Owned By The Devil Don

Chapter 1: THE PRICE OF HIS SINS The night a 24-years-old Isabella Reyes’s life shattered smelled like rain and burnt rubber. She was halfway down the block from her father’s apartment when she sensed it, that prickling awareness at the back of her neck, the instinct that told her she was no longer alone. The streetlight ahead flickered, bathing the cracked sidewalk in a sickly yellow glow. Her heels clicked too loudly. Her phone was dead. Her pulse skidded. She told herself she was being paranoid. Then a black SUV rolled to a silent stop beside her. The doors opened at the same time. Strong hands seized her arms before she could scream. A cloth pressed over her mouth, sharp, chemical, unforgiving. Her knees buckled as the world tilted, sounds stretching and blurring like a nightmare underwater. The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her whole was the faint red glow of a cigarette burning in the driver’s seat. Isabella woke to cold. Not the gentle chill of morning air, but the kind that seeped straight into her bones, leaching warmth and courage alike. Marble pressed into her knees. Her wrists burned, bound tight behind her back. Her head throbbed, each heartbeat a reminder that she was very much alive, and very much not safe. She lifted her head slowly. The room was enormous. A private mansion, maybe. Tall ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed by heavy black curtains. A chandelier hung above her like a crown made of glass knives. Men stood along the walls. All dressed in black. All armed. All silent. And in front of her, He sat in a high-backed leather chair, legs spread, elbows resting casually on the armrests like this was his throne and she was just another offering dragged before him. He wore a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms marked faintly with scars. His face was devastating in a way that felt cruel. Sharp cheekbones. Dark brows. A mouth that looked like it had never learned how to smile without meaning harm. His eyes, God, his eyes were the color of oil, black and endless, stripping her bare in seconds. Isabella had never seen him before. But she knew exactly who he was. The 34-years-old Alessandro De Luca. The Devil Don of New York. Her father used to whisper his name like a curse. Alessandro leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze never left her face. “So,” he said calmly, his voice smooth and accented, “you’re Rafael Reyes’s daughter.” The sound of her father’s name sent a jolt of fear through her chest. She swallowed, her throat dry. “I, if you’re here for him,” she managed, “he doesn’t have money. He hasn’t had money in years.” A murmur of amusement rippled through the room. Alessandro smiled. It wasn’t kind. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement and crossed the distance between them. His shoes made no sound on the marble. He crouched in front of her, bringing them eye level. Up close, he was worse. His presence filled the air, heavy and suffocating. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and expensive cologne. His gaze dropped to the rope biting into her wrists, then slid back to her face. “Your father,” Alessandro said softly, “stole eight million dollars from me.” Isabella’s breath hitched. “That money belonged to my family,” he continued. “To my men. To blood that’s already been spilled.” She shook her head, panic rising. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, ” Alessandro reached out and tilted her chin up with one finger. The contact burned. “Don’t lie for him,” he said, his voice still calm. “I know exactly what your father did. I know where the money went. And I know he thought hiding behind his daughter would protect him.” Her chest tightened painfully. “He didn’t hide behind me.” Alessandro’s eyes hardened. “No,” he agreed. “He ran.” The word echoed in her head. Ran. “He left you,” Alessandro went on, watching her carefully now. “Changed his name. Changed his face. But he made one mistake.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, slow and deliberate. “He kept you.” Isabella jerked back as far as the ropes allowed. “You don’t get to touch me.” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “I get to do whatever I want,” he said quietly. The room fell deathly still. Alessandro straightened and turned his back on her, pacing a few steps away like he’d already grown bored. One of his men stepped forward and handed him a tablet. Alessandro glanced at the screen, then spoke without looking at her. “Your father owes a debt he will never be able to repay,” he said. “Normally, I’d send a message. A bullet. A body.” Her heart slammed against her ribs. “But,” he continued, “you are… interesting.” She let out a shaky breath. “If this is about money, I can work. I can, ” He laughed then. A short, humorless sound. “You think this is about money?” He turned back to her, eyes dark with something that made her skin crawl. “You,” he said, “are collateral.” The word hit her harder than any slap. Collateral. “You’ll stay here,” Alessandro went on. “You’ll eat what I give you. Sleep where I tell you. Speak when you’re spoken to.” Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “And if my father doesn’t come back?” she asked. Alessandro studied her for a long moment. Then he said, “He won’t.” Her breath caught. “Men like your father,” Alessandro continued, “always choose themselves.” Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. “What… what are you going to do with me?” she whispered. Alessandro crouched again, close enough now that she could feel his warmth. His gaze locked onto hers. “That,” he said, “depends on how obedient you are.” Fear twisted into something sharper, anger. “I’m not your possession,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “You are now.” He stood and snapped his fingers. Two men approached her immediately. “Take her upstairs,” Alessandro ordered. “The east wing. Lock the doors. Post guards.” One of the men reached for her arm. Isabella fought. She kicked, twisting against their grip, rage lending her strength she didn’t know she had. Her heel connected with a shin. Someone cursed. Hands tightened painfully around her arms. Alessandro watched it all with dark amusement. “She has fire,” he remarked. “Good.” She was dragged toward the stairs, her heart pounding, her future collapsing in on itself. As they pulled her away, she looked back at him one last time. Alessandro De Luca stood in the center of the room, watching her like a man who had just claimed something priceless. And for the first time, true terror settled into her bones. Because she knew one thing with terrifying certainty, The devil hadn’t taken her to punish her father. He had taken her because he wanted her.