Bound by the Mafia

CHAPTER THREE: THINGS WE BURY

“You're Not the First Girl in This House”

"You're not the first girl who's sat in that chair, you know."

Isabella’s voice slithered into the room before I even saw her.

I didn’t turn. I kept my eyes fixed on the espresso cup in my hands, its rim chipped—probably on purpose. I imagined she liked it that way. Imperfect. Marked. Easier to break.

"And you’re not the first woman to underestimate me," I replied calmly.

She smirked, walking around the edge of the study like a lioness stalking a bored gazelle. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step daring me to twitch.

“I’ve seen Alessandro destroy women stronger than you,” she said. “You think your sharp little tongue will save you?”

I stood up slowly, placing the cup on the glass table.

“No,” I said. “But it’ll carve deep enough to make you bleed.”

That wiped the smile off her face.

She stepped close—too close. Her perfume was all frost and white lilies. “You have no idea what you’ve walked into, Valeria. You’re a pawn. A beautifully packaged liability.”

I held her stare. “Funny. You sound scared.”

Her jaw twitched. Then, the door behind us opened. Alessandro stepped in, calm as ever, his eyes scanning us like we were two chess pieces he hadn’t decided how to use yet.

“Problem?” he asked.

Isabella stepped back instantly. “None. We were just... bonding.”

He didn’t believe her. He didn’t have to say it.

But he looked at me longer than her.

And that was her mistake.

She noticed.

“Tell Me What Happened to Her”

"There was another woman before me, wasn’t there?" I asked.

Alessandro was standing by the fireplace again. He always stood when he didn’t want to answer. Like if he sat, the truth would weigh too heavily on him.

He didn’t look at me. “You ask too many questions.”

“I live in a house where I’m not allowed to leave. Asking questions is about the only freedom I’ve got left.”

He was silent for a while. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “Her name was Clara.”

I felt the shift in his voice. Something old and raw stirred beneath the surface.

“She was... brave. Loud. She had this laugh you could hear through every wall.”

“What happened to her?”

“She trusted the wrong person.” His jaw flexed. “I didn’t protect her. Not in time.”

I stepped forward. “You blamed yourself.”

He finally turned to me. “She died because she loved me.”

The words punched the air out of the room.

I hesitated. Then I asked what I shouldn’t.

“Do you think I’ll end up like her?”

He stared at me, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “You don’t love me.”

And then, as if realizing what he’d just implied, he turned and walked out.

Leaving me with more than silence.

Leaving me with Clara’s ghost.

“There’s Blood in the Garden”

"Get down!"

Giovanni’s voice cut through the courtyard just seconds before the bullets did.

I dropped to the stone path, knees skidding on gravel, hands pressed over my head as screams rang out and gunfire split the night.

Shadows moved through the trees. Men shouting. Someone fell behind me with a groan.

I crawled toward the edge of the stone fountain, breathing hard, the scent of blood mixing with fresh orange blossoms.

Alessandro appeared next to me, gun in hand. “You good?”

I nodded. “What the hell is going on?”

“Uninvited guests,” he said, firing two quick rounds toward the garden wall. “Isabella’s supposed to be watching the perimeter—”

A scream.

It wasn’t a man.

Alessandro turned instantly. “Stay behind the wall.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I muttered, already on my feet.

The gunfire stopped.

Just like that.

The silence was worse than the sound.

We found the body near the back gate. One of Alessandro’s men. Shot clean through the eye.

“Who would dare this?” I whispered.

“Someone who thinks I’ve gone soft,” Alessandro replied, looking toward the hills.

“They’re wrong.”

He looked at me then. “That’s the problem.”

And before I could ask what he meant, Giovanni walked up, face grim.

“We found a mark on the attacker’s boot,” he said. “It’s from the D'Angelo estate.”

My stomach dropped.

“Are you telling me my father sent these men?”

Giovanni didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

“You’re Starting to Feel Like a Choice”

"You’ve been quiet tonight."

Alessandro’s voice was softer than usual. Not gentler—just less guarded.

We sat on the balcony overlooking the hills. The lights of Naples sparkled far in the distance. It should’ve felt peaceful.

But nothing about tonight was peace.

“I saw a man die five feet from me,” I said. “Forgive me for not feeling chatty.”

He didn’t react. Just sipped his whiskey and watched the horizon like it owed him answers.

“Your father won’t stop,” he said.

I leaned back. “You kidn*pped his daughter. Did you expect him to send flowers?”

“I expected him to negotiate. Instead, he sent killers.”

“You think he wants me back?” I asked, too bitter to laugh. “He wants you dead. I’m a bonus.”

He turned his head, his gaze piercing. “And what do you want, Valeria?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

Then I said, “To not be a pawn.”

“That’s not the same as wanting freedom.”

I looked at him. Really looked. The scar at his jawline. The weariness in his shoulders.

“You’re scared,” I said.

“I don’t get scared.”

“Then you’re in denial.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re starting to feel like a choice, not a consequence.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

And then the door banged open behind us.

Isabella.

Her face pale. Her voice ice.

“They found something in the tunnels beneath the property,” she said.

Alessandro stood.

“What kind of something?” he asked.

She looked straight at me.

“Something that proves you’re not the only one being hunted.”