The Mafia's Plaything: His To Ruin

Brinda

“Make sure you please the guests, or you’ll never see the seventy thousand dollars for your mother’s treatment,” Mr. Donald’s cold, mechanical voice cut through the air.

He tossed the stripper costumes at me with a detached sneer before ordering his assistant, Mr. Desmond, to take me to the dressing room.

The words stung, but I had no choice. I had no room for pride or hesitation.

As we entered the dressing room, I could feel the eyes of my fellow dancers — male and female — staring, their judgment heavy in the air. I didn’t flinch, but inside, the humiliation was a quiet storm.

From a nurse to a stripper. How had I fallen so far?

Every girl dreams of a loving family, but I was abandoned by mine. If someone ever asked what my parents looked like, I would have no answer.

I don’t even carry their name. My identity — my whole life — was stolen from me. Instead, I became ‘Brinda Virginia,’ an orphan with no place to call home.

Thank God for Sarah — my stepmother, the woman who saved me when I was just a baby, when my birth parents cast me aside like I meant nothing.

She ran away with me and raised me like I was her own. In my heart, she will always be ‘Mother America.’ because she is too kind.

A harsh voice snapped me from my thoughts.

“How long are you going to take to get dressed?” Mr. Desmond’s growl made my pulse quicken.

I couldn’t afford to make him wait. I threw on the tight black skirt, my skin prickling with self-consciousness as I struggled to keep my dignity intact.

With the mirror as my only witness, I took in my reflection — long white hair, thick eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, a nose that was delicate, full red lips, dimpled cheeks, and a baby face that didn’t belong in a place like this.

“Ready?” Mr. Desmond’s sharp voice cut through the silence. I nodded, hoping my unease didn’t show.

When we stepped into the dark, smoky room, the noise and heat hit me like a freight train. My heart skipped — what if one of these people recognized me?

What if one of them had been one of my patients? My neighbors? My old college friends? What would they think of me now?

But there was no time for regrets. I had seventy-two hours to save my dying mother. That’s all that mattered.

Mr. Desmond gave me one last look. “Entertain them well.” He patted me on the shoulder and left.

As the music throbbed around me, something inside me shifted. Confidence — unexpected and almost foreign — surged within me.

I moved with the rhythm, my body swaying and undulating in a way that felt like second nature. I locked eyes with the crowd, weaving an invisible thread of seduction, my every motion pulling them in.

But there was one man who stood out — a man dressed in black, wearing a mask that hid his features. Three hulking guards flanked him, their presence an unmistakable sign of his wealth and power. If I could catch his attention, maybe I could secure a bigger tip — perhaps even more.

The lights danced off my skin, casting shadows that made me feel like I was part of the music itself, part of something alive. My movements became instinctual, primal, my body flowing in ways I didn’t know I was capable of.

And then, in a single fluid motion, I spun, presenting my back to the crowd as I wrapped myself around the pole.

My chest heaved, my breath coming in sharp, measured gasps. The audience cheered, their applause ringing in my ears like an affirmation of everything I had to offer.

When Mr. Desmond stormed in, shooing the crowd out, I barely noticed until the masked man stood and strode toward the podium. His guards wheeled a sofa closer, and he settled into it, crossing his legs with deliberate calm.

“Strip,” he commanded, his voice smooth, yet chilling. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep dancing. My body moved in slow, sensual waves, though every second felt like a punishment. I danced for what felt like hours — twenty minutes, but it dragged like an eternity.

Then, his voice sliced through the tension, “Damsel.” The Italian accent barely veiled his distaste. “You couldn’t perform for an hour, so... no pay.”

The words hit like a slap. “What? You never said I had to dance for an hour!” I exploded, my voice sharp with frustration.

He smirked, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me. His left hand tucked into his pocket, and my heart raced as he ascended the podium. Before I could react, his hand snaked around my waist, pulling me closer.

The familiar scent of his cologne enveloped me. His fingers gripped my skin, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

And then — smack. He spanked me.

I was on fire. My palm connected with his cheek, the slap loud and satisfying. “Watch it,” I hissed. “Don’t you know the rules here?” I stood, defiant, arms crossed over my chest.

His eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with challenge. “I guess I don’t. Why don’t you treat me to the rules?” His hand reached for my face, but I swatted it away.

“Try it again, and I’ll make it two slaps,” I warned, the venom in my words matching the fire in my veins.

I turned, strutting out of the room with my head held high.

But as I burst into Mr. Donald’s office, the sight that met my eyes nearly made me sick. He was lounging on his couch, surrounded by three half-naked women. A chill ran through me.

What a cheap man!

I approached him, determined. “Where is my pay?” I demanded, trying to keep my composure despite the disgust swirling in my stomach.

He waved the women off, nonchalantly, wiping his hands. “The clients haven’t paid yet. Come back tomorrow.”

I froze. What? That wasn’t how things worked. Mr. Donald always made sure the money was in hand before a dancer even set foot on stage.

“Pay me, Mr. Donald. You know what I need.” My voice wavered despite my best efforts.

He sank into the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. “Come back tomorrow, or get the hell out of my sight.”

The words felt like a slap to the face. But I couldn’t afford to back down. Not now. Not when my mother’s life hung in the balance.