Kidnapped by the Italian Mafia

My name is Katarina Montenegro, and I'm the daughter of the leader of the Spanish mob. Oh yeah and this is also my first kidnapping! Can you believe it?

All my life, I grew up around people. Dangerous people, nice people, evil people, short people, tall people, beautiful people, not so beautiful people, vain people, humble people. They all had one thing in common. They killed other people and they worked for my father.

Salvador Montenegro was a handsome man, tall and tanned with the most gorgeous honey-brown eyes you'd ever see on a person. I inherited those eyes, of course, along with the other good looks passed down to me from my parents. At a first glance, you'd never guess what my father did for a living, since he looked sincere and kind. Those 'sincere' and 'kind' glances were the ones my mother fell for when my father offered her safety and protection in return for her hand in marriage. She accepted, of course, fearing for her life at the time since she herself either had the option to marry my father, or get sent to a foreign country to be done with. Now she was as cold as him with a mean streak that would make the devil soil his pants.

My mother, Annaliz Montenegro was a former pageant girl. She was a spoiled brat growing up, hogging all of daddy's money and doing whatever the hell she wanted. During her adolescence, she wanted to be a singer, but she couldn't sing to save her life and when a talent scout said that to her face, she ruined his economy, left him sleeping under a bridge somewhere, then moved on to acting.

See? She was an evil bitch too. Her and my father were the perfect match.

My mother got kidnapped by 'those human trafficker scumbags' —as my dad so kindly calls them— when she was twenty-three. She had moved to Los Angeles to pursue and acting career, but she wasn't getting very lucky. She always told me that her life was at an all time high when she got kidnapped, and that my father stole the chance to leave her mark on Hollywood, which she hated him for.

I always thought she was delusional. My mother was convinced that she was a good enough actress to compete with Scarlett Johansson in the Lucy movie, but I'm pretty sure your life needs an even bigger 'all time high' in Hollywood than a couple of badly acted viagra commercials—cialis, for when you're feeling feisty— to get roles like that, but she never listened when I said she might've never found her big break and would've just settled for working in a cafe because my grandfather would never take her back after she ran away with all his rainy day cash.

My dad said he saved her, from slavery or worse. My mom didn't see it that way. To her, my father was an asshole and to him, she was a bitch. My parents hated each other with a passion, and the only reason why they didn't get divorced was because my dad was scared she'd rat him out. Even if he did threaten her. Only thing they had in common was me. I was an unplanned child, but my dad loved me anyways. My mom, not so much. She tried everything in her power to get rid of me, but my dad convinced her to at least acknowledge me, so she did. Convinced, more like he told her he'd take 'drastic measures' if she ever made me cry unnecessarily again. Brownie points for dad!

I was born on the fourth of March, on a beautiful Saturday morning.

My parents were catholics, even though they were self-admittedly very bad ones. I had my first communion, and after that I had a quinceañera, then I never went to church again. All throughout these events, traumatic things happened. During my first communion, my father was late because he had a 'job'. Code for 'I offed somebody but I think you're still too young to understand why so I'll just say job'. Then, a few years later, someone shot up my quince, and everyone had to duck because my dad and his men suddenly whipped out their guns and started firing back despite my constant urge to stop shooting holes into my cake. Needless to say, I got some suspicious stains on my dress and nobody ate any food that night.

I was pissed, but after a few slaps from my mother, I sobered up and called the rest of the night off. Since I'd had my quince ruined, I demanded a sweet 16, and that got ruined too because someone set off fireworks inside the venue and everyone left immediately. My dad spent the whole night muttering about the 'Italian bastards who'd dared ruin his little girl's birthday,.' I never knew what that was about, but I had the feeling it had to do with the Italian mafia, which had been in constant battle with my dad's organisation. Nevertheless, my dad never found who did it. Or if he did, he never said.

Fast forward, six years later, it was the night of my twenty-first birthday party, a night in which everyone celebrated with extensive alcohol because I was legally old enough to drink. My dad rented off a whole upscale club in Florida and flew out a ton of people to be there for the event. It was huge and amazing. A lot of dancing, talking, negotiating, and overall attention on me. I'll admit, I'm vain. I try not to be too arrogant about it because arrogant people are just really annoying, but I can't help looking at myself in the mirror sometimes and thinking 'I'm jealous of me.'

I was in the middle of dancing with some really cute guy I was thinking about taking home when gunshots rang out. At first I thought it was my dad trying to gain everyone's attention, but when a body dropped dead and people started screaming frantically, I knew it wasn't my father. Grabbing my gun from my clutch, I ran into the room farthest away from the commotion—as I'd been taught many times before— and pressed myself up against a wall, ready to shoot at whatever threat came at me.

I'd like to think of myself as a particularly smart person, but I have to admit I was dumb when I didn't think that the threat could've been behind me. And it was. All I felt was a hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply and effectively muting me before I froze in panic for a few seconds. Stupid move number two; those few seconds gave my attacker leverage and by the time I started kicking, scratching and trying to flip him over my shoulder, he pressed a hand over my mouth and squeezed my neck tighter. I tried my best to conserve air and energy, and even bit him, but he had gloves on. Long story short, I passed out and now I've woken up in the back of an SUV—Audi Q7 by the looks of it— with duct tape on my wrists and ankles, my fingers taped together as well for good measure.

The car was still moving, and I couldn't see much since it was really bloody dark, but the bits I could see were provided by the generosity of a few street lights. I didn't know whether to feel terrified, or excited and call my dad up to say 'Dad, I got kidnapped!'

My entire life, I'd been presented with cases like this. I knew what my dad did and how he did it. I knew he moved illegal things en masse throughout Europe and the American continent. I knew everything. Well, almost everything since I couldn't for the life of me figure out why the hell I got kidnapped. Maybe this was a test. A test set up for me to prove that I'm worth something more than thought and that I actually listened to what my dad told me all those times.

Lesson 1: cooperate.

Okay got it. Cooperate. Great.

"Umm... excuse me mister driver dude, where are we going?" I asked tentatively, mentally wanting to cringe because of the way I'd said all that.

Nothing. Not a word. Just one glance at me through the rear view mirror, a snap of some fingers and there was pressure on my neck again, most likely to make me pass out once more.

These people really needed to stop with the choking thing, I'm not a kinky person.

Okay I'm lying, I'm very kinky.