Sold to the Mafia King

The Night He Took Me The velvet bag over my head smelled like copper and old blood. I didn't scream. I had learned, in the twenty minutes since three men in black suits had dragged me from my apartment, that screaming only made them tighten the ropes around my wrists. The car stopped. Hands grabbed me. Rough. Efficient. They pulled me through cold air, then through a door, then down a hallway that echoed with every step of my bare feet. They had taken my shoes first. I don't know why that detail stuck with me. Maybe because shoes meant I could run. Without them, I was already caught. The bag came off. I was in a ballroom. Not a basement. Not a warehouse. A ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Long tables draped in white cloth. Flowers everywhere—white roses, hundreds of them, arranged in towering vases. And at the end of the room, standing in front of an altar, was a man in a black suit. He was tall. Impossibly tall, with shoulders that filled out his jacket like armor. His hair was dark, swept back from a face that looked carved from stone—sharp jaw, cruel mouth, eyes the color of a winter sky. Ice blue. And cold as death. "Ah," he said, and his voice was low and smooth, like silk wrapped around a blade. "She's here." I tugged against the men holding me. "Who are you?" He stepped forward. One step. Two. His shoes clicked against the marble, each sound measured and deliberate. "You don't recognize me, piccolo?" Piccola. Little one. No one had called me that since I was a child. My blood turned to ice. "Three years ago," he continued, stopping inches from my face. "Your father made a deal with me. His life for his daughter's hand." "My father is dead." "Yes." A small smile curved his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "He died before he could deliver." I stared at him. "You can't be serious." "I am always serious, Miss Rossi." He reached out and touched my chin, tilting my face toward the light. His fingers were cold. "And I always collect my debts." "I'm not marrying you." "You don't have a choice." "I'll kill myself first." The smile widened. "Then I'll keep you alive by force. Tube in your nose if I have to. I am a patient man." My stomach turned. "The priest is waiting," he said, releasing my chin. "The guests are waiting. And you, piccolo, are going to walk down that aisle and say 'I do.'" "Or what?" His eyes flickered. For just a moment, the ice cracked, and I saw something underneath. Something hungry. Something dark. "Or I start killing the people you love," he said softly. "Starting with your mother." My breath caught. "She's in witness protection." "I know." He tilted his head. "I also know her new name. Her new address. The color of her front door." He paused. "It's blue, by the way. She always did like blue." I couldn't breathe. "The dress is in the back room," he said, stepping away. "You have ten minutes to change. After that, I will come to find you." He turned his back to me. Confident. Unafraid. Because he knew I had nowhere to run