OWNED BY THE RUTHLESS DON

The rain poured heavily as Angeline made her way back home, clutching the little money she had earned from her shift in one hand while shielding her eyes with the other. The cold bit into her bones, but she didn’t dare take shelter. She couldn’t afford to be late again. By the time she arrived back home, the rain had reduced to a drizzle, but Angeline was drenched from head to toe, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin. Her steps faltered, her chest tightening—not from the cold, but from the uncertainty of what awaited her behind those doors. The door flung open before she even had the chance to reach for it. Her stepmother, Maria, stepped out, eyeing her with disdain. Her cold eyes locked onto Angeline’s. “Where’s the money?!” she demanded sharply, blocking the entrance as if Angeline didn’t deserve to step inside without it. Angeline felt a pang in her chest. Even though this was a repeated occurrence, she could still feel the heavy weight of rejection pressing down on her. She stretched out her trembling hand that held the money, and her stepmother snatched it instantly. Maria counted the bills swiftly, her face contorting in annoyance. “Just forty dollars? What the heck are we supposed to do with this?!” “I… I—the rain… everyone left on time,” Angeline stammered, clutching the straps of her handbag tightly. Maria covered the distance between them in seconds and slapped her hard across the cheek. “We give you a roof over your head, clothe you, and feed you for years, and this is all you can repay us with?!” Angeline’s eyes stung with tears, but she didn’t dare blink. Maria stomped back into the house, leaving Angeline outside. Taking a staggered breath, Angeline ran her fingers along the side of her cheek, wincing slightly as the sting burned her skin. It would be over soon. Those were the quiet words she always used to comfort herself. She finally stepped into the house. Her feet carried her toward the kitchen first as her stomach growled with hunger. When she got there, she reached for the door handle—only to find it locked. Her brows pulled together, her palms curling into tight fists. Maria must have locked it just to make sure she starved. Angeline’s shoulders dropped in defeat. She trudged toward her room, knowing nothing good would come from confronting her. Once inside her small room, she took a warm bath and changed into dry clothes. Life had been hard enough after she lost her mother at six, but after her father got into an accident and was confined to a wheelchair for life, it became suffocating. He wasn’t the perfect father. He gambled, drank, and sometimes came home only to take his anger out on her. Still, Angeline never wished such a terrible fate on him. He ended up marrying his nurse—Maria—after only three months. Years passed, and her father’s health continued deteriorating until he became bedridden, unable to do anything for himself. Maria was the only one who took care of him, while Angeline went out to fend for them all. And no matter how hard she worked, they never appreciated it. Angeline clung to the hope that things would get better eventually, unaware that her life was about to take a sharp turn for the worse. ……… Loud hip-hop music blasted through the speakers. At the center of the club, five majestic poles stood tall. Strippers who were barely dressed danced on each one as money rained from all corners. Westend Club. Every millionaire and billionaire in town came here to get the best drinks and the hottest dancers. The club was filled with men in sharp tuxedos, hefty bodyguards, and barely covered women making shameless advances at them. The entire environment made Angeline’s skin crawl. Sometimes, she had to bite back the nausea rising in her throat. Adjusting her short black wig over her tightly braided blonde hair, she gripped the tray firmly as she made her way toward a table. The smell of whiskey, strong cologne, and the heavy scent of wealth surrounded her as she served drinks for the fifth time that night. As she dropped the wine glasses carefully, she suddenly felt a fat hand land on her shoulder. “I can’t seem to recognize you,” a drunken man said. “Are you new here?” Angeline turned to see a bulky man draped in an expensive suit, staring at her with a disgusting grin. She swallowed hard. She always tried to look as unattractive as possible just to avoid moments like this. “Yes,” she croaked. “Excuse me.” She slipped away from his grip and hurried back toward the bar, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Her eyes scanned the peeled leather strap of her wristwatch. She released a breath of relief. Her shift was finally over. “You there!” her manager called loudly, barely glancing at her. Angeline quickly walked over. “Take these drinks to the VIP room. Serve them at table five.” Before she could explain that her time was up, a tray containing two glasses was shoved into her hands. Left with no other choice, she headed toward the VIP room. After this, she would go home. The thought didn’t soothe her, but at least she would be free from the predators lurking in the dark corners of the club. She got to the front of the VIP room. The lights were dimmer there, and the music was quieter. Two strippers danced on poles, entertaining Westend’s richest customers. Angeline clutched the tray tightly, not daring to make eye contact with anyone inside. She walked up to table five, where three men sat in conversation—an old man with a head full of gray hair, and two younger men. She didn’t look their way for more than a second before she could tell how rich and powerful they were. Angeline bowed deeply and served their drinks. She turned quickly to leave when a deep baritone voice stopped her. “Stand there until we finish.” Angeline stiffened. She slowly lifted her head and met a pair of stormy gray eyes. The man had midnight-black hair neatly combed back, with two strands falling over his forehead. His sharp jawline was tense, and his aura was cold and dangerous. Angeline realized she had been staring. Cold sweat rolled down her back. She bowed her head immediately, standing to the side and hoping she could merge with the wall. Their conversation continued smoothly in Italian—none of which Angeline could understand. She clutched the tray tightly, praying they would finish quickly. When they finally stood up, she heaved a quiet breath of relief. But the moment they moved, the old man suddenly began choking. Blood streamed out of his nose as he dropped to his knees. “Alberto!” one of the men rushed to his side. Angeline turned quickly, about to fetch water, when the deep voice halted her again. “And where do you think you’re going?” the man demanded coldly. “You think you can run after poisoning our drink?” The chilling accusation froze Angeline on the spot.