped in a cycle of abuse and despair. Work, work, work – two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads, while he blamed her for everything. Why hadn't she left? A foolish kindness, a misguided loyalty, perhaps. Kindness, she knew, could be a weakness.

She dressed quickly, her few clothes feeling like a costume for a life she didn't want. Downstairs, her father lay bruised on the couch, a grim statue of self-destruction. "Dad, what happened?" she asked, a reflex of concern she couldn't suppress.

Before she could help him, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, making her wince as his fingers pressed against her fresh wounds. He dragged her out, his grip unyielding. "W-wait, where are we going?" she pleaded, trying to pull away, but he held fast, shouting, "No questions, now come on!"

Ten minutes later, a monstrous mansion loomed before them, its grandeur a stark contrast to her crumbling world. Her father ignored her questions, ringing the doorbell, and the heavy door swung open, revealing a tall man with blonde hair and hazel eyes. "Come on in," he said, his voice cold and commanding. "They're already waiting for you inside."

Ella's heart hammered against her ribs. Waiting for her. For what?