“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.

Matteo

Adriana gasps and staggers backward, clutching her chest. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes as the truth hits.

The gun was damn empty.

Marco and Lorenzo exchange a glance before bursting into laughter. I don’t bother holding mine in.

She scrambles to her feet and bolts from the room like the air’s been sucked out.

Did she think I’d shoot her?

Of course not.

She might be Alessandro’s daughter, but in every way that matters… she’s mine and she knows it deep down.

“You need to stop screwing with her,” Marco mutters without looking up from his phone.

Marco was more than a brother to me. He and Lorenzo stood at my side when I tore this city from the hands of unworthy bastards.

As my consigliere, Marco was the voice of reason. The one man in my circle who preferred strategy over blood. Violence was never his way, but his loyalty was unshakable.

“I know what I’m doing, Marco. Hop off my dick.”

Her father owes me more than money—he owes me years of his life. Favors. Blood. And Adriana… she’s the last piece.

Two of my men come in and drag the body out. They nod to me, stepping around the pool of blood like it’s just another part of the décor.

The night’s still young. There’s a party starting soon. My people expect a show.

I head to my office, wash the blood off my hands, and pull on a clean black shirt. Lorenzo tosses me my lighter as we head upstairs.

Cigarette between my lips, the sharp burn hitting my lungs just as the bass from the club floor seeps through the walls steady, pulsing, like a heartbeat under my feet.

On the main floor, the air is thick with smoke, perfume, and sweat. The lights are low and red, turning everything into sin and shadow.

People are already drunk. Girls are moving on the floor, hips rolling to the beat. VIP booths are filling. Bottles are popping.

I scan the crowd and there she is. Adriana.

Her eyes are locked on me, no fear, no smile, just that unreadable look like she’s trying to solve me.

I wink.

She turns away instantly.

We head to our booth. The usual strippers are already waiting, heels high, smiles fake. One hand me a drink, careful not to brush my skin.

She's a smart girl with bright red hair. She strips to pay for school, and for extra money, she fucks some of our men. I didn't fancy the prostitution business, but if one of my girls wanted some extra cash, I never really gave a fuck.

She sits on my lap and I flex my arms against the sofa, widening my legs to give her better access. She adjusts, letting her middle sit properly on my crotch.

She shifts, the deliberate roll of her hips aligning her heat directly over me. A faint smirk tugs at her lips when she feels I’m already half-hard.

I grinned, but my smile quickly faded when I saw Adriana leading a man to the dance floor. He was tall, blonde, looking at her with nothing but lust while staggering behind her like a lost puppy.

I had never seen him here before, so he wouldn't know who any of us were or what we do.

Bastard.

Since when did Adriana dance?

She had changed from her normal uniform into a mini sequin dress with high matching pumps. Her dress was quickly riding up with each step she took. If she didn't pull it down, it would expose her backside and middle.

My jaw clenched with that realization. This girl was really testing my patience. Maybe it was why I was obsessed with her. She was the only person in this Godforsaken city, my city, that didn't give a fuck about what I had to say

And some twisted part of me loved it because I wanted to be the one to tame her to own her, and soon I will.

Adriana pulls the fucker close to her, whispering something in his ear, and he reaches for her waist.

Marco takes his eyes off the girl on top of him and looks straight at the dance floor, letting out a low chuckle.

“I'll give you something to laugh about real soon, Marco”, I rasp out, trying to control my breathing.

He shakes his head and places his hands on the stripper's waist, sitting on his lap.

I look back at the dance floor, and Adriana has her back turned to him. His hands are going up and down her hips as she moves her hips to the beat, letting the bastard rub himself against her ass and sniff her hair.

Why did I care? Why did I give a fuck? a fucking stripper was on top of me

The redhead on my lap sways her hips, pressing harder into me, trying to pull my attention back. But my eyes are locked on Adriana.

She dipped low, not breaking eye contact with the fucker, putting her hands up in the air as she faced him and swayed down, meeting his crotch, and slowly she looked at me.

Because she knew I was watching, I was always watching.

I've been watching since her mama left this fucking earth.

She knew it, her Papa knew it.

The stripper on top of me stood up, knowing what was about to happen, and Lorenzo put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from standing.

“Boss, let me go. I would sort this out,” Lorenzo sighed, already growing annoyed with the back and forth of this situation between me and Adriana

“He's right, Matteo. It might cause more distress if you deal with the man; let Lorenzo handle it,” Marco added, looking up at me with the stripper still in his lap.

Adriana’s voice slices through the bass. “Let me go, you asshole!”

The Fucker has his hands in her hair, shoving her down toward his open zipper.

“Fuck,” I growl, shoving Lorenzo’s arm off me.

