Bought By The Mafia CEO

"Sign it, or I let your company die tonight." Elena Rossi stared at the marriage contract on the mahogany desk. Twelve pages. One signature. One year as his wife. In return, fifty million dollars. Across from her, Alessandro De Luca didn't even look at her. He was on a call, speaking Italian — low, lethal, cold. The kind of voice that made men disappear. "Si. Kill the deal. Tonight." He hung up. His grey eyes finally landed on her. "You have sixty seconds, Miss Rossi." Elena's hands were shaking. Her red dress was too cheap for this penthouse. Too cheap for him. "I am not marrying you," she whispered. Alessandro stood. 6'3. Black suit. Scar slicing through his left jaw. Tattoos crawling up his neck that his expensive shirt couldn't hide. He walked around the desk. Slowly. Like a predator. "Your company, Rossi Atelier, will be bankrupt by 9 AM tomorrow. Your staff of twenty-three will lose their jobs. Your mother’s hospital bill — " he slid a paper across, " — seventy thousand dollars unpaid. Should I continue?" Elena flinched. How did he know about her mother? "My fiancé will —" "Your fiancé?" Alessandro laughed. One cold sound. He picked up a remote and clicked. On the massive screen behind him, a video played. Elena's fiancé, Leo. In a hotel. Kissing Alessandro's secretary. And sliding a USB across the table. "He sold your fall collection to Romano Group for $200,000 yesterday. That's why you lost the Harvey contract." The world stopped. Elena felt bile rise. Leo. Three years. He proposed last month. And he was selling her designs? Her life's work? "No," she breathed. "Yes." Alessandro leaned down, both hands caging her chair. He smelled like cedar, smoke, and danger. "You have no fiancé. No company. No money. You have me. That is all you have left." Tears burned her eyes but she refused to cry in front of him. "What do you want from me?" "One year. Live in my penthouse. Be on my arm when I need you. Warm my bed when I want you. And in return, I save everything you love." "And if I say no?" "Then you walk out of here and lose everything by sunrise. Your choice." He was so close she could see the faint stubble, the scar that made him look cruel. Beautiful and cruel. Her phone buzzed. A text from her assistant: ELENA, BANK CALLED. THEY'RE FREEZING ACCOUNTS. Elena closed her eyes. She had built Rossi Atelier from her bedroom at 19. After her father died driving a truck for rich families. After everyone told her a poor girl can't be a designer. She couldn't lose it. She grabbed the gold pen. "What’s the catch? You don't even know me. Why me?" Alessandro's eyes darkened. Something dangerous flashed there. "Your father was Marco Rossi. He drove for my family. He died working for us. I owe a debt." It was a lie. Elena could feel it was a lie. But she signed. Elena Rossi. Big, messy signature. Right on the line: The Wife. The moment the ink dried, Alessandro pulled the contract away. Then he did something that made her blood freeze. He took a small silver knife from his pocket, sliced his own palm, and let a single drop of blood fall onto her signature. "Now it's sealed," he whispered. "Not with ink. With blood. Mafia way." Elena stood up too fast, knocking the chair. "You’re insane! You’re a —" "CEO by day. Something else by night." He wrapped his bleeding hand around her wrist. Tight. Possessive. "And you, principessa, are now mine. For one year, no man looks at you. No man touches you. You breathe for me. Understand?" "I am not your property!" "You signed. You are." He pulled her — hard — and pressed her against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking all of Manhattan. 80 floors up. The city lights glittered below. "Look," he growled in her ear, his body pressed to her back. "All of this. I own it. And now I own you." Elena's breath fogged the glass. Her heart hammered against his hand still holding her wrist. Then his phone rang. He let her go to answer. His face changed. Darker. "Elena Rossi is now under De Luca protection," he said in Italian. "If Romano touches her company, burn his warehouse." He hung up and looked at her like she was already ruined for anyone else. "The car is downstairs. Pack one bag. My men will bring you tonight. We marry tomorrow." "Tomorrow?!" "I don't wait for what I bought." He picked up his jacket, the gun holster now fully visible. "Oh, and Elena?" She looked up, terrified. "If you run, I will find you. That's not a threat. That's a promise." He walked out, leaving the smell of blood and cedar behind. Elena collapsed against the window, staring at the marriage contract with his blood drying over her name. What had she just done? Downstairs, Leo was calling her nonstop. 17 missed calls. And upstairs, her new husband was already ordering a white wedding dress — in her size.