I am The Property Of The Mafia Boss

Final Decision

Olivia Maine

I stood before the man they called the boss, forcing every trembling muscle in my body to stay still. My heart was slamming against my ribcage so violently I was sure he could hear it. The scarred asshole from earlier had dragged me here, but not before ordering me to wipe the tears off my face. “He doesn’t like weakness,” he’d sneered, his voice cold and warning.

As if I could magically erase the fear from my bones.

The boss sat behind an expensive-looking desk, the kind that screamed power and blood money. His face was cast in shadow, but even in the dim light, his presence was suffocating.

“Turn around,” he said. His Italian accent was so thick that I had to piece the words together in my head before they made sense. But I wasn’t about to make him repeat himself. I already knew what would happen if I dared to defy him , I’d be dead before I could blink.

I slowly turned, the cold air of the room brushing over my skin like invisible fingers. I didn’t know what the hell he was looking for, but the sound of his disappointed sigh told me he didn’t like what he saw.

“Face me,” he ordered again.

I hadn’t spoken since I’d been shoved into this room, not because I had nothing to say , hell, I had plenty to say , but because I knew running my mouth could very easily get me killed.

Then came the words that made my stomach twist into a knot. “Take off your clothes.”

My heart dropped like a stone.

I’d already accepted that I was f****d , maybe not literally yet, but in every other sense of the word. This was the mafia. s**t like this happened all the damn time. The moment my father sold me off like I was f*****g cattle, I knew no one was coming to save me.

Still, my mind couldn’t stop wandering. Did my siblings know what had happened to me? Did my mother? Would they even give a s**t?

The last thing my mother had said before I left the house echoed in my head like a cruel joke: I don’t care if you come back or not.

Well, her wish had come true. I wasn’t coming back.

“What?” The single word slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it, disbelief dripping from my voice at his disgusting demand.

“Take off your clothes. Now.” His tone sharpened, the warning in his voice unmistakable. “I will not ask again.”

My lips trembled as I slowly pushed my sweatpants down. I wanted the floor to open up and f*****g swallow me. By the time I was standing there in nothing but my bra and panties, his raised eyebrow told me I wasn’t done.

“You are my property,” he said, his voice dripping with ownership that made my skin crawl. “And I could f**k you if I wanted. But I’m not interested in virgins. Lose the underwear. You’re testing my patience.”

The tiniest sliver of relief sliced through my fear , at least he didn’t plan on screwing me right here. But that didn’t make this any less humiliating. I didn’t want him to see me naked. Hell, I didn’t want any man to see me naked. That level of vulnerability belonged to trust, and there was none of that here.

But choice wasn’t an option.

Hands shaking, I removed my bra, then my panties, feeling my dignity crumble with each movement.

He hummed, low and satisfied, when I was finally bare, and rose from his seat. He was tall, broad, built like the kind of man who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat. Standing in front of him, I felt like a goddamn twig.

Without a word, he cupped my breast. My eyes slammed shut on instinct, wishing myself anywhere but here.

A clucking sound escaped him, and then his hand moved lower, between my legs. I flinched back but froze as he shoved one thick finger inside me.

A sharp, burning pain ripped through me , I’d never had anything up there before, and right now, my body was as dry as the f*****g Sahara desert. Luckily, it only lasted a few seconds before he pulled out.

“You really are a virgin,” he said matter-of-factly. “You can put your clothes back on.”

I scrambled for my clothes, dressing faster than I thought humanly possible, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel his eyes on me.

“Not many men would pay to f**k you,” he added casually, as if talking about the weather. “I think you’d be better off sold to one man at a higher price.”

The words hit me like a brick. On one hand, I was devastated , sold again like I was nothing. On the other, I’d never been so goddamn grateful for anything as I was for the fact that my body apparently wasn’t worth daily use by a parade of men.

It sounded insane, but if I had to choose between one monster and many, I’d choose the one. At least then I might have a chance to escape.

A guard came to escort me out, and I tried to keep my eyes sharp for any possible way out. But the sea of armed men stationed everywhere told me there was no escape without ending up dead.

Instead of the dingy little cell I’d woken up in, I was dumped into a bigger room ,one filled with women. Their tired, hollow eyes said they knew my fate before I did.

I didn’t speak much over the next few days, but I learned enough to know we were all screwed. That first night, I cried myself to sleep. The second night. The third. By the fourth night, my throat was raw, but the girls didn’t tell me to shut up. They’d all been here longer; they’d already screamed themselves dry.

Two new girls came in that fourth night. From their whispered conversation, I learned they’d been snatched off the street after leaving a club. At least their fathers hadn’t sold them.

But here, that didn’t matter.

The truth was simple , being a woman meant you were prey. And when most of the police had the mafia in their pocket, there was no one to turn to. You didn’t know who was clean and who would sell you out, and if you guessed wrong, you’d end up with a bullet in your skull.

On the fifth night, it was auction day. They dressed us in expensive gowns, caked our faces with makeup, and tried to make us look like goddamn dolls. It was sick.

We were taken to a so-called “dressing room” in a van, where we waited to be called out one by one.

“Number five,” one of the guards barked. They didn’t care about our names; we were numbers now. I was twenty-seven.

“Number five!” he snapped again, irritation curling his voice.

Our eyes shifted toward the girl with the number 5 tag around her neck. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her mascara-streaked face a mess against the white of her dress. Her body shook with every breath, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop.

The guard’s face twisted into disgust. “You have to be f*****g kidding me.”

Before any of us could process, he pulled his gun, aimed it with perfect precision, and put a bullet straight between her eyes.

She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, her blood blooming against the pristine white fabric.

And just like that, number five didn’t exist anymore.