Chapter 2
2723 Words
Maria found her voice somewhere between shock and survival.
“No.”
The word came out clear. No stammer. No hesitation. Just pure, distilled refusal.
Salvatore raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I’m a student.” Maria’s hands were shaking but her voice held steady. “I d-don’t even know you. I don’t know what my father d-did, I don’t—” The stammer tried to catch her but she pushed through it. “You can’t just decide I’m going to m-marry someone. That’s not—that’s insane.”
“Insane,” Salvatore repeated, like he was tasting the word. “Interesting choice.”
Maria’s brain was working frantically, trying to find any way out of this nightmare. Her journalism instincts kicked in—stick to the facts, stay calm, explain the situation logically.
“I was there by m-mistake,” she said quickly. “The location—someone sent me coordinates. I thought it was a t-tip for a story. I’m a journalism student, I thought—” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t know anyone would be there. I didn’t know what I would f-find.”
“A mistake,” Salvatore said slowly.
“Yes. A mistake. I was just—I was scared when I heard voices, so I started recording. I thought if something happened to me, at least there would be evidence. I wasn’t trying to—” Her words tumbled over each other. “I didn’t mean to witness anything. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. She had no idea what her father had done. No idea what any of this was really about. She’d stumbled into something she didn’t understand, and now they wanted her to marry someone because of it?
“Please,” she added, hating how desperate she sounded. “Whatever my father did, I don’t know anything about it. I was s-six years old when—when whatever happened, happened. I don’t remember. He never told me anything. I’m just a student trying to pass her classes and—”
“Enough,” Salvatore said quietly.
Maria’s mouth snapped shut.
Salvatore stood up slowly, studying her face. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Hope flared in Maria’s chest. “No. I don’t. I swear—”
“That,” Salvatore interrupted, “makes this even more interesting.”
The hope died.
“You think ignorance protects you?” Salvatore walked around the desk. “You think because you don’t know what your father did, what he took from me, that absolves you of the debt?”
“I’m not—there’s no debt. I didn’t do anything—”
“Your father’s blood runs in your veins. His sins are yours to carry.” Salvatore stopped in front of her chair. “Whether you know about them or not.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair?” Salvatore’s laugh was cold. “Nothing about this life is fair, little girl. You want fair? You should have stayed home tonight. You should have ignored that anonymous tip. You should have been anywhere but here.”
“I know,” Maria whispered. “I know, I’m sorry, I just—”
“But you weren’t.” Salvatore’s voice went deadly quiet. “You were here. You saw what you saw. You recorded what you recorded. And now you know who we are.” He tilted his head. “So tell me—what do you think happens now? What do you think I do with people who witness our business?”
Maria couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“I’m giving you a choice,” Salvatore said. “A gift, really. You can leave this room in a body bag, or you can leave it as my son’s fiancée.” He smiled. “I’m not going to force you. That’s not how I operate. You’ll change your mind on your own. They always do.”
“I won’t—”
“Until you do,” he spoke over her, “you don’t leave. You don’t call anyone. You don’t step foot outside these walls.” He gestured to the men by the door. “Take her upstairs. The blue room. Lock it.”
“Wait—” Maria tried to stand but hands grabbed her arms. Strong. Immovable. “Wait, you can’t just—”
“I can,” Salvatore said simply. “And little girl? The faster you accept reality, the easier this becomes.”
They pulled her toward the door. Maria twisted, fighting against the grip, trying to find Alessandro’s face in the blur of movement. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d stop this.
But Alessandro just stood there. Watching her with those cold, unreadable eyes.
“Please—” she tried one more time, her voice breaking. “Please, I d-don’t—”
No one answered.
The last thing she saw before they dragged her through the door was Salvatore pouring himself a drink, completely unbothered by her panic.
Like this was just another Tuesday night.
-----
Alessandro stared at the door long after it closed behind Maria and the guards.
He should say something. Should tell his father this was excessive, even by their family’s standards. Should point out that kidnapping a random journalism student because of something her dead father did twenty years ago was not, in fact, a brilliant strategic move.
Instead, he stood there in silence while his father took a slow sip of whiskey.
