*Chapter 2: Almost His..
1880 Words
As it turned out, "hell" looked a lot like a gilded cage.
I didn't expect a prison to smell like roses.
But at midnight, standing in Damien Moretti's bedroom, that's all I could smell. Roses from the garden below. Cedar from his closet. And the faint metallic scent of blood from the cut on his knuckle.
*Rule 1: Don't touch my business.*
*Rule 2: Don't ask about my past.*
*Rule 3: Don't leave.*
I'd broken all three before the wedding photos were printed.
The door opened without a knock.
Damien walked in like he owned the air. Suit jacket gone. White shirt rolled to his elbows, stained with something dark at the cuff. He looked like he'd come from a war. And won.
He threw a thick folder on the bed between us.
"Contract"
His voice was gravel. No, not gravel. Broken glass. The kind that cuts you before you hear it.
I didn't look at the folder. I looked at him. "You already bought me, Damien. What else is left to sign?"
His jaw ticked at his name. No one called him Damien. Not even Marco.
"Your role." He stepped closer. "You're Gauri Moretti now. There are expectations."
I laughed. It sounded hollow. "Let me guess. Heir production within two years? Is that in there?"
His eyes flicked to mine. Surprised. "You read it."
"No." I picked at the sleeve of the red dress Elena forced me into. "I lived it. My father sold me for seven crores. You bought me for a bloodline. At least the girls on GB Road get paid per night."
Something flashed in his eyes. Rage? No. Something worse.
Understanding.
In one step he was on me. Not touching. But his forearm braced against the wall beside my head, caging me in. I could feel the heat of him. Smell the fight on him—smoke, whiskey, and something coppery. Blood. Not his.
"Careful," he said, his voice so soft it was scarier than a shout. "My wife doesn't talk like a w***e from Kamathipura."
"Then stop making me feel like one," I whispered.
For three heartbeats, he just breathed. We both did. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Mine betrayed me and did the same.
I thought he would kiss me. Part of me, the broken, stupid part, wanted him to.
Instead, his phone buzzed.
The sound shattered the air between us.
He stepped back like I'd burned him. Pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.
His entire body went still.
I saw the name before he turned it over.
*Natasha*
"Who's Natasha?" The question slipped out before I could cage it.
Damien didn't answer. He walked to the balcony doors, slid them shut, and spoke one word into the phone.
"Net."
*No* in Russian.
When he came back, the Mafia King was back. The man from two seconds ago was gone. Buried.
"Sign the contract, Gauri."
I picked up the pen. My hand didn't shake. That was the scariest part.
I signed. *Gauri Moretti.* The ink looked wet. Like blood.
He took the folder. His fingers brushed mine. Accidental. Electric.
"Smart girl," he said.
"Don't touch me," I said.
His lips curved. Not a smile. A warning. "That wasn't in the rules, *wife*."
He left. The room felt colder without his anger.
---
I woke up to an empty bed and a single red rose on his pillow.
No note.
Just a thorn I accidentally pricked my finger on. A drop of blood welled up. I watched it for a second.
It looked like the bindi Ma used to wear. Back when she was alive. Back when I had a home, not a price tag.
Elena came at noon with a rack of dresses. "Mr. Moretti says you wear black tonight. We have guests."
"I'm not his doll," I said, touching a silk gown. It cost more than our old chawl. More than Papa's entire life.
"No," Elena said, not unkindly. "You're his queen. There's a difference. Dolls get broken. Queens break others."
She held up a black dress. Backless. It looked like armor. Like something a widow would wear to her husband's funeral.
"Who's Natasha?" I asked.
Elena's hands stopped. For the first time, she looked at me like I was a person. Not a contract. Not a liability.
"Ask him about his past," she said quietly, "and you'll understand why Rule 2 will save your life."
"He was engaged to her, wasn't he?"
Elena hung the dress up. Her fingers lingered on the fabric. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late. He hates late."
"And what does he love?" I asked, before I could stop myself.
Elena finally met my eyes. Her own were sad. Ancient. "Nothing. That's why he's still alive."
She left.
---
Dinner was a battlefield dressed as a dining room.
Damien sat at the head. To his right, Leo. Scar across his lip, eyes like a dead fish. To Damien's left, an empty chair.
I wore the black dress. I walked in barefoot.
The guards at the door twitched. Elena sucked in a breath.
I sat in the empty chair.
Leo choked on his wine. "You've got guts, debt girl."
Damien didn't look up from his plate. He cut his steak like it had offended him. "She's my wife. That's her chair."
"Natasha sat there for three years," Leo muttered.
Damien's knife stopped. The room froze. Even the crystal chandeliers seemed to hold their breath.
"Leo," Damien said, soft. Deadly. "Outside."
Leo left. Marco followed. The door shut with a quiet click that sounded like a death sentence.
Silence.
Then Damien poured me wine. His hand steady. Mine wasn't.
