Spared by the Mafia King

Chapter Two

"Go," he commands without batting an eye.

His men look between me and him, surprise written all over their faces. That is probably the first time he is letting something like this go. I am also surprised, but I know he didn’t do that because he is kind or generous. He probably has something up his sleeve. I am not stupid enough to think he will just let me go like that.

"Thank you."

"Thank you so much." I bow, my head almost touching the ground.

I scurry away, out of the alley, and vow never to pass that alley or any shortcut ever again. I get to my one-room apartment, lock the doors, and close the windows. I pray that he won’t change his mind and decide to kill me. He could easily find me. He is powerful. I don’t know if there is a God up there, but I pray that this man forgets my entire existence. I can’t eat or sleep. I doze off on the floor of my apartment just a few hours before dawn.

My alarm wakes me up, and I scramble to get ready for the café where I work. I go through my normal routine, and the days after pass like a blur.

One week after the incident, at the café where I work, three SUVs suddenly park in front of the café. They stand out immediately because those cars are not the regular ones seen in this neighborhood. Who could they be? I wonder. Men in black step out of the cars, and my heart skips a beat. I want to hide. What if they are the ones? Did he come to kill me now?

I am terrified, but a part of me is still calm, trying to convince me that he might not be the one. I am still trying to distract and deceive myself when one of the black-suited men opens the door and steps inside. I am watching through the glass of the café, and he looks at me immediately. The moment our eyes meet, my knees tremble, and heat pools low in my stomach.

What the f**k just happened?

Did I just react like that from eye contact? I need help.

He walks into the café, but his men stay outside. He moves like someone used to being obeyed—clean lines, cold eyes, and a stillness that feels dangerous. Everything about him is controlled, from the way he stands to the way people step aside without being told. Power sits on him like a second skin.

He walks towards me.

"Ristretto." He orders without pleasantries, straight to the point. Did he come to check if I snitched? I wouldn’t dare.

He is already reaching for the cup before it fully touches the counter. "Get one for yourself and come sit with me." He isn’t asking.

He walks over to a small, round table at the side of the café and sits. I get a drink for myself and walk over, sitting across from him. He doesn’t say anything for minutes, just looks outside and then back at me. What does he want?

"I will see you after work," he finally says.

I am a nervous mess, waiting for him to continue. I expect him to explain why he wants to see me. Has he decided what he wants?

"Sir… what do you want from me?"

His cold gaze turns to me immediately. His face is expressionless as always, and a slow, dangerous smile grazes his lips. My pulse quickens instantly. That smile… there is something very wrong behind it.

"What do I want from you?" he repeats, his gaze still fixed on me. The smile fades, replaced by something sharper. Calculating.

I nod.

"You are asking the wrong question." He leans back like he has all the time in the world.

I frown, still nervous. "Then what is the right one?"

He holds my gaze, unblinking. "You will figure it out."

Simple. Final.

He stands and leaves without looking back.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, customers walking in and out while I serve them, quietly anticipating our next meeting. Should I wait for him here? Should I go home? Does he even mean it? Will he text me? He doesn’t even have my number.

Different thoughts run through my head, and I finally decide to just go home after work. The day has already been stressful enough.

The moment I step outside the café after work, a black car parks in front of me. I know immediately that it belongs to him. The man I assumed was his right-hand steps out and opens the door for me.

"Get in, ma’am," he says, bowing slightly.

I frown. Why is he bowing and calling me ma’am like he didn’t almost kill me the last time we met? His face is expressionless too, but not as rigid as his boss. I don’t question it.

I get into the car, and he starts driving. "Where are we going?" I ask.

"And… where is he?" I add, realizing I don’t even know his name.

"He said to bring you," he replies politely, still keeping a straight face.

"Uhm…" I trail off, slightly embarrassed. "What is your name?"

"Lorenzo Russo," he says. "You can call me Lorenzo, ma’am."

I smile faintly. "Elena Venturi." He probably knows my name but I'm just being respectful by introducing myself too.

"You can call me Elena."

He glances at me through the mirror. Something flickers across his face.

"Okay, ma’am."

"Elena," I correct, smiling.

"What is his name?" I ask, genuinely curious. I don’t know anything about him except his face. He knows who I am talking about because he answers me immediately.

Lorenzo doesn’t hesitate. "Alessandro De Luca."

Alessandro De Luca.

The name rings a bell. Have I heard it before? Is it part of the memories I lost? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? It sounds… familiar. Like something I should know.

Maybe getting close to him will help me remember.

"We are here, ma’am."

I roll my eyes and step out before he can open the door for me. Cool air hits me immediately. We are in what looks like an underground parking lot. Dim lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows across polished cars.

"The boss is upstairs," Lorenzo says. "Follow me, ma’am."

I nod and follow him.

We enter, and loud music hits instantly. I cover my ears. I have never been to a club before. But we don’t go inside. The deeper we walk, the quieter it becomes, like the world outside is being sealed off.

Our footsteps echo as we move through the empty space. A private elevator waits at the far end. Lorenzo presses the button without a word. The ride up is silent. I find myself thinking about what is waiting for me.

When the doors open, I know immediately that this place belongs to someone who likes control—someone who needs everything to be in order.

"Go on," Lorenzo says, stepping aside.

I hesitate for half a second before walking in. The door closes behind me.

And then I see him.

He stands by the window, back turned, like he has been expecting me—and has no intention of rushing. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I don’t want to speak first, and he clearly prefers control.

"You kept me waiting."