When You Make A Deal With The Biker Mafia

“Papa, you have to do something. You have to. It’s not fair!” My voice cracks, raw from hours of shouting and crying. My throat burns, but the words force themselves out anyway. “I work every day, and I still can’t pay off all the money you owe!”

The kitchen smells of stale beer and burnt cigarettes. The single bulb above the table flickers, buzzing faintly like a fly circling the room. Papa sits slouched in his chair, a bottle dangling between his fingers.

His face is blank, but his eyes betray him; they were dark, sunken, wet with something that almost looks like shame.

“You can leave then. Go,” he mutters, voice flat, as if I’m just another nuisance. He waves the bottle vaguely, like it’s part of the conversation. “I’ll handle the debts myself. I don’t know why you keep complaining.”

I let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. The sound bounces off the yellowed walls, bitter even to my own ears. Tears sting hot against my lashes, finally spilling over. They run down my cheeks in humiliating streaks.

“You won’t handle anything,” I shoot back, stepping closer, the words trembling with fury. “You never do. You just sit there and drink while I clean up your messes.”

Papa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just lifts the bottle to his mouth and gulps like it holds absolution.

“Even when Mama was dying,” I whisper, my voice cutting through the thick silence, “you were out gambling.

She was in pain, Papa. We were starving, and you were at some table throwing away money we didn’t have.” I press a fist to my chest, trying to hold the ache inside. “She died, and you sat there like it meant nothing.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Slow. Tired. “It’ll be different this time. I’ll find work. Real work. I’ll pay off what I owe. You won’t have to keep seeing that man.”

That man.

The words feel like a noose tightening around my throat.

I glance away, stare at the cracked tiles on the floor, at the shadows stretching along the wall. My chest feels hollow, emptied of air. He’s lying. He always lies.

He used to be someone. A capo in the Diavoli. Feared, respected. Men lowered their eyes when they spoke his name. He was supposed to be next in line for underboss. Then came the drinking. The losses. The debts.

When Mama got sick, everything collapsed. He gambled more, begged for loans from men who smile as they sharpen their knives. Eventually, even the mafia washed their hands of him.

And now… now his debt is mine.

I check my phone, thumb trembling on the cracked screen. I’m already late.

“Ciao, Papa,” I whisper, barely louder than breath. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t wait for one.

Outside, the night air slaps my cheeks, cool and sharp. A horn blares. Headlights sweep across the street. Ruby leans halfway out the window of her beat-up car, waving like a madwoman.

“Adriana! Come on! We’re going to be late again!”

I hurry across the sidewalk and slide into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me.

“It was my dad,” I murmur, trying not to sound as small as I feel.

Ruby’s eyes flick to me, sharp even in the neon glow of passing streetlights. “You’ve got to start putting yourself first, Adriana. Seriously. Some people you gotta let go if you ever want to grow.”

I don’t answer. I just stare out the window as the city rushes by in a smear of light and shadow. My reflection stares back—dark eyes, smudged makeup, hair I didn’t have time to fix.

“You’re too talented to be stuck in that bar,” Ruby continues, her voice softening. “You should be painting. Studying. Living.”

“I know.” The words feel like smoke slipping from my lips. “I can’t keep cleaning up after him. I think… I think I’m just enabling him.”

Ruby doesn’t speak at first. Then she nods, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wants to say more but doesn’t.

The parking lot comes into view, crowded with cars that gleam under the neon red sign. We rush toward the back entrance, heels clattering against the concrete.

I glance up at the board.

The Tavern was Matteo’s club.The man my father owes everything to,The Don of the Diavoli.

He was cold and calculated. Eyes like dead glass. The kind of man people don’t look at too long.

Ruby tugs at the hem of her skirt nervously. “He’s gonna sell us to one of those whorehouses. We’re late.”

“He doesn’t deal in that kind of business,” I reply automatically. “You know that.”

It’s true. Matteo might be brutal, might kill without blinking, but there are lines even he won’t cross. That’s the only reason I can still stand to breathe the same air as him.

Still, I remember his warning: You’ll regret being late again.

A door creaks open. Both of us freeze.

Lorenzo steps into the hallway, arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes cut through the dim light, flat and unforgiving.

“Matteo wants to see you,” he says. His voice is gravel, sharp as broken glass. “Both of you. Now.”

My pulse quickens. Ruby’s breathing grows shallow beside me.

“Lorenzo, please, we—” I start.

“Downstairs.” He cuts me off, the word final.

The stairs groan under our weight as we descend. Each step feels heavier, like lead pulling me down.

Down here, the air changes. The music above fades, replaced by a thick, oppressive silence. The basement is where the real business happens

A man’s voice breaks the quiet, raw with begging.

BANG.

The sound slams into me like a physical blow. Ruby flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. I grab her hand and squeeze, but we let go before we reach the door.

Inside, Matteo stands like the center of gravity itself. Looking calm and untouchable. His pistol slides back into his coat as if it’s nothing more than a pen. Blood streaks the wall behind him. A body lies facedown on the floor, still as stone. Forgotten.

Matteo doesn’t blink at all. Doesn’t falter. When his eyes lift to us, they’re sharp, amused, like he’s been waiting.

Ruby crumbles first. “We’re sorry, Matteo,” she blurts, voice shaking. She drops to her knees, trembling. “Please. It won’t happen again. Don’t… don’t sell us.”

I don’t kneel.

I can’t.

My eyes flick to the blood, to the way it glistens under the dim light. My chest tightens, but I force myself to breathe evenly, quietly.

Matteo scoffs, already bored. “Leave. I’m already pissed off.”

Ruby scrambles up, grabbing my hand. “Come on—”

“Not you, princess.”

The words freeze me in place.

Ruby hesitates, her eyes darting to mine. Be careful, her look says. Then she disappears through the door, leaving me alone.

My stomach knots. I hate when he calls me that. Princess. I never know if it’s affection or a threat. One day, I’m invisible. The next, he says it like he owns me.

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His gaze never leaves me, steady and suffocating.

“Kneel,” he orders, voice flat.

Marco and Lorenzo are watching. My choices shrink to one.

Slowly, quietly, I sink to my knees. The floor is cold against my skin, the weight of it final.

For a second, something flickers in Matteo’s eyes…surprise maybe. He hadn’t expected me to obey. Normally, I’d fight. Push back. But after Papa, after tonight, I don’t have the strength.

His footsteps echo as he approaches, each click of his shoes deliberate. He pulls the gun again, the barrel gleaming as he taps it lightly against my forehead.

My jaw tightens.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” My voice cuts low, sharp. “Me on my knees. You’re sick. Twisted.”

His lips curve faintly, not quite a smile. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No.” My eyes lock on his, unflinching. “I think you’re a psychopath.”

He smirks, presses the barrel harder.

“I prefer the term sociopath,” he drawls.

He pulls the trigger.

Click.