From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 31

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell 31**

**Chapter 4**

I regained consciousness, my head pounding as if it had been split open with a blunt instrument.

I found myself strapped to a cold, unyielding metal chair, the kind of heavy-duty restraints that left no room for escape. It took a moment to register my surroundings—a black room belonging to the family, a sinister space reserved for rats and traitors, where the light barely penetrated the oppressive darkness.

The door creaked open, and in walked Dante, a figure shrouded in an aura of intimidation.

His expression was devoid of warmth, a mask of cold detachment. He was all enforcer, stripped of any semblance of humanity.

I struggled to speak, my voice emerging hoarse and rough. “What the hell is this? Cut me loose!” My words echoed in the sterile space, desperation clawing at my throat.

Dante remained unmoved, his gaze as unyielding as iron. “Sienna’s got severe PTSD now. Doctors say it’s chronic. Memory’s shot to hell. And her hand? Tendons are wrecked. Permanently. She’ll be lucky if she can hold a coffee cup.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared him down, a defiant fire igniting within me. “So what’s that got to do with me?”

He stepped closer, blocking out the meager light filtering through the door. “You put hands on family. That breaks the rules. I’m Underboss. I can’t let it slide.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a sentence I couldn’t escape. He nodded toward the door, and two masked figures entered, their presence radiating menace. These were enforcers—men who didn’t ask questions, only executed orders.

“Do it.” Dante scrawled his name on the execution order with a swift, practiced motion, not even pausing to look back.

My voice trembled, a mix of fear and anger. “Dante. You son of a bitch—”

But he turned away, walking out with a finality that felt like the slamming of a coffin lid.

One of the masked men leaned into my space, an unsettling grin evident in his voice. “Got special instructions for you, Vesper. Don’t worry—won’t leave a scratch. Promise.”

He flipped a switch, and pain tore through me like a bolt of lightning.

Words failed me; I couldn’t even begin to articulate the agony. It felt as if someone had driven a thousand burning nails directly into my brain, twisting them, grinding them deeper and deeper until I thought I might shatter.

Every muscle in my body seized, trembling violently as if I were caught in a storm. My eyes threatened to burst from their sockets, a blinding light consuming my vision.

I bit down hard on my bottom lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth. I refused to scream; I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

Time lost its meaning after that.

When they finally unstrapped me, I collapsed, my body hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud.

**11:01**

**From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer: Smile Ex**

**20.906**

**Chapter 4**

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