Enslaved By My Billionaire Mafia Husband

The knock at the door was soft, three short raps, barely louder than the ticking clock on the kitchen wall. But to Will Adams, it was deafening. Every muscle in his body tensed. His hand froze midair, the fork hovering above a plate of untouched spaghetti. Across the table, Miriam’s hand trembled as she set down her wine glass, the soft clink against the tablecloth like a warning bell. They both knew. That knock wasn’t a friend. It wasn’t a neighbour. It was the sound of finality, a promise made flesh. The sound they had prayed for wouldn’t come. “No one’s supposed to be coming,” Miriam said, her voice barely a whisper. The fear in her eyes mirrored his own. Will didn’t respond. He stared at the door like it might burst open on its own. His stomach churned. The sweat pooled in his palms and made the fork slippery, so he set it down carefully. Rising to his feet, he felt a wave of anxiety wash over him, draining the colour from his face. His eyes were fixed on the hallway that stretched toward the front door, a sense of dread building within him. Miriam stood too, a half step behind him. “Will… tell me it’s not them.” He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. This moment had been circling them for weeks, a predator stalking them slowly, invisibly, until now. Another knock. Louder. Three thuds. No hurry. Just certainty. Will turned to her, his voice low and firm. “Stay here.” “Don’t you dare open that door,” she hissed, her voice cracking with panic. “Call someone. The police—” “No.” He looked her in the eyes. “You know what Mario said. We involve the cops, and we die slower.” Tears welled in Miriam’s eyes. “We can run.” “We should’ve run weeks ago.” But they hadn’t, because running meant losing everything, including their home, business, and Zoe. Will stepped into the hallway. His feet felt heavy, like he was walking toward a noose. His hand hovered over the doorknob. He took a breath. His fingers trembled. Then he opened the door. Two men stood there, framed by the yellow porch light. One was stocky, with a thick neck and a serpent tattoo coiled along his jaw. The other was taller, wearing a black leather coat despite the Johannesburg heat. “Evening,” Snake Jaw said with a smirk, pushing past Will like he owned the place. The other followed. Will’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to stand tall and hold on to some dignity. “Mario said, I have more time.” The punch came out of nowhere. Will’s head snapped back. His knees buckled, and he crashed into the coffee table, the edge digging into his ribs with a sickening c***k. Miriam screamed from behind him. “Please! Please stop!” she cried, running forward, but Leather Coat shoved her hard, and she slammed into the wall with a painful grunt. Snake Jaw laughed, crouching over Will, who gasped for breath on the floor. “You think time’s a gift, Mr. Adams? You think Mario’s a charity?” Will tried to crawl backwards, his fingers slipping on the polished wood. “I’m working on a deal—” “You said that last time.” Another kick landed in Will’s gut. “Ten million rand, flushed down the drain. You think that’s a game?” He coughed, and blood spattered his lips. “I didn’t steal it, I invested it. It was a risk.” Leather Coat leaned in. “You gambled with Polo’s money. Now the house always wins.” They moved in on him again. The TV shattered. A lamp fell with a crash. Miriam screamed and tried to shield Will’s body, but they pushed her away like she was paper. Then Snake Jaw crouched and said, “This isn’t even the message, Will. This—” he punched Will again, and blood sprayed onto the rug “—is just the punctuation.” Will barely stayed conscious. The pain was everywhere. His face felt broken. His body wouldn’t respond. Leather Coat tossed a thick envelope onto Will’s chest. “One more week,” he said. “That’s mercy. From Mario. But if we come back and you’re still empty-handed. You will have to hand over the collateral.” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The thugs walked out, calm and unhurried. The front door slammed shut, shaking the house. Silence fell like a shroud. Miriam stumbled forward, her knees bruised, hands shaking as she cradled her husband’s face. Blood stained his shirt. One of his eyes was already swollen shut. His lip was split, his cheekbone a purple welt. “Oh God, Will!” she sobbed. “What have you done…” Half an hour earlier, Zoe Adams had left the university studio with a bounce in her step, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. Her sunshine-yellow dress fluttered around her legs, and her curls bounced in rhythm with her steps. She had music in uher ears and art in her heart, humming softly to a song only she could hear. At twenty-two, Zoe was a vision, soft brown skin kissed by the sun, high cheekbones, and a gentle smile that could melt the hardest heart. Her eyes were wide, curious, hazel-green like spring leaves after rain. She looked like hope. Like a future untouched by the darkness that her parents carried in silence. She’d picked up takeout, her father’s favourite, butter chicken and naan, and rice pudding for her mother. She’d wanted to surprise them, lighten the mood. Things have been tense lately. She didn’t know why, not really. Her father looked tired, her mother jumpy. But she trusted them, and that trust would die tonight. Zoe turned onto her street, and a soft breeze played with her curls. She reached the front steps and noticed the porch light flickering. She frowned. She opened the door and stepped inside; instantly, her world tilted. The silence was wrong, heavy and unnatural. The house felt hollow, like something sacred had been ripped out and stomped on. “Mom?” she called, shutting the door behind her. “Dad?” No answer. Her breath caught. She took a step forward and saw the broken lamp at the entrance. Her heart began to race. She rounded the corner into the lounge and froze. Glass glittered like fallen stars across the floor. The coffee table was splintered. The cushions slashed red, smeared the wall—thick, violent, and terrifying. And then she saw him. Her father lay on the floor, barely conscious, his face an unrecognisable mess of blood and swelling. Her mother knelt beside him, sobbing. Zoe dropped the takeout and screamed. “Daddy!” She ran to him, collapsing beside Miriam. “What happened? What the hell happened?!” “We can’t call anyone,” Miriam choked out. “What? We need an ambulance!” “No police, no hospitals. They said no cops, Zoe. They’ll come back and hurt us. You.” Zoe stared at her mother; she didn’t recognise her. “Who did this?!” Miriam just shook her head, eyes vacant, hands covered in her husband’s blood. Zoe looked down at Will. Her father. The man who once lifted her onto his shoulders to watch parades. The man who read bedtime stories with silly voices. Now, he was broken, bleeding, and barely breathing. This wasn’t a robbery and wasn’t random. This was a message, and it had been written in blood.