“You disagree,” Salvatore said. Not a question.
“You didn’t ask my opinion.”
“I’m not asking now either.” Salvatore swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I’m telling you what’s going to happen.”
Alessandro finally moved, turning to face his father fully. “Why her?”
“You know why.”
“I know you think her father betrayed you. What I don’t know is how forcing me to marry his daughter accomplishes anything except satisfying your ego.”
“Ego,” Salvatore repeated, amused. “Is that what you think this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
“This is about control. About ensuring that Antonio Mondal’s secrets stay buried with him. About making sure that if there’s anything left of what he took—anything at all—it stays in this family.” Salvatore set down his glass. “She may not know what her father did. But she exists. And as long as she exists, she’s a loose end.”
“So kill her,” Alessandro said flatly. “Don’t marry me to her.”
Salvatore’s eyes glinted. “You want me to kill her?”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.” Salvatore smiled. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be, son. You saw a frightened girl with her father’s face, and something in you hesitated.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did. I saw it.” Salvatore picked up his glass again. “And that’s fine. That hesitation, that weakness—it’s human. But it’s also dangerous. So we’re going to fix it.”
Alessandro felt the trap closing around him. “By forcing me to marry her.”
“By giving you a reason to see her as an asset instead of a victim. By making her your responsibility. Your problem to solve.” Salvatore’s voice went hard. “You wanted more authority in this family. You wanted me to see you as more than just my heir. Congratulations. This is your first real test.”
“I’m engaged,” Alessandro said quietly. “To Bianca.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
Salvatore’s expression didn’t change. “Are you.”
“We’ve been together for two years—”
“Bianca Rossi is a pleasant distraction from a respectable family.” Salvatore’s voice was utterly flat. “She would make a suitable wife for someone who has the luxury of marrying for affection. You are not that someone.”
“She loves me.”
“I’m sure she does.” Salvatore set down his glass with a soft click. “And in another life, that might matter. But we don’t live in that life, Alessandro. We live in this one. And in this one, what I say becomes law.”
Alessandro’s hands clenched at his sides. “So that’s it? You just decide, and I obey?”
“Yes.” Salvatore’s answer was immediate. Simple. Absolute. “That’s exactly how this works. That’s how it’s always worked. And if you think two years of romance with a girl who doesn’t know what you really are changes that—then you’re more naive than I thought.”
The words landed like punches.
Alessandro wanted to argue. Wanted to throw the glass against the wall, tell his father he was wrong, that this was cruel and medieval and fundamentally insane.
But he’d been groomed for this life since childhood. He knew the rules. Knew what happened to men who thought they could choose love over loyalty.
They ended up like Antonio Mondal. Dead under mysterious circumstances.
“Do you understand?” Salvatore asked, his voice almost gentle now. Almost kind.
Alessandro met his father’s eyes. Saw the steel there. The certainty. The complete absence of doubt or mercy.
He thought of Bianca. Of her smile, the way she touched his face when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. The way she made him feel like he could be someone other than Salvatore Moretti’s weapon.
Then he thought of the girl upstairs. The way she’d stammered and fought and looked at him with those huge, terrified eyes. Like he might save her.
Like he was anything other than exactly what his father had made him.
Something dark and cold settled in his chest.
“I understand,” he said.
“Good.” Salvatore nodded, satisfied. “Because she’s your responsibility now. Your problem to handle however you see fit.”
“My problem,” Alessandro repeated.
“You wanted authority? Here it is. Make Antonio Mondal’s daughter understand her place in this family. Make sure that in six months, she’s standing at an altar without any delusions about what her life has become.” Salvatore poured himself another drink. “The details are up to you. Just make sure she agrees.”
The permission in those words was clear. The threat too.
Alessandro looked at his father and understood the real test. This wasn’t about Maria at all. It was about him. About whether he’d break when asked to do something that violated every instinct that wasn’t Moretti-bred.
“If that’s what you want,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “then I’ll make sure she suffers.”
Salvatore’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Suffers?”
“You want her to understand her place? Fine. I’ll teach her.” Alessandro’s voice went cold. “If I can’t have what I want, why should she?”
