The Mafia’s Only Collateral

CHAPTER 5 Walls I Built To Survive

Morning light seeps through thick velvet curtains, pale and muted, filtering soft gold across the room. I wake before the house stirs — old habit, learned early: never sleep too deep, never let your guard down, always know exactly where you are and who’s nearby. I stretch slow, hand drifting straight to my lower belly, palm pressing gentle, protective over the tiny, quiet bump still easy to hide, still mine. Three months. Stronger every day. Proof that even when the world tries to crush you, something good can grow.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching warm rug, and walk straight to the window. Heavy glass, iron bars set deep into stone, high walls stretching far below — a cage, yes… but I don’t feel trapped. I feel ready. I’ve lived in worse places. I’ve been locked in rooms smaller than this, with less light, less air, and people who wanted to hurt me far more than these men think they do. This is just another place to survive. And I always survive.

My sketchbook lies open on the dresser where I left it last night — pages filled with rough lines, half-drawn shapes, faces I’ve never met, places I’ve only ever dreamed of. I grab it, flip to a fresh page, charcoal hovering over paper… and the door opens.

Declan walks in first — no knock, no warning — broad frame filling the doorway, dark suit crisp, jaw set hard, that same burning mix of fury and possession etched deep into every line of his face. His eyes lock straight onto me, then drop instantly to my stomach, sharp and unforgiving, like he’s checking it’s still there, still real, still his problem. Still his.

“Up already,” he grumbles, voice low and rough, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Most people in your position would still be huddled under the covers, crying or plotting how to run. You? You look like you’re ready to fight the whole world before breakfast.”

I lean back against the dresser, sketchbook held loose in one hand, chin lifted high, smirk sharp and unapologetic. “Crying never got me anything. Running only works if there’s somewhere safe to go — and I’ve learned there isn’t. So I do what I’ve always done: stand tall, keep my eyes open, and wait to see exactly what hell you’re planning next. And for the record? I’d fight you before tea, too. Don’t doubt it.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us until he’s looming over me, heat rolling off him in thick waves, scent of cedar and smoke wrapping around me tight. His hand lifts — heavy, warm, calloused — and rests firm but not painful right over my waist, fingers splayed wide, pressing just enough to claim, to mark, to remind.

“You think you’re so tough,” he rumbles, face inches from mine, dark eyes blazing. “You think you know what you’re up against. You think because you survived care homes and bad foster placements you’re ready for this? You’re carrying a life, Lila. A life tied to me now. Every risk you take, every sharp word you throw, every stupid brave choice you make — it affects him. It affects her. It affects what belongs to me. You don’t get to be reckless anymore. You don’t get to be wild. You’re mine to protect… and mine to control. And I will control you.”

I stare right back, unflinching, voice cool and steady as steel. “You can control where I sleep and what door I walk through. You can’t control my mind. You can’t control my heart. And you sure as hell won’t ever control how I love or protect this baby. That’s my job. Not yours. You didn’t want this — I saw it on your face the second you realised. You’re furious it’s here. Furious it complicates everything. Fine. Be angry. But don’t you dare pretend this is some precious thing you’re suddenly responsible for. You only care because it’s mine, and I’m what you’re owed. That’s all it ever is to you — debt and property.”

Declan’s jaw clenches so hard muscle jumps in his cheek, and for a second I think he’ll snap — shout, grab, slam something down — but he doesn’t. He just stares, harder, deeper, like I’ve cut straight through every layer he wears and hit something raw he didn’t know was there.

“You think you know everything about me?” he growls, low and dangerous. “You think you’ve got me figured out? You know nothing. Nothing at all. And you’ll learn — fast — that what I own… I keep. And what I keep… I protect. Whether I like it or not. Whether you like it or not.”

He pulls back sharp, turns his head — and Elias steps through the doorway, calm and composed, hands in his pockets, that same thoughtful, curious look fixed on me like I’m still the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever been handed. His gaze flicks from Declan’s tense frame to me, to the sketchbook in my hand, to the way I hold myself — proud, upright, unbroken — and his mouth curves into that quiet, knowing smile.

