Bought By The Mafia CEO

BLOOD ON HIS SHEETS

3:12 AM.

Elena woke up cold.

Not the cold of air conditioning. The cold of an empty bed that should have been warm. The arm that had been locked around her waist like a steel band was gone.

The penthouse was too quiet. No rain. No breathing.

She sat up. Her lip throbbed where Leo hit her. The big t-shirt — his t-shirt — was sticking to her.

It was wet.

She turned on the bedside lamp.

Blood.

Not a little. A smear across the black sheets. Dark red, fresh. Leading from where Alessandro had slept to the edge of the bed, to the floor, to the bathroom door.

"Alessandro?"

No answer.

The bathroom door was open. Light off. She could see his black shirt on the floor. Soaked. And a white towel. Red.

Panic shot through her chest like ice.

"ALESSANDRO!"

She scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting cold marble, slipping in blood. She ran to bathroom.

Empty.

That's when the intercom buzzed.

The penthouse intercom had never buzzed. No one knew the code except Luca.

Elena walked to the living room panel, hands shaking, blood on her feet.

She pressed answer.

Static. Then an old man's voice, calm, smoking a cigar, like he was ordering coffee.

"Good morning, Mrs. De Luca."

Elena froze.

Old Man Romano. Vincent Romano. 60 years old, white hair, the man who killed her father.

"I have your mother again. She is very good at writing notes when my boy holds gun to her head. This time she wrote with her own blood. Would you like to hear?"

A second voice, weak, crying: "Elena... don't... don't come... he —"

Maria.

Elena grabbed the intercom like she could pull her mother through it.

"MAMA! Mama where are you!"

"Warehouse. Pier 17. You know it? Your husband's warehouse? How ironic." Old Man laughed. "Come alone. 30 minutes. Or I send your mother back to you piece by piece. And I tell you what — I will start with the hands she used to sew your little red dresses."

The line cut.

Elena stood in the middle of $40 million penthouse, barefoot in blood, wearing a dead man's brother's name on a t-shirt, and realized it was all happening again.

Trap 2.0.

She looked at the blood trail again.

Alessandro was hurt.

He had carried her, washed her feet, held her until she slept — then he left bleeding.

Where?

She ran to his office. Door open. Gun safe open. Empty. His second gun gone. His phone on desk, screen cracked, a text from Luca: BOSS WAREHOUSE PIER 17 AMBUSH. ROMANO 10 MEN. DON'T GO ALONE.

Pier 17. Same place Old Man told her.

It was a trap for Alessandro. And now trap for her too.

Elena did the stupidest thing a heroine in a Dreame novel does — but the only thing a daughter would do.

She grabbed Alessandro's gun from his nightstand — heavy, cold, real — and his car keys. The black Maybach keys.

She had never shot a gun. Her father taught her to sew, not shoot.

But she had seen Alessandro. Finger off trigger until ready.

She ran to elevator, punched service code she memorized from earlier — 1907 — Matteo's death year.

The elevator dropped 80 floors.

Pier 17 was 15 minutes away. At 3 AM, New York was empty.

She drove like a madwoman. Barefoot. T-shirt. Gun on passenger seat. Split lip bleeding again.

The warehouse was dark. Water lapping. Smell of fish and gasoline.

Two SUVs. Alessandro's.

She saw him before he saw her.

Alessandro was in the middle of warehouse, on his knees. Hands behind his back, tied with wire. Shirt off. Tattoos shining with sweat and blood. Chest tattoo MATTEO bleeding from a cut. His face bruised. But eyes — grey eyes still cold, still alive, looking up at Old Man Romano who held gun to his head.

And in corner — Maria. Tied to chair. Alive. Crying.

Old Man Romano: "De Luca King on knees. I waited 7 years for this. You took my docks. I took your brother. Fair."

Alessandro spat blood. "You drugged Rossi. You killed my brother like coward."

"I killed both. And now I kill you. And your little wife will watch, then sew dresses for my girls in basement."

That's when warehouse door creaked.

Everyone turned.

Elena stood in doorway, rain behind her, barefoot, in oversized blood-stained black t-shirt that reached mid-thigh, hair wild, holding a big black gun with both hands like in movies.

Pointed at Old Man Romano.

For a second, no one breathed.

Old Man Romano started laughing. "Little designer? You come to save Mafia King? With his gun? You don't even know how to —"

Elena shot.

The bullet missed by a foot and hit metal container with a loud BANG. She screamed from recoil and almost fell.

But she shot.

Silence again. Then Elena's voice, shaking but loud, in Italian she only used when furious:

"LASCIALO! OR I SHOOT AGAIN UNTIL I HIT!"

Alessandro stared at her. His wife. Barefoot. In his t-shirt. Bleeding lip. Holding gun like it weighed more than her.

And he did something no one had seen in 7 years.

He smiled.

A real smile. Bloody teeth.

"Principessa," he said hoarsely, "aim lower."

Old Man Romano turned gun from Alessandro to Elena. Fast.

"Stupid girl —"

Gunshot.

Not from Romano. From behind Elena.

Luca. Luca Ferrara. With 4 De Luca men. All guns out.

Old Man Romano fell. Not dead. Shot in shoulder. Gun dropped.

Chaos. Shouting in Italian. Luca cut Alessandro free. Maria screamed.

Alessandro didn't go to Maria. He didn't go to Luca.

He walked — stumbled — to Elena and took gun from her hands before she shot herself.

He cupped her face, looking at her bare feet bleeding from warehouse glass.

"You drove barefoot? With my gun? In my t-shirt? To save me?"

Elena started crying, finally, all fear coming out. "You were bleeding on sheets — I thought you died —"

Alessandro picked her up again. Same carry. Always same carry. Like she weighed nothing.

He carried her past Old Man Romano bleeding on floor and said to Luca without looking:

"Don't kill him. Break his hands. Like I did his son. Then lock him in container. Let him watch his docks burn."

Then to Elena, whispering in her ear, voice shaking with something that was not anger:

"Never. Ever. Put my t-shirt and my gun together again, principessa. You almost gave me heart attack. I can't be Mafia King if my heart stops because my wife is too brave."

He carried her to SUV. Maria was already being carried by Luca's man.

In car, Elena sat on his lap, bleeding feet in his bloody hands, gun on floor.

Alessandro pressed his bleeding forehead to hers.

"You saved me. Again."

"You saved my mother. Again."

They were both bleeding. Both shaking.

He kissed her — not soft like before. Hard, desperate, tasting blood and rain and gunpowder.

For the first time, Elena kissed him back.

Not because of contract. Not because he bought her.

Because she wanted to.

In backseat, Luca pretended to look at road, but he was smiling.

His boss, the coldest man in Manhattan, was finally alive.