Traded To The Mafia Boss

The knock came at 2:17 a.m. Not a polite rap. Not even the impatient thud of a landlord. It was three deliberate, heavy pounds that vibrated through the cheap wooden door of Elena Voss’s one-room apartment like gunshots. She jolted upright on the narrow mattress, heart slamming against her ribs before her mind could catch up. The single bulb overhead flickered once, twice, as if the building itself knew something bad was here. “Who is it?” Her voice cracked. She hated how small it sounded. No answer. Another three knocks. Harder. Elena scrambled off the bed, bare feet hitting cold linoleum. She grabbed the baseball bat she kept under the couch—her only defense in this crumbling corner of the city—and crept toward the door. Through the peephole she saw black suits, broad shoulders, and the glint of metal at their hips. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t open it. She didn’t have to. The lock clicked, twisted, and the door swung inward like it had never been locked at all. Two men stepped inside. One tall and lean with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. The other shorter, thicker, with a neck tattoo that disappeared under his collar. Both wore earpieces. Both looked at her like she was livestock already tagged. “Elena Voss?” Scar-face asked. His voice was flat, bored. She gripped the bat tighter. “Who the hell are you?” “Doesn’t matter.” He stepped forward. “Your father sent us.” The words hit like ice water. “My father hasn’t spoken to me in three years.” “Yeah. We know.” Neck-tattoo smirked. “He’s been busy losing money he doesn’t have. And when the boss came collecting, your old man offered the only thing of value left.” Elena’s grip faltered. “What are you talking about?” Scar-face pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. He didn’t hand it to her—just held it up so she could see the signature at the bottom in shaky blue ink. Her father’s handwriting. Next to it, a single line in crisp black print: In full satisfaction of debt in the amount of $2.4 million, I hereby transfer ownership and possession of my daughter, Elena Marie Voss, age 22, to Dante Moretti. Ownership. The word clawed at her throat. “You’re lying,” she whispered. “We don’t lie about paperwork.” Scar-face tucked the contract away. “Boss wants you delivered tonight. Pack a bag if you want. Or don’t. Makes no difference.” She swung the bat. It never connected. Neck-tattoo moved faster than she expected—caught the wood mid-air, twisted, and yanked it from her hands like it weighed nothing. He tossed it aside. Scar-face grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to bruise yet, but firm enough to promise he could. “Don’t make this difficult, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.” Elena fought anyway—kicked, twisted, screamed until her throat burned—but they were professionals. Within seconds her arms were pinned behind her back, zip-ties biting into her skin. They dragged her barefoot down the stairwell, past the flickering exit sign, out into the cold night air. A black SUV waited at the curb, engine idling. The rear door opened before they reached it. She was shoved inside. The door slammed. And then silence—except for the low purr of the engine and the blood roaring in her ears. They drove for what felt like hours. Through neon-lit streets, past warehouses, up winding roads flanked by high iron fences. Elena sat rigid between the two men, wrists bound, staring at the floor mat like it might tell her how to disappear. Finally the car slowed. Gates rolled open. Tires crunched over gravel. They stopped in front of a building that looked more like a fortress than a house—glass and black steel rising thirty stories into the night sky, every window tinted, every light controlled. The penthouse lights glowed at the very top like a crown. Scar-face opened her door. “Out.” She didn’t move. He sighed. “You want to be carried? Fine.” Before she could protest, Neck-tattoo hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She pounded his back, cursed, but it was useless. He carried her through marble lobby, past armed guards who didn’t even glance her way, into a private elevator that shot upward so fast her stomach lurched. The doors opened directly into darkness. Not pitch black—dim, expensive darkness. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city far below. A single lamp burned on a low table, casting long shadows across leather furniture, dark wood, and a man standing with his back to her. Broad shoulders. Black dress shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing corded forearms covered in ink. Black trousers tailored to perfection. A glass of amber liquid in one hand. He didn’t turn around immediately. The man who’d carried her set her down roughly. She stumbled, caught herself, wrists still bound. “Leave,” the man at the window said. Voice low. Smooth. Dangerous. The two guards vanished without a word. Elevator doors closed. Now it was just them. He turned. Elena stopped breathing. Dante Moretti was taller than she’d imagined—six-three at least. Midnight-black hair swept back, a few strands falling rebelliously over his forehead. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes so dark they looked black in this light, but when he stepped closer she saw the faintest rim of crimson around the pupils—like hellfire barely contained. He was beautiful in the way predators are beautiful. Lethal. Magnetic. And he was looking at her like she was already his. He took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving her face. Then he set the glass down with deliberate care. “Elena.” He said her name like he was tasting it. “You look… smaller than the picture.” She lifted her chin despite the tremor in her legs. “Untie me.” One dark brow arched. “Bossy already?” “You kidnapped me.” “I collected what belongs to me.” He circled her slowly, predator assessing prey. She felt his gaze slide over her thin sleep shirt, her bare legs, the way her chest rose and fell too fast. “Your father signed you over. Legally. Irrevocably.” “That’s not legal.” “In my world?” He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell expensive cologne mixed with smoke and something darker—danger. “It’s gospel.” He reached out. She flinched. But he only caught the end of the zip-tie between thumb and forefinger. One quick twist of a small blade that appeared from nowhere, and the plastic snapped. Her wrists fell free. Red marks bloomed on her skin. He caught one of her hands before she could pull away. His thumb brushed over the raw skin—gentle, almost tender. Then his grip tightened. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. “I’m furious.” A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “Good. I like fire.” He tugged her forward until her body brushed his. She gasped. He was hard everywhere—chest, arms, the unmistakable ridge pressing against her stomach through his trousers. Heat flooded her cheeks, her core, traitorously fast. “Look at me,” he ordered softly. She didn’t want to. But her eyes lifted anyway. Those dark eyes burned. “I don’t r**e women,” he said, voice velvet over steel. “I don’t need to. They beg for it.” His free hand came up, fingers grazing her jaw, tilting her face higher. “But you… you’re different. I can already tell.” His thumb traced her bottom lip. She should bite him. Scream. Knee him. Instead her breath hitched. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you in, little bird,” he whispered, mouth hovering an inch from hers. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you’re dripping for me, until you forget what it feels like to want anything except my c**k inside you.” Her thighs clenched involuntarily. He felt it. His smile turned feral. “But not tonight.” He released her so suddenly she swayed. “Tonight you sleep. Tomorrow we begin.” He turned away, walking toward a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms. “Follow me,” he said without looking back. “Or sleep on the floor like a stray. Your choice.” Elena stood frozen, pulse thundering between her legs, shame and fury and something much darker twisting inside her. She hated him. She hated herself more. Because even as she forced her feet to move—trailing after the devil who now owned her—she knew one terrifying truth. She was already burning. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.