His World Of Chaos

Chapter One

Collateral

The second those doors slammed shut, it was game over. You know that sound that says, “Yep, you’re screwed”? That was it. Cold and metallic. My heart was racing as I placed my hand on the glass behind me. Everywhere stank of cigars and power and cash. The exact things I’d spent years dodging, and now, here I was, marinating in them.

Dad was right across from me, well, the shell of him, anyway. He kept squeezing his hands together, whispering out numbers like some kind of nervous chant. His lips twitched, breathe all choppy and desperate.

“Papa,” I croaked out, barely audible. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

He jerked, flinched really, glancing at the slabs of muscle parked on either side of us. Those guys? They looked like they’d been carved out of concrete, guns not even hidden just part of the outfit. Dad didn’t bother answering. Just fussed with his bargain-bin tie, slicking back his hair with shaky, sweaty hands.

“Just…keep your mouth shut, Isabella,” he rasped, voice so thin it could snap. “Don’t meet anybody’s eye. I’ll fix it.”

Fix it. God, I’d heard that one before. After every bounced check, every broken promise, every midnight knock by some guy with a baseball bat and a smile. But this time, Dad sounded like he’d already lost. He was mumbling the words.

I stared out the window, holding back the tears that were threatening to fall. We were leaving the neighborhood where everything smelled like trash. Headed to a new place where the streets were much cleaner. The closer we got to our destination, the more the city just…shut up. It knew how to play dead for whoever lived up there.

When the car finally stopped, I stared outside and there it was.

No house.

A freaking castle.

White marble steps that spiraled up to black iron gates. Statues of lions and windows made of gold. This wasn’t New York anymore felt like we’d been dropped into some mafia version of Narnia.

The Vitale estate.

One of the goons yanked open the door and latched onto my arm, hard. I almost kissed the gravel, but somehow caught myself, my heels scraping and pride barely intact. Dad scrambled out after me, falling over himself to thank everyone like he was auditioning for “Most Pathetic Man Alive.”

“Grazie, grazie, signori.”

Inside? Even colder. The kind of cold you feel in your bones. Cigar smoke lying around, floors shiny, and men in expensive suits walked around, voices low, and eyes trailing us like preys.

And then him.

Damiano Vitale.

Yeah, I’d seen his face in the news, the “prince” of the Vitale Empire, the boogeyman with a trust fund. But seeing him in news and seeing him in real life? That’s something to remember.

Dude was tall, broad, hair so slick it could’ve been illegal. His face was all sharp lines and shadows, eyes like a wolf sizing up dinner. When he walked in, every conversation died. Chairs squeaked. The air tensed up, like even the oxygen was afraid to get in his way.

He was power, plain and simple, and everyone in that room was just orbiting him.

Dad nearly folded himself in half, bowing so low I thought he’d snap in two. “Signore Vitale, please, I beg you just a little more time. I swear, I’ll get your money.”

Damiano didn’t even look at him. His gaze locked on me straight through me, actually. Like I was some waste product. He looked at me and something like amusement flashed through his eyes.

“And who…” Damiano said, voice cold but laced with venom, “is this?”

Dad’s mouth flapped open and shut, useless. “My daughter. Isabella.”

The air in the room shifted and I felt the hair on my body rise. He circled around us, his steps cautious as he studied. When he stopped in front of me, his gaze dragged over me, sleazily, not even hungry, just... calculating. Like he could already see the pieces of me he’d rearrange.

“You show up with excuses,” he murmured, voice soft but somehow everywhere at once. “But you bring me... a gift.”

The whole room burst out laughing, sharp and mean.

My jaw snapped shut. Heat climbed my neck, burning. I straightened up, spine stiff, and pushed the words out before my courage got up and left.

“I’m not a gift.” I yelled, louder than intended. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Silence.

Real, heavy, awkward.

My dad groaned my name, like he was already mourning me.

Damiano didn’t blink. His face shifted into a cold awful smile. He walked closer, and suddenly, the fragrance of his cologne hit me. It smelled like only one thing.

Danger!

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said, almost grinning. “Most women standing there can barely breathe.”

“Maybe they’re smarter than me. Maybe they know not to waste their breath on a man like you.”

Gasps, all around. One of the soldiers actually shifted like he was waiting for me to get gunned down.

My dad looked like he was about to collapse. “Isabella, don’t…”

Damiano just looked amused. His eyes glittered. Something wild and sharp.

He leaned in, so close I could hear his breath on my ears. “Careful there,” he whispered, letting his accent flow. “I might start to like you.”

My whole body shivered.

Annoying.

He straightened, turning to his men like I hadn’t just insulted him in front of his entire mafia boy band. “Debt’s settled.”

My dad jerked upright. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” Damiano said, pouring himself a drink like it was just another night. He swirled the whiskey, lazy. “Your daughter stays. With me. Until I say otherwise.”

My dad nearly dropped his glass. “Please, signore, she isn’t…”

Damiano cut him off, voice like a knife. “She’s got everything to do with this. You owe me. She pays.”

His words hit a nerve in me.

I tried to move forward. One of the guards blocked me, all muscle and no neck. “I’m not yours,” I spat at Damiano.

He dropped his glass of wine on the table. For a second, I thought he was going to hit me. But instead, he walked toward me in three steps.

“No,” he said, voice cold and scary. “But you will be.”

They dragged my father out, his protests echoing, fading. Then he was gone, and I was alone in that pit of snakes, every eye on me, burning holes right through.

Damiano didn’t move. He just calmly sipped his drink, looking at me with a smirk.

“You hate me already,” he said, casually, not sparing me a glance

“I don’t hate you,” I hissed. “I don’t even know you. But I know your type.”

He raised an eyebrow, all mockery. “Do tell.”

“Arrogant. Controlling. Dangerous.” I spat the words out, hoping he’d choke on them.

His smirk grew, slow and cold. “You missed one.”

My heart thudded. “Which one?”

“Unavoidable.”

God…that word felt like a chain locking around my throat.

He flicked his gaze to his men, bored. “Take her upstairs. East wing.”

Just like that. Like I was a suitcase or a piece of art.

The guards walked toward me, but I walked past them, adrenaline making me stupid. I jabbed my finger at Damiano’s chest, reckless as hell.

“You can lock me up,” I hissed, “but you don’t own me.”

Everything stopped. Like someone had hit pause. Every guy in the room was staring like I’d just pulled a gun.

Damiano looked down at my hand, jaw tight, eyes black and shining. He exhaled, a dangerous noise.

Then he leaned in, lips hovering, voice rough as gravel.

“Keep telling yourself that, Bella,” he whispered. “I live for the fight.”

The guards grabbed me before I could do anything else, dragging me back toward the stairs. I kicked, cursed, but they didn’t even flinch.

Last thing I saw, Damiano stood there, absolutely still, glass in hand, staring at me like he already owned every inch of me.

No smile.

No movement.

Just that look.