Claimed By The Mafia King

The call comes at midnight, when the city outside my window has finally gone quiet enough to hear my own thoughts; an unforgivable mistake. I didn't answer at first. I sit on the edge of my bed, phone buzzing against the cheap wooden nightstand, its vibration crawling up my spine like a warning. Midnight calls don’t bring good news. They never have. Not since our name stopped meaning protection and started meaning liability. The screen lights up again. UNKNOWN NUMBER. My chest tightens. I already know. I answer anyway. “Aliah Valente,” a man says, calm and precise, like he’s reciting a grocery list. “You should come home.” “I am home,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “If this is about my father, you’re five years too late.” A pause. Then a breath. Not hesitation, but consideration. “This isn’t about your father,” he says. “It’s about your brother.” The room tilts. I grip the phone so hard my fingers ache. “You have the wrong person.” “I don’t,” he says gently, which somehow makes it worse. “Matteo Valente. Twenty-two. Accounting student. Clean record. Bad timing.” My heart starts pounding, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it through the line. “What do you want?” I ask. Another pause. Longer this time. “Come to Via del Porto,” he says. “Now. Alone.” The call ends before I can say anything else. I stare at the phone until the screen goes black. Then I moving. I started throwing on jeans, shoving my feet into shoes, my hands shaking just enough to be annoying. Panic doesn’t suit me. It never has. Panic is loud, messy. I learned early that silence lasts longer. The drive across the city is a blur of red lights and memories I don’t want. My father’s voice, sharp and nervous. My mother’s silence. The way doors started closing for us one by one until there were no doors left, but only exits. Via del Porto is all shadows and old money, the kind that doesn’t need signs or guards to announce itself. I park where I’m told. The building looms like a verdict. Inside, everything smells like polished wood and control. A man leads me down a corridor without speaking. I count my steps. I breathe through my nose. I don’t run. He opens a door. The room beyond is large, dim, and deliberately intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the harbor, lights glittering like they don’t know what happens in rooms like this. There’s a desk at the center which is dark wood, minimalist. A single man stands behind it, reading something on a tablet. He doesn’t look up right away. That’s how I know he’s dangerous. When he finally does lift his head, the air changes. Luca Montelli doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black like the color was invented for him. His face is sharp in a way that feels intentional, sculpted by decisions that didn’t leave room for regret. His eyes were dark, assessing. He lands on me like I’m something he’s already measured and weighed. And found wanting. “Sit,” he says. I sit. He studies me in silence, slow and thorough. Not the way men usually look at women. His eyes with hunger or curiosity, but like I’m a puzzle missing a piece he’s already misplaced on purpose. “You look like your mother,” he says at last. My jaw tightens. “You didn’t call me here to discuss family resemblances.” “No,” he agrees. “I called you because your brother made a very stupid mistake.” My heart stutters. “Matteo doesn’t-” “He took money,” Luca interrupts smoothly. “Not much. Enough.” “That’s impossible.” “Everything is impossible until it isn’t,” he says. “Your father used to say that.” My nails dig into my palms. “My father is dead.” “Yes,” Luca says. “And yet his debts have a way of breathing.” I swallow. “Where is my brother?” Luca leans back slightly, considering me. “Alive.” Relief crashes through me so hard my vision blurs for a second. “But,” he continues, unbothered, “that status is conditional.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “What do you want?” He stands. The movement is unhurried, controlled. He walks around the desk, stopping close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive, something that lingers. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. “I want to erase your family’s remaining obligations,” he says quietly. “I want your brother free and untouched by what comes next.” My chest tightens. “And the price?” His eyes flick to my mouth, just for a second. “You,” he says. The word hits harder than any slap could have. “I don’t understand.” “You will,” he replies. “You’re going to marry me.” The room goes silent. Then I laugh. It’s sharp and brittle and entirely unconvincing. “You called me here for a joke?” Luca doesn’t react. “I don’t like joking.” “This is insane.” “Is it?” he asks. “Your brother faces charges he won’t survive. Prison would be merciful compared to the alternatives. Your name offers no protection. Mine does.” I stand abruptly. “There has to be another way.” “There isn’t.” “You don’t know me,” I say. “Why would you-” “I know exactly who you are,” Luca cuts in. “You work two jobs. You send most of your money home. You haven’t spoken to your father’s associates in years. You keep your head down and your mouth shut.” He steps closer. “You’re disciplined,” he continues. “Quiet. And disposable.” The word burns. “I don’t want your money,” I say hoarsely. “I don’t want your protection. Let my brother go.” Luca’s expression didn’t change. “Marry me, and he walks out tonight.” “And if I refuse?” He studies me for a long time. “Then you’ll leave this room alone,” he says. “And your brother will disappear very slowly.” I feel sick. “You don’t get to own people,” I whisper. “I already do,” he replies. “I’m simply offering you terms.” My thoughts race, colliding with each other, frantic and useless. Marriage. To him. To a man who looks at me like a transaction. A cage dressed up as mercy. “What kind of marriage?” I ask. His gaze sharpens. “A legal one.” “And after?” I press. “When is it over?” “There is no over,” he says. “But I won’t touch you unless you want me to.” The words catch me off guard. I search his face for mockery. I found none. “This isn’t about s*x,” he continues. “This is about ownership, optics, and leverage. You’ll live in my house. You’ll carry my name. In return, your family is protected.” “And if I break the rules?” A pause. “Then we’ll renegotiate,” he says softly. It should terrify me. Instead, something colder settles in my chest. “You hate my father,” I say. “Yes.” “And you’re using me to punish him.” “I’m using you to balance a debt,” Luca corrects. “What you make of that is up to you.” I think of Matteo and his stupid grin, the way he still believes the world can be kind if you’re careful enough. I think of the life I’ve been living, small and narrow and already half-gone. I lift my chin. “If I agree,” I say, “you don’t touch my brother again. Ever.” “Agreed.” “And you don’t pretend this is something it’s not.” A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. “I won’t,” he says. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. Finally, I nod. “I’ll do it.” Luca studies me like he’s recalculating something. “Good,” he says. “The wedding is in three days.” “What?” “Efficient,” he adds. “You’ll move into my house tonight.” I let out a shaky breath. “I need to see my brother.” He nods once. “You will.” As he turns away, already issuing orders into his phone, I realize something terrifying and strange here. This man didn’t just buy my future. He dismantled it with a single sentence. And as I follow him down the corridor, my steps echoing like a countdown, I know one thing with brutal clarity: Silence is no longer my shield. It’s my sentence.