A Slave To The Mafia Lord

Chapter 2

DAMIAN’S POV.

Damian Moretti.

I was born into power,the kind that doesn’t ask, it takes. Money, fear, violence… that was the air I breathed. Home was Ironville, a bleak, half-forgotten town in the heart of Italy. To outsiders, I lived in a palace-gold walls, silver floors, luxury dripping from every corner. But the shine was a lie. Behind it was something darker, something that carved me into who I am.

My father, Don Alessandro Moretti. He wasn’t just a man. He was a storm. A Mafia lord whose name could silence a room. Ruthless. Feared. Untouchable. They whispered his name in alleys, boardrooms, and behind the walls of political offices. He didn’t just rise to power—he butchered his way to it. Politicians, business moguls, rivals—none stood in his way for long. I watched him closely. Too closely. And everything I witnessed planted its seeds inside me.

He ruled Ironville with an iron fist, not just through crime but through influence. My mother, Gianna was no better, even with the beauty she carried like a weapon. People admired her face, but feared her tongue. She was neither loud nor reckless, her power lived in the quiet, in the way her eyes lingered long enough to make you feel seen or hidden. Amongst the women of the village, she didn’t walk so much as glide, though only those closest to her knew she practiced that grace to hide the limp that came when she was tired. Her voice low and steady, every word deliberate, yet beneath its weight there was always a thread of gentleness, like a hand reaching out even while holding back.

When she spoke, heads lowered, not because they feared her, but because something in her presence stirred conflicting truths: respect, adoration, and the ache of envy that comes from wanting to be near someone who feels just beyond reach.

To the farmers, she was a living mystery. Clothed in silks while they wore dust, yes - but they sometimes caught her watching them with an expression softer than she ever intended to show, as if she longed, just for a moment, to trade the silk for sweat, to know the honest ache of earth under her nails instead of the endless burden of standing apart.Her gaze slices through pride, her silence crushes hope. She gave nothing freely, yet took everything as if it were owed.

But still, they watched her. They gossip her name, whispering it like a spell, a curse and a prayer all at once. Because in her existence, even misery felt majestic.

My father had no regard for women. He treated them like lesser creatures - objects to command, to hurt, to use. And my mother? She became the target of his fury whenever fortunes soured or loyalties broke. I can still hear it - the thud of fists against skin, the sharp crack of palms in those echoing marble halls, the way her cries never quite made it past her lips. She tried desperately to hide her pain, but silence doesn’t lie. I was only a boy then, little and powerless, but my eyes never closed. My hearing unfaulted. I saw it all. I absorbed it all.

I learned that love was a weakness. That fear was power.

The death of my father came with the roar of gunfire.

It was meant to be nothing more than a quiet drive, the kind of routine that should have slipped into memory without a trace. But in our world,fate doesn't keep things simple . The windshield exploded under a storm of bullets, and the world twisted into chaos. Metal shrieked as the car flipped - not once but twice- before landing completely shattered at the edge of the forest. I recall the hiss of the engine, fumes of smoke curling up like a dying last breath. Shards of glass glittered red, catching the last of the light.

For years, it was said that he couldn't be touched. He was iron - untouchable, immortal, unmalleable. But at that moment, gazing at the wreckage it was clear; even giants bleed. One bad deal, one wrong enemy and the man who once ruled ironville with an ironfist was no more.

I was only nineteen.

As his body was lowered into the earth, my mother collapsed in grief. But his death didn’t bring peace. It brought an invitation. A dark inheritance.

When Don Falcone, my father's longest associate, entered the mansion, his presence swallowed the light. He didn’t just fill the room, he smothered what little air was left after the funeral. The scent of incense still clung to the air, tangled with the sweet, suffocating presence of lilies, and for a moment I thought I might choke on grief itself.

I stood there, stiff in a suit that felt too much like dad's, the collar scratching my neck raw. It hung too loosely onto my shoulders, too tight at the cuffs - a borrowed uniform for a role I wasn’t ready to play. My hands trembled in my pockets, nails digging crescents into my palms, as if pain might make me seem steadier. I longed to look like a man, but all I felt was nothing less than a boy dressed in someone else’s skin, waiting to be found out. But Don Falcone’s eyes - those ancient, unblinking eyes - sliced through the illusion. He saw me. Not the scared boy I am, not even the man I wished to be, but a limbo of some. Becoming.

His gaze didn’t waver. It kept me at a stance, and I felt the weight of it sinking into my chest. Each step he took sounded like the beat of fate through the marble halls, slow and deliberate. The gold rings on his fingers caught the lighting of the hallway, flickering like embers, small, burning reminders of power and history.

And then he spoke.

His voice is not loud. It didn’t need to be. It was low, steady, and impossibly heavy. It carried the gravity of decades, of choices made in silence, of losses buried deep. I didn’t understand the words -not fully at least - but I felt them. Like a tide pulling me under. Like a door creaking open to a world I wasn’t ready for.

“Damian.” He said, his gaze narrowing on me. “You’ve grown. You’re tall. Handsome. You look exactly like him... but far more dangerous. So, do you want to be wealthy like your father?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yes.”

A cruel smile curved on his lips. “Good. Then I will teach you the ways.”

