I hate you Mr mafia

Chapter 2

The world returned to Isadora in fractured, agonizing pieces. First came the smell—not the comforting, sweet embrace of vanilla and yeast from La Luna de Azúcar, but the oppressive scent of expensive Italian leather, ozone, and a faint, metallic trace of gun oil. Then came the motion. A low, powerful vibration hummed beneath her spine, accompanied by the rhythmic, muted thump-thump of tires eating up asphalt at a lethal speed.

​She was in a moving vehicle.

​Isadora tried to lift her head, but a wave of nausea crashed through her skull, a parting gift from whatever drug had been pumped into her veins. Her limbs felt like they had been cast in concrete. When she tried to move her hands, the sharp clink of metal echoed in the enclosed space. Heavy, velvet-lined steel cuffs bound her wrists together in her lap.

​"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens," a voice drawled from the darkness ahead.

​Isadora forced her heavy eyelids open. She was reclined in the plush captain's chair of a luxury, customized SUV. The windows were heavily tinted, filtering the passing streetlights of the Andalusian highway into ghostly streaks of amber and white.

​Up front, two men occupied the cockpit. In the passenger seat sat a younger man with wild dark curls, his expensive silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He was looking back at her over his shoulder, a thoroughly amused, roguish smirk playing on his lips.

​"Go easy on her, Caspian," a second voice commanded from the driver’s seat.

​The voice was a cool blade. It was the same low, gravelly timbre that had whispered mi Reina into her ear right before the darkness took her. Isadora’s gaze snapped to the driver. The tactical mask was gone, replaced by the profile of a man who looked like he had been sculpted from marble and malice. He wore a tailored midnight-blue suit, his large hands gripping the leather steering wheel with relaxed, terrifying control. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, but it was his eyes—visible in the rearview mirror—that held her captive. Piercing, icy grey. Devoid of warmth, yet burning with an intense, possessive focus.

​"Where... where are you taking me?" Isadora’s voice was a cracked whisper, her throat desperately dry. She shrank back into the leather seat, pulling her chained hands to her chest. "Who are you? If you want money, I don't have any. The bakery barely covers the rent—"

​"We don't want your money, sweetheart," Caspian interrupted, chuckling as he rested his arm over the back of his seat. "Trust me, we have more money than the Spanish government. Though, I must say, Balthazar... your taste is unexpected. I thought you’d kidnap a senator’s daughter or a Milanese princess. But a nineteen-year-old baker from Granada? It’s almost poetic. Very Robin Hood, if Robin Hood locked his women in a gilded cage."

​"Hold your tongue, Caspian," Balthazar said. He didn't look back at Isadora, keeping his eyes firmly on the dark, winding mountain road, but his tone tightened. "She is not a joke. She is the future of the Valiente name."

​"You're insane," Isadora breathed, terror sharpening her senses, burning away the remaining fog of the sedative. She slammed her locked hands against the door panel, desperately searching for a handle, a lock, anything. "Let me out! Let me go! You can't just take people!"

​"In our world, Isadora, we take whatever we require," Balthazar said smoothly, his icy grey eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "And right now, I require a wife. You should be flattered. You’ve been elevated from a girl dusting flour to the future Queen of the Spanish underworld."

​"I don't want to be a queen!" she screamed, tears of frustration and fear finally spilling over her cheeks. "I want to go home! I have orders to bake tomorrow! People are expecting me!"

​Caspian burst into a loud, barking laugh. "Hear that, brother? The Council of Sovereigns is ready to slit our throats for the throne, the Russian syndicates are pushing into Marbella, and the future Queen is worried about her morning croissants. I love her. Can we keep her?"

​"She is already kept," Balthazar replied coldly.

​The SUV veered off the main highway, tires crunching onto a private, cobblestone road that began a steep, winding ascent into the rugged hills. Isadora looked out the window, her heart sinking further into her chest with every meter they climbed. The city lights of Granada were fading into a distant, mocking constellation below. They were entering the wilderness, a territory where no one would hear her scream.

​"You're a monster," Isadora whispered, staring at the back of Balthazar's head with pure hatred. "The police will look for me. My customers, my neighbors—they'll know I'm gone."

​"The police look only where we tell them to look," Balthazar said, his voice entirely unbothered by her accusation. "By sunrise, your bakery will have a neatly signed notice in the window stating you have closed indefinitely due to a sudden family emergency abroad. Your rent has been paid for the next three years. Your apartment has been cleared of any evidence that I was ever there. To the world, Isadora, you have simply moved away. You exist only here now. With me."

​The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his words struck Isadora like a physical blow. She felt a suffocating sense of helplessness wash over her. This man hadn't just stolen her; he had erased her life with a snap of his fingers.

​"Why me?" she choked out, her voice trembling. "You don't even know me. I've never seen you before in my life."

​"But he has seen you, preciosa," Caspian chimed in, his playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more grounded. "My brother has been watching you for three months. Ever since he stopped by your little shop for an espresso and saw you arguing with a supplier who tried to shortchange you on vanilla beans. He said you had 'fire.' Personally, I think he just likes your pastries."

​Isadora’s mind raced backward, scanning through the hundreds of faces that passed through La Luna de Azúcar every week. Had this lethal, terrifying man really been sitting in the corner of her shop, plotting her abduction while she served coffee? The thought made her skin crawl.

