Reclaimed By The Mafia Boss

Red

It had been exactly one month since my divorce, thirty days measured in small victories and quiet relapses. A month of sleeping in Daisy’s spare room, of learning how to breathe without bracing for disappointment, of pretending I was fine until it became less of a lie. I had found a rhythm. Morning walks. Job applications. Dinners that did not end in silence. I was healing in pieces, slowly, carefully, the way you handle something fragile you are afraid to break again.

That was why I kept saying no.

“No, Daisy.”

“No, I don’t want to go.”

“No, parties are not my thing.”

Her boss’s fortieth birthday party sounded like everything I was trying to avoid. Loud people. Expensive clothes. Power circulating in the air like perfume. I told her I would feel out of place. I told her I was tired. I told her I was not ready to be seen like that. Daisy listened, smiled, and ignored every excuse with the confidence of someone who loved me enough not to indulge my fear.

“You need this,” she said, tying her shoes that afternoon. “Not for anyone else. For you.”

I stood in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, my stomach tight with nerves. The day had arrived whether I was ready or not. The Uber was already waiting downstairs. I could hear Daisy’s voice echoing from below, loud and impatient.

“Dani, the Uber’s waiting!”

“I’m coming,” I shouted back, my voice thinner than I wanted it to be.

I leaned closer to the mirror and touched up my makeup reluctantly, adjusting my lashes, blending my blush. My hands trembled slightly, but my face looked calm, composed, almost confident. I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. I slipped into the red satin dress Daisy had insisted on. It clung to my body like it had been made for me, the fabric soft and daring, the thigh high slit exposing just enough skin to make me nervous.

I fastened my gold strap heels, clipped on simple gold earrings, and clasped the necklace around my neck. A bold bangle slid onto my wrist, cool against my skin. I reached for the perfume at the back of the shelf, the blooming bouquet I still had left. It had been a gift from Noah, one of the few thoughtful things he had ever done. I hesitated, then sprayed it anyway. It smelled like closure now, not memory.

My hair was pulled into a messy bun, loose strands framing my face. I swiped on red Rhode lip gloss, grabbed my tiny Louis Vuitton bag, and took one last look. There was confidence there. Real confidence. Not borrowed. Not forced. I did not know when it had arrived, only that it was present.

I rushed down the stairs, heart racing, and slid into the Uber beside Daisy. She looked at me and grinned. “See,” she said. “Worth it.”

The drive took an hour. The city faded into quiet roads lined with trees and gates that hinted at money and privacy. I watched the scenery pass, my thoughts drifting. I reminded myself that this was just a party. That I could leave whenever I wanted. That I did not owe anyone anything.

When the car finally stopped, my breath caught.

The estate was massive, elegant in a way that felt intentional rather than flashy. The party was set outdoors, the garden transformed into something out of a dream. String lights glowed softly above, flowers arranged with effortless luxury, tables dressed in white and gold. Everything whispered wealth. Everything felt deliberate. Controlled.

I suddenly felt small.

As soon as we stepped out, Daisy was swept away by greetings and laughter. Colleagues hugged her, called her name, pulled her into conversations. I lingered behind, unsure where to stand, my heels sinking slightly into the grass. I felt like an outsider, like someone who had wandered into a world she was not meant to see.

Eventually, I found a seat beside Daisy, relief washing over me. It did not last long. Someone called her name again, and she jumped up with an apology, promising to be right back. I nodded, forcing a smile, and watched her disappear into the crowd.

I reached for a glass of red wine from a passing tray and took a small sip. The liquid was smooth, warming as it slid down my throat. I let myself observe. The people. The laughter. The quiet authority in the air. There was something intimidating about it all. Not loud. Just powerful.

After a while, I realized I needed the bathroom. I asked around, following directions into the house. The interior was just as impressive as the garden. Clean lines. Expensive art. A sense of restraint that somehow made everything more imposing. Even the silence felt expensive.

I finished quickly, washed my hands, and stared at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back at me did not look like someone who had been invisible for years. She looked present. A little unsure, but present.

Instead of returning immediately, I wandered. Curiosity pulled me deeper into the house. No one seemed to be inside, the party contained entirely outdoors. I moved slowly, taking in the details. The paintings. The furniture. Everything told a story of control, of taste sharpened by power.

I stopped in front of a painting, something abstract yet striking, dark colors layered with precision. I leaned closer, studying it, trying to understand what it made me feel.

“It’s beautiful, right?”

The voice came from behind me, deep and calm. Not startled. Not rushed.

I turned.

The man standing there wore an all black suit, tailored to perfection. He was tall, composed, devastatingly handsome in a way that felt effortless. His presence filled the room without demanding attention. His eyes were sharp, observant, unsettlingly calm.

“Yes,” I said softly, my heart thudding. “It is.”

He smiled slightly. “Ronan.”

“Danielle,” I replied, my voice steady despite the way my pulse raced.

He looked at me like he was seeing more than