“Fascinating,” Elias murmurs, stepping further inside, eyes roaming over my drawings scattered across the surface. “You draw everywhere, everything. It’s how you hold the world still, isn’t it? How you keep control. When everything else is taken or moved or stolen… you can draw it again, keep it safe on paper. Clever. Very clever. And you never draw yourself — never show your own face. Only what you see outside. Only what you wish you had.”

He glances up, eyes bright and sharp, reading me like open text. “You hide yourself in plain sight, Lila Maeve. Tough words, sharp tongue, brave face… all shields. But I see the gaps. I see where you’ve been hurt. I see where you still carry every scar — even the ones nobody else can see. And now… now you carry someone else’s life too. Someone you’ll fight harder for than you ever fought for yourself.”

“Stop trying to work me out,” I tell him, tone flat and firm, flipping the sketchbook shut so he can’t see more. “I’m not a game. I’m not a project. And every time you think you’ve found another piece? You’ll just find another wall. I’ve had years to build them high. You won’t climb over them in a morning.”

Elias chuckles soft, low, warm and amused. “Oh, I don’t plan to climb. I plan to wait. Walls always have cracks, Lila. And I’m very, very good at finding them.”

Before I can answer, heavy boots thud loud and fast down the hall — and Silas shoves the door wide open, bursting through like he owns the place, like he owns me, face set in that rough, hungry, challenging smirk he wears every single time he looks my way. He leans against the frame, arms crossed broad over his chest, eyes raking over me from head to toe like he’s already measuring exactly how much pressure it’ll take to make me bend.

“Still standing then,” he jeers, voice rough and loud, thick with disbelief and that dark, eager interest that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “Still got that mouth on you. Still acting like you’re some kind of queen locked in a tower instead of just… collateral. You know what I think? I think you’re storing it all up. Saving every bit of that fire so you can burn bright enough to fool everyone. But you’re tired, aren’t you? Tired of fighting. Tired of carrying everything alone. And you’re only gonna get more tired as that baby grows. Sooner or later, sweetheart… you’re gonna run out of fuel. And when you do? I’ll be right here. Waiting to see exactly what you look like when you finally break.”

I walk right up to him — right up to his chest, so close I have to tilt my head back just to look him in the eye — and smile, bright, wicked, fearless. “You’ve been waiting for me to break since the second you saw me. Funny thing is, Silas — you’ve been waiting a long time, and I’m still here. Still strong. Still sharp. And every day that passes? I get stronger. You wanna wait? Go ahead. Stand there and watch. But don’t hold your breath. You’ll die before you ever see me fall apart.”

Silas’s smirk widens, sharper, darker, pupils blowing wide — like I’ve just lit a fuse he’s been dying to watch burn. “Oh… I like you more every minute. You’re gonna be the best damn thing I’ve ever watched come undone.”

He pushes off the doorframe, steps back slow, never taking his eyes off me, and leaves — but I know he’s still there, still watching, still counting the days until he thinks he wins.

And then — as always — Mateo appears.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, doesn’t speak. He stands quiet in the gap of the doorway, huge and steady and silent, dark eyes fixed only on me — steady, calm, unblinking. He doesn’t look angry, doesn’t look hungry, doesn’t look like he’s trying to solve me or crush me or own me. He just… sees. He sees how I hold my head up even when every muscle is tense. He sees how my hand rests soft and constant over my bump. He sees that I’m not broken — I’m built. Built from hardship, built from loss, built from will.

He steps forward once, slow and careful, and holds out one hand — palm up, empty, no threat — and then taps his own chest again, right over his heart, slow and deliberate. Then he points to me, then to himself.

I watch you. I see you. And I don’t want to break you.

He doesn’t stay long. Just nods once — sharp, serious, a promise or a warning I can’t quite tell — and pulls the door closed soft behind him, leaving me alone again.

I breathe out slow, steady, fingers brushing the cover of my sketchbook, heart beating strong and fierce under my ribs.

“You see them all,” I whisper quiet to the little life growing safe inside me. “You see Declan furious and possessive, Elias curious and clever, Silas hungry and waiting… and Mateo? Mateo just watches. But none of them know what we know. None of them know that we’re not victims here. We’re survivors. And we’re not going anywhere. And we’re definitely not going to break.”

Outside the door, the house hums with power and danger and men who think they hold every card. But they’ve forgotten one vital thing: I didn’t survive everything I’ve been through just to fold now.