![]() Her family wanted her dead and the police were among her customers. She knew that no one would come to her rescue. Her days were spent locked in his house on the outskirts of the city, often left without food. Her captor took pleasure in showing her the pistol he carried, to remind her what would happen if she tried to run. If she complained she was beaten, or worse. For two years she had existed like this – the property of a violent gang leader, a slave in Albania’s sex trade. The furnishings were sparse: a bed, a side table with a lamp and a basic bathroom with a mirror that she did her make-up in. Once in the room, he told her to get ready – the first client would arrive shortly. Her driver nodded at the receptionist, took the key and led her silently upstairs. Even in her thick green coat, she shivered as she walked from his car to the lobby. Mirela was driven to the hotel near the station by one of his men. ![]()
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