"Natasha Volkov," he said, like he was reading a weather report. Like her name didn't carve holes in the air. "Daughter of the Bratva Pakhan. We were engaged five years ago. In Vegas."
My throat closed. "Vegas?"
"She sold my shipment to the Irish. I broke the engagement." He finally looked at me. His eyes were black ice. "She's lucky I only broke that."
"Did you love her?" I hated myself for asking. Hated the seventeen-year-old girl inside me who still believed in love.
He laughed. A terrible, empty sound that had no humor in it. "I don't love, Gauri. I possess. And I don't share my possessions."
His eyes dragged over the black dress. Over my bare back. Over the diamond on my finger that suddenly felt too heavy. Like a shackle. Like a lie.
It should have been a threat.
It felt like a confession.
Like he was telling me I was the only thing he'd ever wanted to keep.
---
He came at midnight.
Again, no knock.
I was at the window, wearing only his white shirt. It drowned me. Smelled like him. I'd been telling myself I put it on because I had nothing else. Because Elena took the red dress.
Liar.
I put it on because it was his.
Damien stopped in the doorway. His eyes traveled from my bare feet, up my legs, to where the shirt ended mid-thigh. Something wrecked moved across his face. Something human. Something that looked like grief.
"You shouldn't wear my things," he said. His voice was rough. Like he'd been shouting. Or not talking for hours. Like he'd been at a grave.
"Why? You'll make a Rule 4?" I turned to face him. Defiant. Broken. "Rule 4: Don't fall for me?"
He shut the door. Locked it. The click echoed. Final.
"There is no Rule 4," he said, walking toward me. Slow. Like I was a bomb that might go off. Like he was the one who might detonate. "Yet."
He stopped an inch away. Didn't touch. But I felt him everywhere. The heat. The rage. The ghost of something broken he carried in his bones.
"You asked about Natasha."
"Did she break your heart?" I couldn't stop the words. They were poison and I was already dying.
His hand came up. Hovered near my cheek. Didn't touch. Just haunted the air beside my skin like he was afraid he'd shatter me.
"Natasha doesn't have a heart, Gauri. She has targets." His eyes dropped to my mouth. "She wants what's mine."
"And what's yours?" I breathed.
His gaze snapped to mine.
"You."
The word wasn't loud. But it detonated in my chest. It blew apart every wall I'd built since Papa sold me.
I should have stepped back. I was an eighteen-year-old girl sold for a debt. He was a king who buried his enemies in shallow graves.
I stepped closer instead. My chest brushed his. My heart was beating so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"Then claim me," I whispered.
Something in him snapped.
His hand fisted in my wet hair, tilting my head back. Not gentle. Not cruel. Desperate. His other arm banded around my waist, hauling me against him. Chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. I gasped. He swallowed it.
His mouth came down.
An inch away.
Half an inch.
I could taste whiskey and ruin on his breath. I could feel the war in him. The want. The self-hatred for wanting. My eyes closed. My hands fisted in his shirt. Holding on.
His lips brushed mine.
Not a kiss. A promise. A threat. A prayer.
*Beg for it.*
The doorbell rang.
Three times.
Hard. Demanding.
Like a gunshot.
Damien froze. Every muscle in his body turned to granite against me.
His eyes stayed on my mouth. Like he could still take it. Like he wanted to ignore the world and ruin me anyway. Like I was worth burning the world for.
The doorbell rang again.
Then Elena's voice, panicked, from downstairs: "SIR! IT'S HER!"
*Her.*
Damien let go like I was fire.
He stepped back. Ran a shaking hand through his hair. The King was back. The man was gone. Buried under concrete and blood.
"Get dressed," he said. His voice was dead. Empty. The voice he used on corpses.
"Who is it?" My legs were shaking. My lips were still parted. Still waiting for his.
Damien was already at the door. He unlocked it but didn't look back. Couldn't look back.
"Natasha."
He walked out.
I stood there. Wearing his shirt. Body aching. Heart pounding for a kiss that never came. For a man who couldn't stay.
Untouched.
Unkissed.
Unclaimed.
And from downstairs, a woman's laugh floated up.
Light. Musical. Cruel.
Russian.
*Like she'd already won.*
I walked to the door. To the top of the stairs. My bare feet silent on the marble.
And looked down.
She was there. In the foyer.
Backlit by lightning.
Platinum blonde hair. Blood-red dress that clung to every curve. Legs that went on forever in stilettos that could kill a man. And a hand resting on her stomach.
On the small, perfect, undeniable curve of a five-month pregnancy.
Natasha Volkov looked up. Her ice-blue eyes found mine.
And she smiled.
Like she knew I'd been wearing his shirt.
Like she knew he'd almost kissed me.
Like she knew none of it mattered now.
Because she was carrying the Mafia King's heir.
And I was just the debt he bought to forget her.
**Chapter 3: Rules & Ruin**
- Writer
