Claimed by the Don: His Forbbiden Rose

The hall buzzed with life, oozing old charm from the exposed bricks and creaky wooden floors that whispered under hurried steps. The air was a blend of wine, tobacco, and aged wood. A guitar string hummed softly in the background. Scattered tables were filled with people, some whispered, others watched the stage, waiting. Behind the curtain, the dancer inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. She scanned the crowd, calming the nerves that never quite went away. The stage, dimly lit, shimmered beneath the spotlight. A sacred space. A ritual was about to begin. Candlelight flickered. Shadows danced. The world felt slower here — like time had to stop and listen. When Sophia stepped into the light, silence fell. Golden shadows kissed her warm skin. Her honey-brown eyes glowed, fierce and untamed. Long dark hair flowed down her shoulders, loose like a broken promise. She moved, slowly at first. Her feet slid, hips swayed, as if her body followed its own secret rhythm. Then the beat dropped. A sharp stomp cracked through the room. Her skirt flared, wild and hypnotic. Every spin, every arch of her back, whispered a story — one of fire and survival. She wasn't just beautiful. She commanded. And when the final note faded, she stood still, breathless, staring. The trance shattered. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she noticed a few men in the shadows. Not drinking. Not talking. Just watching. Too closely. She forced a smile as her gaze locked with a man’s. Could’ve been just another guest. Or someone far worse. The mafia wore many faces. Applause roared, but she barely heard it. She stepped off the stage, each breath heavier. Not from the dance, but from something colder. Familiar. "You were amazing!", Alvaro’s voice brought her back. The charming waiter grinned as he met her backstage. "I know," she sighed. "I know." Twenty, with a dancer’s grace and a troublemaker’s smile, Alvaro glided through life, and tables, effortlessly. His golden-brown hair was always stylishly messy, and his uniform somehow looked custom-fit. And behind the sass? A fiercely loyal heart. "Time to work, huh?" Sophia gave him a tired glance. "C’mon, don’t give me that ‘left at the altar’ face. You’re not even engaged!", he teased dramatically. He spun her playfully, pulling a smile out of her despite herself. "There it is. Better. Now get changed," he said, handing her the waitress uniform. She nodded, forcing another breath, another smile. Just another shift. Just another night. Sophia didn’t just work double shifts. Sometimes triple. Whatever it took to chip away at the mountain of debt her dead father left behind. And she had no idea where the money had even gone. "They came for the money, I think", Alvaro leaned against the dressing room door. "I figured," she said quietly. Her stomach twisted. "One of them looked like the boss. Left before your dance ended. Hot, though." Alvaro chuckled. How can he joke now? Sophia blinked, trying not to cry. Her breaths were shallow. "You could ask Giuseppe for an advance," she suggested, rushing to change. "Why me?" "Oh, please!", she scoffed. "I know what you two do after hours. Don’t think I’m blind." "Shhh! He’s married!" "To your—" "Also true!", Alvaro laughed, "I’ll ask. I’ll say it’s to save the life of the cheapest flamenco dancer in Italy." "Don’t insult me!" "The cheapest and the prettiest", he winked, hugging her. "Stay calm. They haven’t ordered yet." "They’re waiting for me," Sophia whispered. "The boss liked what he saw", Alvaro smirked. "You could always bribe him..." She arched her brow. "With what? My smile?" "Something... more valuable." "Alvaro!", she gasped, pretending to be outraged. But her nervous laugh betrayed her. He grew serious, held her hands. "You talk to them. I’ll talk to Giuseppe. He’ll help. I swear." That repetition meant trouble. He’d have to negotiate something, she knew him well. With a deep breath, Sophia stepped out in her waitress uniform. The guitar still played, trying to hold normalcy in the air. But then she saw him. One man. Alone. In the corner. Impeccably dressed. Watching. Still. Sharp. Dangerous. He didn’t need to speak to be feared. Her heart skipped, not from the music this time. She swallowed hard… And stepped forward.