Chapter 4

The hinges groaned as the door swung open, unveiling a stocky figure with unkempt facial hair and a sinister glint in his gaze. His intimidating presence seemed to suck the air from the room. He propped himself against the doorframe, flashing a predatory smile that sent shivers down my spine.

"Don't even think about fleeing, missy. There's nowhere to go," he drawled, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "How about this—play nice and let me have my way with you. In exchange, I'll make you my kept woman. We'll forget all about that thousand bucks. What do you say?"

His words oozed with a sense of entitlement, as if I should be thankful for such a repulsive proposition. My heart raced with a mix of terror and rage, but I struggled to maintain my composure.

As he spoke, he inched closer, his eyes glimmering with desire as his hand reached for my midsection. His breath reeked of old cigarettes, the stench turning my stomach.

I feigned indifference, concealing my fear with defiance as I swiftly moved aside. "I wouldn't even consider a mafia boss, let alone some lowly henchman. If you're after a prostitute, try the red-light district! You shameless, revolting—"

Before I could finish my insult, his expression darkened, and in an instant, his meaty hand clamped around my throat. The pressure was immediate and crushing, cutting off my air supply. Panic coursed through me as I clawed at his grip, but it remained unyielding.

"I'll give you one more chance," he snarled, his face mere inches from mine, his foul breath making me retch. "Choose your words carefully!"

I fought desperately, but his hold only tightened. Realizing brute force was futile, I choked out, "Let's... discuss this..."

He loosened his grip slightly, a smug grin spreading across his face as he released me. I stumbled backward, coughing violently, gulping air in ragged breaths.

"So, you're saying you're open to some fun, eh?" he said, his voice laden with triumph.

Before I could respond, I noticed movement behind him. A middle-aged woman had silently entered the room. Her piercing eyes took in the scene, and I sensed an impending storm.

An idea formed in my mind, and I decided to play along. Masking my trembling hands, I straightened up and sneered, "Don't you have a spouse? Why are you even contemplating sleeping with me? Aren't you worried she'll discover your infidelity?"

The man's expression contorted with irritation and his voice grew louder. "Don't bring her up! She's as round as a beach ball!" He spat on the floor in disgust. "If you agree to be my mistress, I'll shower you with riches—"

Before he could finish, a resounding smack echoed through the room as the woman behind him struck the back of his head with surprising force.

"You lecherous old goat! How dare you philander right under my nose? I'll end you today!" she shrieked, her voice seething with fury.

The man whirled around, startled. "You crazy old bat! Don't you dare lay a finger on me!"

Their argument escalated rapidly, voices overlapping in a cacophony of shouting and insults. Seeing the opportunity, I decided to further stoke the flames. "If you can overpower your wife, perhaps I'll consider being your mistress. But if you can't even handle her, what kind of man are you?"

The man's face turned an alarming shade of crimson and with a roar of frustration, he shoved the woman, who retaliated immediately. They were soon locked in a fierce tussle, oblivious to everything around them.

Seizing my chance, I crouched low and slipped out of the room. The corridor was dimly lit, but I didn't pause to take in my surroundings. I limped toward the staircase, my leg weak and throbbing from the earlier beating.

Just as I reached the door leading to the stairs, a shout rang out behind me. They had spotted me. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I pushed forward, ignoring the searing pain in my leg.

From the second-floor balcony, I caught sight of my dad in the restaurant lobby below, surrounded by his entourage. He was heading toward the exit, his usual composed demeanor intact. Relief and desperation flooded me in equal measure. This was my last hope.

I opened my mouth to call out, but before I could utter a word, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me backward.

Panic flared in my chest. I thrashed wildly, but the grip was too strong. Realizing I couldn't break free, I made a split-second decision. Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I stomped down hard on my assailant's foot and twisted in his grip. He yelped in pain, his hold loosening just enough for me to turn and shove him with all my might.

The force sent him tumbling over the second-floor railing. Time seemed to slow as he flailed in the air before plummeting toward the ground below.

The restaurant lobby had an unusually high ceiling—the second floor was equivalent to a regular third floor. Falling from such a height would almost certainly result in serious injury, if not death.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on it. If I didn't escape now, I'd be as good as dead. I didn't even have time to brace myself as I flung myself over the railing.

A loud splash echoed through the lobby as I landed in the massive fish tank positioned in the center of the room. The glass shattered on impact, sending water, broken shards and flopping fish scattering across the marble floor.

Pain shot through my body as pieces of glass sliced into my skin. Blood dripped from small cuts on my face and arms, pooling beneath me in the growing puddle of water. Though the fish tank had cushioned my fall somewhat, my legs and arms throbbed with pain, leaving me nearly immobile.

A shocked silence fell over the lobby, broken only by the sound of water dripping and the soft gasps of onlookers.

Just as my vision began to blur from the pain, I saw my dad turn his head, alerted by the commotion. His eyes locked onto mine, his expression darkening with a mixture of shock and displeasure.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded coldly, his voice carrying an authority that silenced the entire room. His gaze flicked to Ridley, who had rushed over with his men. "Ridley, are you up to something behind my back again?"

For over twenty years, my dad had always been gentle and approachable in front of me. I had never seen him so cold and distant, yet exuding such an intimidating presence. Perhaps he had only ever shown me his most tender side.

My dad didn't recognize me. Of course, he wouldn't. My clothes were torn and stained, my face was smeared with blood and my hair clung in damp strands to my skin. Even if I tried to call out, my voice would be nothing more than a rasp, too weak to carry across the distance. How could he possibly see through this broken, battered figure and realize it was me?

Ridley, drenched in cold sweat, stepped in quickly, trying to smooth things over. His shoulders were tense and he bowed slightly as if to shield himself from the cold, cutting presence emanating from my dad.

"No, no, Boss! I'd never go against your orders!" he stammered, forcing a strained smile. "She's just a new employee. She caused some trouble—I'll handle it right away!"

He shot a quick glance at his men, his eyes sharp with warning. "Hurry up and get her out of here! If she ruins the boss's mood, you'll all be sorry!"

I knew that if they dragged me away now, I wouldn't survive the day. Ridley wouldn't let me leave this place alive—not after everything that had happened. I was running out of time. My dad was turning to leave, his men parting the way for him. Desperation gripped me like a vice.

Summoning every ounce of strength left in my trembling body, I lifted my bloodied arm. Pain shot through me like fire, but I ignored it. My fingers closed around the whistle hanging from my neck. The cool metal felt familiar and grounding, a tiny piece of my past in the chaos of the present.

I brought the whistle to my cracked lips and blew.

A clear, sharp note rang out, piercing through the tense silence of the lobby. The sound cut through the air like a blade, distinct and hauntingly familiar. It wasn't an ordinary whistle—it had a unique pitch, one that couldn't be mistaken.

This whistle wasn't just a trinket. It was a gift from my dad, one tied to a memory I could never forget.