My father sold me to the Mafia King

Chapter 89:

Julie’s Point of View

Robert finally left, leaving behind air saturated with the scent of tension; that bastard violates my privacy as if my room is a military barrack he owns.

I picked up my shirt with hands trembling from sheer rage, thrusting its buttons into their holes with hysterical speed, while my chest heaved sharply.

He toyed with me, made me believe a disgusting illusion, and now he gloats, thinking I harmed myself for his sake.

”How many more calamities will fall upon me in this cursed place?”

I muttered as I stood before the mirror, where I let down my brown hair with a nervous movement,

my fingers skillfully combing the strands forward to hide that blatant redness on my cheek.

I stared at the lost reflection of my eyes, and suddenly a thought struck me that made the blood rush to my ears in shame:

”Was that harasser really staring at my chest?”

I shook my head hard to dispel the thought;

”Wake up, Julie! That psycho owns a club full of whores, why would he stare at you?”

I rushed out of the room straight toward the office, possessed by an overwhelming desire for revenge for my violated privacy.

”As long as you don’t ask permission to enter my room, I will invade your office too.”

I pushed the door open forcefully without knocking, but silence was the only thing that greeted me.

I looked around warily:

”Where did that idiot go?”

I locked the door behind me with a suspicious calm and walked toward his massive desk.

I sat in the plush leather chair, feeling its cold texture send a shiver of false power through my body; I remembered the last time I sat here, when I faced Carlos Mendoza.

”Why not take advantage of his absence and dig into his secrets a little?”

The idea flashed in my head like dangerous lightning.

I pulled the first drawer cautiously; a luxury cigarette pack that looked more expensive than my kidney,

a heavy gold lighter engraved with a carefully coiled dragon, and some tissues.

I closed it in disappointment and moved to the second drawer.

Here, I found the treasure: stacked files.

I pulled them out and placed them on the marble surface, beginning to flip through them with eagerness and anxiety, listening intently for any movement outside.

The first file was for a stunning Black girl named ”Helen Smith,” with precise information about every detail of her life.

The second was for a delicate Asian girl named ”Kim Sung.”

I flipped through the files quickly until my limbs froze; my picture was there, and my name ”Julie Michael” was written in bold letters.

I slammed the file shut as if I were touching something forbidden, and put the files back in their place.

I turned to the right drawers; I tried to pull the first one but it was stuck, then the second, but the lock was protecting them firmly. I struck the wood with my hand in frustration and whispered with resentment:

”Damn you, you scoundrel, even in your absence you set up barriers for me!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a luxury leather file in the middle of the side table, next to a row of premium liquor bottles and crystal glasses reflecting the room’s light coldly.

I rushed toward it with hurried steps and picked it up like someone who had found an incriminating document.

As soon as my eyes fell on the logo printed in the corner, I felt a familiar shiver run through my limbs; these were ”Executive Files,” the language I had spent my university years decoding.

I retraced my steps to the massive leather chair, sinking into its plush padding that gives its occupant a false sense of sovereignty.

I completely forgot the trembling that had seized my body the last time I dared to touch his property, and how bitter his punishment was, but the temptation of this chair was stronger than fear.

I placed the file before me on the marble desktop, and my fingers flipped through routine papers that needed his review and signature.

Data flowed before my eyes: ”Cross Security Solutions,” ”International Protection Contracts,” and under the position column, the name stood out in bold, indisputable letters: Robert Cross - CEO.

I muttered, my voice coming out husky with a shock I couldn’t suppress:

”Is this bastard... really a CEO?”

I felt a pang in my stomach; the matter was no longer just about a rich gangster, but a monster who owns a legitimate facade and power rivaling governments.

The papers groaned under the pressure of my hands, which began to tremble slightly as I realized I wasn’t toying with just a criminal, but with an emperor wearing a formal suit over a wolf’s fangs.

My fingers turned the pages with feverish eagerness, the amazement widening in my eyes with every line I read.

They weren’t just routine papers, but a roadmap for a terrifying ”Surveillance Empire.”

My gaze froze at a clause labeled ”Top Secret - Level A,” and I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as I read about hacking and encryption systems dedicated to tracking international arms deals and securing the world’s most influential political figures.

My breath stopped completely as I looked over a report about ”The Black Shield Network,” a private security system possessing spy satellites that do not belong to any state.

I read a list of clients’ names some ministers, others CEOs of global corporations all paying astronomical sums to Robert in exchange for ”protection” and ”information.”

There were notes in his handwriting on the margins, brief words like: ”Eliminate the loophole” or ”Freeze accounts immediately.”

I muttered in a trembling voice, my body shaking in his massive chair:

”My God... this isn’t just wealth... this is the enslavement of the world.”

As I turned the last page, my eyes fell on a prominent brass stamp at the bottom of the document, a stamp that made the blood freeze completely in my veins.

It wasn’t just his company logo; next to it was the ”Interpol” (International Police) logo with the phrase ”Certified Security Cooperation.”

I felt a sting of cold invade my limbs, and I leaned back until my body sank into the leather of the chair, the file still in my trembling hands.

My stomach cramped with bitterness and disgust; how could the world be this ugly?

The man who wears the mask of the law’s protector and a global citizen is the same monster who runs a secret underground club, selling women’s bodies and breaking souls away from the eyes of justice.

I muttered in a choked voice, my eyes still fixed on that cursed stamp:

”The Law... Robert and the Law certainly do not go together; this must be the joke of the century.”

Suddenly, the door opened sharply, causing my body to jerk in a reflex.

He was tall, his pitch-black hair covering his forehead sharply, increasing the dread of his stance.

He fixed his harsh gaze on me, and from between pressed lips, his voice came out dry and powerful:

”What are you doing here?”