I released myself from Lorenzo's hold and strutted down to the dance floor, increasing my pace with every step.

“You have refused to let me go, and now He will kill you,” Adriana yelled at him, looking at me with a small frown.

“Shut up, whor—”

I don’t let him finish. My fist drives into his back with a crack that tells me bones just broke. He collapses, gasping, then reaches for a knife.

I kick it out of his hand, his wrist snapping under the force.

“You’re going to kill me over some club slut?” he spits through the pain.

My hand wraps around his throat. I slam his head into the floor hard enough to rattle teeth. Screams erupt. People scatter. My gun’s out before anyone can blink.

I shoot him in the head, and his blood sprays hot across my face and shirt.

When I look up, Adriana’s splattered too. Her eyes are wide, but there’s something else in them, a glint of admiration she’s too drunk to hide.

I pulled her into my arms, and she sank into my chest. Her body was shaking, and I was unable to tell if it was because of the alcohol or fear.

I shove her into my car it was a sleek, matte-black Ferrari. Blood money on wheels.

And she lands harder than I expected against the seat. “Ow. That hurt, she mutters under her breath.

I slam the door, and the car rocks.

She leans toward me and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, Matteo.”

I go still. Struggling to process the heat I felt in my chest.

I don't reply to her, and she sits back and closes her eyes.

Sleep pulls her under, and from her heavy breathing, I can tell she’s asleep.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, princess,” I mutter finally, hands clenched on the wheel. “And I won’t always be there to save you.”

She doesn’t wake when I lift her into my arms. Her head rests against my chest like she belongs there.

I hate how right it feels.

The stairs groan under my feet as I climb. The building smells like mildew and regret. The front door’s wide open. No lock or any sort of security. Of course.

I push it open with my shoulder.

He’s there, Alessandro. The old bastard.

He stares like he’s seen a ghost. A half-empty bottle slips from his hand and shatters on the floor. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

How the hell is this man her father?

I don’t even look at him. I carry Adriana to her room, lay her gently on the bed that creaks under her weight.

She mumbles something, half-asleep. I unzip her dress slowly, carefully, and she lifts her arms. I slide it off and I see that she's only wearing a black thong, nothing else.

My cock strains against my trousers, and I shake my head.

She’s beautiful when she’s quiet. When she’s mine.

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek and step out.

Alessandro is still standing in the hallway, face pale, shirt stained, reeking of booze.

“I’m bringing the money, Matteo,” he sputters. “I swear it. Adriana and I….we’re working hard. We’ll pay….”

I look at him, shaking my head.

“I want to marry your daughter, Alessandro.”

Adriana

Once I hear that sentence, I jump off my bed.

Did I hear that right?

No—no, it can’t be. My brain must still be tangled in dreams, the remnants of sleep playing tricks on me. Because what I think I just heard…It’s not possible.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes hard enough to blur the shadows into streaks. My heartbeat is a drumbeat inside my chest….loud, frantic, refusing to slow.

The voices come again. Low and tense.

I slide out of bed, feet cold against the floor, and press my ear to the door. Every muscle in my body is taut, straining to catch every word.

My breaths turn shallow, my chest rising and falling too fast, the edges of my vision going tight. My knees tremble, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or the leftover weakness from sleep, but it’s enough to make me feel like I could collapse if I move too suddenly.

“Gesù Cristo,” Papa mutters, voice raw, chest heaving like the air itself has betrayed him. There’s something in his tone I don’t hear often…not just fear, but a deep, stunned confusion.

From my angle, all I can see is Matteo’s back. He’s facing away from my room, standing between Papa and the door. But the sharp gasp that slips from Papa tells me enough.

Matteo isn’t joking. Not tonight.

And why would he? This is a man who

doesn’t waste words, much less jokes. Especially not about something like this.

I know that posture, that stance. His shoulders are squared, his chin angled just enough to slice through a person without touching them.

He’s giving Papa that icy blue death stare, the one he uses to crush people before he even lays a hand on them. He’s used it on me before. More than once. I always like it’s his favorite weapon.

Matteo has made tormenting us his sport ever since Papa fell into his debt. Every visit, every demand, every threat….it’s been a slow suffocation.

And now?

Now he’s talking about marrying me?

No. No, no, no. This can't happen.

Men like Matteo marry glamorous Italian daughters of underbosses. Women who glide into rooms dripping with status and family connections, who know the right people to greet and the wrong ones to offend.

Not… me.

Not the daughter of a disgraced man who was tossed out of the mafia like yesterday’s garbage.

If Matteo married me, it would be a scandal. A joke. A shame whispered through every corner of the Five Families.

I try to shove that thought away before it sinks too deep. I inch the door open just enough to see.