It was petty. Cruel. Exactly the kind of reaction his father would expect from a man who’d just had his life decided for him.
Salvatore studied his son’s face for a long moment. Then he smiled.
“There’s the Moretti I raised,” he said softly. “Good. Break her if you have to. Just make sure she’s still functional when it’s time for the wedding.”
Alessandro left without another word, but as he walked through the villa’s corridors, his father’s voice echoed in his head.
*Your responsibility now.*
Fine.
If Maria Mondal wanted to play the innocent victim, wanted to pretend she’d stumbled into this by accident—let her. It wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t save her.
He’d make sure she understood exactly what kind of family she’d been born into.
And if she hated him for it?
Good.
Hate was easier than whatever complicated thing he’d felt when he’d touched her face and found his dead enemy’s scar on her skin.
-----
Maria woke up slowly, consciousness returning in fragments.
Soft. Everything was soft.
That was wrong. Her dorm mattress was cheap and lumpy. The pillow smelled wrong too—like lavender and something expensive, not the generic detergent she bought in bulk.
She opened her eyes to pale blue walls and morning sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. The bed beneath her was massive, covered in linens that probably cost more than her textbooks. There was a fireplace carved from marble, an antique vanity with an actual mirror framed in gold, and French doors leading to what looked like a balcony.
It was beautiful.
It was completely unfamiliar.
Then the memories hit.
The villa. The gunshot. The man with the cold eyes who’d caught her. The older man who’d said she’d marry his son like it was already decided. Being dragged through hallways while she fought and screamed and—
And then nothing.
Maria sat up too quickly. Her head spun, her mouth tasted like chemicals, and her body felt heavy and disconnected.
They’d drugged her. They must have. When she’d fought too hard, when she’d screamed too loud—someone had done something to knock her out.
Then she looked down and her heart stopped completely.
She wasn’t wearing her own clothes.
Someone had undressed her. Had taken off her jeans and t-shirt and bra and replaced them with a silk nightgown that felt like water against her skin. Her own clothes were folded neatly on a chair by the door, mocking her with their normalcy.
Maria’s hands flew to her body, checking frantically for signs of—what? What was she even checking for? Her mind couldn’t finish the thought. Everything seemed fine. Untouched. Just the clothes changed.
But the violation of it crashed over her anyway.
Someone had seen her unconscious. Vulnerable. Had undressed her while she couldn’t fight back, couldn’t say no, couldn’t do anything but lie there like a doll.
She was going to be sick.
Maria stumbled out of bed, her legs unsteady. She found a bathroom through a door she’d initially thought was a closet. More marble. More luxury. A clawfoot tub that looked like it belonged in a magazine. A shower big enough for a family.
She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up.
When there was nothing left inside her, she slumped against the cool tile floor and started crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified sadness. The kind of crying that came from somewhere primal and broken, where all the fear she’d been holding back finally exploded out of her.
This was her fault.
She’d gone to that villa alone like an i***t. She’d ignored every alarm bell going off in her head. She’d been so desperate to prove something—to her professors, to herself, to her dead father’s memory—that she’d walked straight into a nightmare.
And now she was here. Locked in a beautiful cage by men who killed people. Men who thought they owned her because of something her father had done that she didn’t even understand.
Maria hugged her knees to her chest, making herself small. The way her father had taught her when she was little and the world felt too big. The way she’d been doing her whole life whenever things got scary.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty bathroom. To her father’s ghost, maybe. To her mother who was probably losing her mind wondering where Maria was. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
But sorry didn’t unlock doors.
Sorry didn’t explain why a mafia boss thought she owed him something for crimes she didn’t commit.
Sorry didn’t change the fact that somewhere in this villa, men were planning her future like she was a chess piece instead of a person.
Maria pressed her forehead against her knees and cried until her throat was raw and her eyes burned and there was nothing left inside her but exhaustion.
The sun climbed higher outside her window. The light shifted from gray dawn to golden morning.
And beyond her locked door, the Moretti villa continued its business as usual.
Like she didn’t matter at all.
- Writer