Ironville had changed—and so had I.

Five years later, I came back to Ironville. I was no longer the wide-eyed boy who had left - I returned sharper than ever, wrapped in black suits that fit like a glove, carrying power that didn’t need to be spoken. The roar of the Maserati split the morning like thunder crackling across a quiet sky. It hadn't just arrived—it declared. The engine snarled like a beast, long exiled now returning to its rightful ground. Even before the door opened, the streets leaned in, holding their breath.

My name arrived long before I did, passed on by the wind like a warning. It went through alleyways and boardrooms, sung by those who feared it and etched into the minds of those who revered it. Enemies cower at the sound, hoping it was just rumor. Allies stood taller, trying to prove they belonged in the same sentence.

When I stepped out, the world braced itself. The pavement beneath felt heavier with each stride, as if the ground itself recognized the weight of what I carried. I need not speak nor threaten. Fear wasn’t just something I wore, it was something that trailed behind me, loyal and silent, like an extension of my being.

The man I had become was built not only on ambition, but blood. Deals. Assassinations. Silent wars in the underbelly of Europe. Ironville bowed to me, not out of love—but dread.

One rainy afternoon,as I steered my car through the muddy backwaters of Ironville, the tires growling against the wet earth. It should have been an ordinary drive, forgettable - yet fate rarely announces itself with thunder. Sometimes it comes quietly, hidden in small moments.

Then I noticed her. A girl, no older than twenty, shuffling along the roadside with a woven basket brimming with corn. Her dress was damp, her shoes caked with mud, but there was a stubborn grace in the way she carried herself, as though the weight on her back was nothing compared to the burdens she’d already known. The car didn't slow down. The mud sprayed from my tires and splashed across her dress and face. Her basket fell, corn scattering into the dirt.

She stood there, soaked and humiliated. Then, she did something most wouldn’t dare.

She shouted at me.

“You reckless bastard! Can’t you see I’m carrying something here?”

But the windows were tinted. She couldn’t see my face. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even glance back. But something about her voice lingered in my mind. I was forced to tell my guards to run an Intel on her.

About six years later I got a visitor, his name was Mr Smith. He came begging for money, he needed to clear some urgent debt so I helped him out. Just as he left I told my men to do a quick background check on him. I wanted to know who he was.

"Sir, I've gotten the information on Mr Smith", Luca, one of my men, said walking into my office.

"Who is he?", I asked, reaching for the cigarette packet on my table.

"Well he's a farmer, born and bred in Ironville. His wife died a long time ago and he has a daughter, Elena Smith. No properties, multiple debts and not sure this is important but he always wanted a son", he explained and I nod, twirling the unlit cigarette in hand.

"Elena Smith you say?", I smirked

**

I gave Mr Smith a one month grace so when the second month rolled in. I told my guards to bring him to me.

"Sir, he's here", Luca said with a small nod. And so I went down the living room through the elevator. The stairs are just way too long.

"Mr Smith", I called loudly and he flinched. He had a small frame. A short man with dark hair that was growing white by the second. The wrinkles in his face and the dark circles under his eyes gave way to his stress filled life. He wore a worn out shirt and faded jeans, his leg filled with blisters. Well with that kind of slippers he wouldn't escape a couple of blisters.

"You see I even took the elevator because I had to rush down to see my guest.. or are you not?", I watched him and he gave me a shaky nod. He was frightened. Good.

"When I ask a question Mr Smith, you answer",

"Y..ye..yes sir", he stuttered.

"So.. where's my money Mr Smith?", I asked, balancing myself on the couch. While Mr Smith stood in front of me, standing in the middle of two of my men.

"I.. I.. I don't have it sir", he stammered as I gestured for a cigarette. Luca gave me one and helped me light it.

I took a drag, "You don't have it?", I asked then let out an evil chuckle. I looked at my men, "He said he doesn't have it",

I puffed out smoke as I chuckled again. Mr Smith went down on his knees, "Sir please, I'll have the money by next month. I swear",

"Get up. It's enough that your dirty feet are tainting my floor", I said with a roll of my eyes. He then stood up and continued his begging.

"Sir I promise-", I stopped him.

"You're not allowed to make promises to me", I told him then got off my seat. I walked over to him and he cowered backwards only for my men to push him forward.

"Oh Mr Smith, I bet you don't know who you're dealing with..", I trailed as I took my last drag of cigarette.

"Please sir.. just this once and I swear I'll pay- Ah", he screamed, stopping his plea as I pressed the butt of my cigarette on his neck.

My men held him in place as he groaned in pain. I scoffed, that was only a cigarette butt. What's he gonna do when they actually start beating him up.

"Take care of him but make sure he doesn't pass out, okay?".

"Yes sir", they responded.

Mr Smith's eyes widened in fear, "Sir please..",

Mr Smith was pulled back to the living room looking the way I wanted him to. They had given him a good beating.

"So Mr Smith, again I'll ask.. do you have my money or perhaps a huge collateral?", I asked him and he barely lifted his head up.

"I.. I.. I don't have anything s.. sir. I own a small piece of land for farming corn and that's a collateral now. It's just me and my daughter-",

"Daughter you say?", I smirked wickedly.