Papa’s eyes are wide, bloodshot, his jaw hanging like he can’t wrap his head around the words. “I have failed her,” he mutters again, softer this time, almost to himself.

“I will allow no such thing,” he wheezes, pushing himself upright. His voice shakes, but there’s a flicker of fight in it, an echo of the man he used to be.

Matteo’s laugh is sharp, humorless, and aimed like a knife. He stares at Papa the way you’d look at trash blocking your way. “You’re not in charge here, old man. Not anymore.”

“I’ll pay the debt,” Papa says quickly, the desperation spilling out of him. “Somehow. But Adriana? Not her. Not while I breathe.”

Matteo doesn’t flinch. “I don’t want her living in this dump,” he says, voice cold, precise. “I don’t want her near you. You’re a danger to her.”

Papa spits back, “And you’re not?” I’ve never heard his voice like that before…pure, burning rage.

The silence after is razor-thin. Matteo’s jaw tightens. His fists curl at his sides. Papa’s words have cut deeper than he wants to admit, because it’s true.

His enemies are everywhere, waiting for the right moment to strike. Being his wife wouldn’t just be dangerous; it could be a death sentence painted in gold.

Papa’s voice softens, cracks. “You’ve taken everything from me. Now you want my daughter?”

The sound of it shatters something in me.

Matteo’s fingers drum once against the table, sharp and impatient. “I’ve wanted her for a long time. Allesandro cut the bullshit. You knew this time was coming sooner or later.”

Papa’s eyes flash. “She says you hate her.”

Matteo leans forward, the corner of his mouth lifting, not in amusement but in warning. “Did she?” His gaze doesn’t waver. “She’s wrong.”

What Matteo and I had wasn't hate, but I knew that it wasn’t love either.

Papa shakes his head slowly, disbelief etched deep into every line of his face.

“I’ll have her, Alessandro. Whether you like it or not. She’s already mine.”

The words hit me like a slap, even from behind the door.

Matteo straightens. “We’re getting married next week. You’re invited. You better fucking show.” The smile he gives isn’t a smile

Papa stares at him like his soul’s just been torn from his body. “Adriana is different. Special. She’s not meant for your world.”

Matteo’s reply is immediate, calm in a way that makes it worse. “If you’re worried about her safety, don’t. She’ll be safer with me than with anyone else. No one touches her. No one will dare touch what’s mine, Alessandro. And you know that.”

A cruel grin twists his mouth. “But I’ll give you a deal.”

Papa’s eyes flicker not with hope exactly, but with that calculating hunger I’ve seen before. The kind that makes me want to scream at him.

Matteo’s voice drops lower, colder than death itself. “Your debts will be cleared if you let me marry your daughter.”

The air feels heavier, thick enough to choke me.

I step back from the door, pressing a hand over my mouth to stop the sound threatening to break free. My legs are shaking so badly that I have to brace against the wall.

I watched it hit him. The trade.

Papa stumbles back, one hand clutching his chest, eyes darting like he’s trying to find a way out. Then… he nods.

He nods.

“You can have her,” he croaks.

It’s like the ground opens beneath me. The future I’ve clung to….my plans, my escape, my freedom slips right through my fingers.

No shouting. No slamming. He didn't even put up a fight.

Just footsteps. Papa’s footsteps. Walking away. Shutting his door.

It’s done. Just like that. I’ve been handed over to the most feared man in New York.

The moment it sinks in, something in me snaps.

I throw open the window, the hinges whining. Cold air rushes in, sharp enough to sting my lungs. I swing a leg over the sill and climb down, hands gripping the old drainpipe until my feet hit the pavement.

I’m not waiting for Matteo to chain me to him.

This is my life. My choices. My decisions.

If I stay, he’ll ruin me. He’ll claim me, own me, and I’ll be stupid enough to love him for it blindly, hopelessly. And he won’t love me back. Not the way I’d need him to.

He’ll give me children and lock me into the Cosa Nostra until death. Then he’ll take mistresses while I rot in silence. That’s how the mafia is—brutal, unfair, unrelenting.

The chill bites through my thin sweater and old shorts, slippers slapping against the cracked sidewalk as I move. My hands shake so hard I nearly drop my phone, but I manage to unlock it and dial.

Ruby picks up on the third ring, voice groggy. “Hello?”

“Ruby,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I need your help.”

Her tone sharpens instantly. “Adriana? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt, but I need to run away.Tonight. Please. Take me to New Jersey. It’s Matteo’s father’s territory; he won't risk coming after me there unless he wants a war.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a sigh I know too well. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

I close my eyes, pressing the phone to my cheek, letting that tiny thread of hope hold me together long enough to wait.

Because if she’s late, if Matteo finds me first, I know exactly what will happen.