​"The Council demanded an anchor," Balthazar said, his tone dropping into a darker, more serious register as he spoke to both his brother and Isadora. "They wanted a political marriage. A daughter of the Italian or Russian syndicates who would act as a spy in my bed, a puppet string for the secondary families to pull. I refuse to be ruled by the old men of the Council. By choosing you—a woman entirely outside of our world, untainted by their bloodlines and politics—I strip them of their leverage. You owe allegiance to no one but me. And I owe allegiance to no one but the crown."

​"And you think I will just play along?" Isadora spat, her amber eyes flashing with a sudden, defiant heat. "You think I'll stand at an altar and smile for your little mafia friends? I will tell everyone what you did. I will tell them you dragged me out of my home!"

​Balthazar pulled the SUV to a sudden, violent halt. The tires shrieked against the stones.

​Isadora gasped as he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around in his seat, leaning his massive upper body into the back row. He was close now—so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His icy grey eyes locked onto hers, pinning her to the leather seat with the sheer weight of his presence. He reached out, a long, calloused finger tracing the curve of her jawline. Isadora flinched away, but his grip shifted, his thumb and forefinger gently but firmly capturing her chin, forcing her to look at him.

​"You will play along, Isadora, because you have no other choice," Balthazar murmured, his voice a dangerous, velvety caress. "You can fight me, you can scream, you can try to run. But within one month, you will wear my ring. I am a patient man when it comes to things I own. Do not mistake my gentleness for weakness. If you try to embarrass me in front of the Council, the consequences will not fall on you—they will fall on the people you care about. I believe your friend Elena has a mother with a fragile heart? It would be a shame if her medical bills suddenly stopped being paid."

​Isadora’s breath hitched. A cold, paralyzing terror gripped her chest. He knew about Elena. He knew about everyone.

​"You're a demon," she choked out, a single tear slipping past his thumb.

​Balthazar’s expression didn't soften, but his thumb brushed the tear away with surprising tenderness. "I am a Valiente, mi Reina. In this country, it is the same thing."

​He released her chin and shifted back into the driver's seat, clicking the SUV into drive. Beside him, Caspian watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, brother. You're terrifying when you're romantic."

​"Shut up, Caspian," Balthazar muttered, pressing down on the accelerator.

​A few minutes later, the dense pine forests broke open, revealing the massive, sprawling silhouette of the Valiente estate.

​Isadora gasped despite herself. It was less of a mansion and more of a modern, brutalist fortress built directly into the side of the Andalusian cliffs. Massive walls of white stone and reinforced glass gleamed under the moonlight. The estate was surrounded by towering iron gates, manned by heavily armed guards in black tactical gear who saluted automatically as the SUV approached.

​The gates swung open with a heavy, mechanical groan, sealing shut the moment the vehicle passed through.

​Balthazar drove down a sweeping, subterranean driveway, entering a massive, brightly lit underground garage. It looked like a showroom, filled with rows of exotic sports cars, armored sedans, and tactical vehicles. The moment the SUV parked, four men in immaculate black suits stepped forward, opening the doors.

​"Welcome home, Don Balthazar, Don Caspian," one of the men said, bowing his head.

​Balthazar stepped out of the vehicle, adjusting the cuffs of his midnight-blue suit. He walked around to the passenger side, opening the door for Isadora. She huddled back into the seat, gripping her chained hands together, refusing to move.

​"Come, Isadora," Balthazar said, holding out a hand. "Let us get you out of those chains."

​"No," she said defiantly, her amber eyes glaring at him. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

​Balthazar sighed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. Without another word, he leaned into the SUV, scooped her up into his massive arms as if she weighed nothing at all, and pulled her out into the bright light of the garage. Isadora kicked and thrashed, the metal chains of her handcuffs rattling violently against his chest.

​"Let me down! Put me down, you bastard!" she shrieked.

​"Careful, brother, she’s a biter," Caspian mocked, walking alongside them as they moved toward a private glass elevator.

​"She is adjusting," Balthazar replied smoothly, entirely unfazed by the knees she was trying to drive into his ribs.

​The elevator doors slid open, and they ascended into the main levels of the mansion. When the doors opened again, Isadora was breathless, her energy draining as the sheer scale of the estate revealed itself. They walked through corridors of soaring marble arches, hung with priceless Renaissance paintings and lit by minimalist, glowing chandeliers. It was a palace built on blood, breathtakingly beautiful and terrifyingly cold.

​Finally, Balthazar pushed open a set of heavy, double oak doors, stepping into a massive master suite. The room featured a king-sized bed draped in charcoal silk, a crackling fireplace, and a massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looked out over the sweeping, moonlit valleys of Andalusia.

​He walked over to a plush velvet armchair and gently set her down. Isadora immediately curled into a defensive ball, glaring up at him.

​Balthazar reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver key. He knelt before her, his massive frame towering over her even while on his knees. He took her trembling, cuffed hands into his own. With a quick, practiced flick of his wrist, the heavy steel cuffs clicked open and fell to the floor.

​Isadora immediately pulled her hands back, rubbing her red, chafed wrists.

​"This is your home now," Balthazar said, his grey eyes locked onto hers, burning with an unyielding, possessive intensity. "You will have everything you desire. Clothes, jewels, any food you wish. If you want a bakery, I will build you a state-of-the-art kitchen within these walls. But you do not leave this estate. And in three weeks, you will become my wife."

​He stood up, towering over her, the undisputed king of his dark domain.

​"Rest now, Isadora," he murmured, turning toward the door. "Tomorrow, your new life begins."

​As the heavy doors clicked shut, locking her into the gilded cage, Isadora pulled her knees to her chest, staring out at the vast, empty mountains, wondering how a simple baker from Granada was going to survive the wolves of the Valiente empire.