OWNED BY THE REAPER: A Ruthless Mafia Romance

5 | THE ASHES OF LOYALTY

POV BRIELLE

The silence between us in the alcove was louder than the thumping bass of the ballroom music. My hand was still locked in Roman’s, the tip of the steak knife digging a tiny, crimson crescent into his throat. He didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just watched me with those ice-water eyes, waiting to see if I had the stomach to become the monster he already was.

"Go on, Brielle," he whispered, his breath ghosting over my lips. "The first cut is the hardest. After that, the soul just... leaks out. You won't even feel it after a while."

My fingers trembled. The weight of his life was a physical pressure, a heat that radiated from the blade and up my arm. I looked at the bead of blood on his collar—a small, perfect stain on his perfection. I thought of my father laughing in the sun. I thought of Sofia, sleeping soundly in her small apartment in Queens, unaware that her life was being weighed on a scale in a Chicago ballroom.

With a choked sob of pure, unadulterated rage, I dropped the knife.

It hit the marble floor with a dull clack. Roman didn't let go of my wrist. He pulled me closer, his chest a wall of solid heat against mine.

"You're a coward," I hissed, tears finally spilling over. "Threatening a girl who has nothing to do with this. You're not a king, Roman. You’re just a bully with a better tailor."

Roman’s expression didn't change, but his grip tightened just enough to be a reminder of who owned the air in this room. "I am exactly what this world made me. And right now, I am the only thing standing between you and the men who would do far worse than bully you."

He reached down, picked up the knife, and tucked it back onto a passing waiter's tray without even looking. Then, he grabbed my hand and led me out of the alcove. He didn't lead me back to the bar or to the dance floor. He led me straight toward the exit.

"We’re leaving," he announced to Viktor, who appeared out of the shadows like a ghost the moment we crossed the threshold of the mansion.

The ride back was different. The tension wasn't just fear anymore; it was something jagged and sharp, like the diamonds still heavy around my neck. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon.

"Is he dead?" I asked after twenty minutes of silence. My voice felt hollow, as if the girl who had walked into that gala had been left behind on the ballroom floor.

"Not yet," Roman said. He was back to his stone-faced profile, staring straight ahead. "But the clock is ticking. The men are in position. They wait for my signal."

"Why tell me?" I turned to look at him. "Why give me the knife? Why put your throat on the line if you were just going to kill him anyway?"

Roman finally looked at me. The car passed under a streetlight, and for a split second, I saw something in his eyes that wasn't ice. It was a dark, flickering hunger.

"Because I wanted to see if you were worth the trouble, Brielle. Anyone can be a victim. Anyone can cower in a corner. But if you're going to survive the Volkov family, you need to be able to look a man in the eye while you take what you want from him."

"I don't want anything from you," I lied.

"Liar," he breathed. "You want the same thing I do. You want to know how this ends. You want to know if the fire is going to burn you or if you’re going to learn how to breathe the smoke."

The SUV pulled up to the estate. The house looked even more imposing in the dead of night, a fortress of glass and secrets. Roman didn't wait for the guards. He stepped out and reached for me, pulling me toward the front door with a frantic energy I hadn't seen before.

Once inside, he didn't head for the stairs. He pulled me into his study—the room where everything had begun. He slammed the heavy oak door shut and locked it. The click of the bolt felt like a guillotine.

He turned on a single lamp on the desk, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. He walked to a small bar in the corner, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass, and downed it in one go.

"Sit," he commanded.

"I've had enough of your commands for one night, Roman."

He was across the room in three strides. He didn't hit me. He didn't grab me. He simply leaned down, his hands on the arms of the chair I had slumped into, caging me in.

"Your father called," he said.

My heart stopped. "What?"

"Ten minutes ago. While we were in the car. He saw the photos. The digital feed from the gala hit the private channels. He saw you on my arm. He saw the diamonds."

"What did he say?" I whispered, my pulse racing.

Roman’s jaw tightened. "He didn't ask if you were safe. He didn't ask what I had done to you. He asked for a trade. His life for yours? No. He offered to tell me where the rest of the money is—the part I didn't even know was missing—if I let him keep the Cabo estate and gave him safe passage to Europe."

The air left my lungs. It felt like my ribs were collapsing. "And me? What did he say about me?"

Roman’s eyes softened, just a fraction. It was the most terrifying thing he had done all night. "He said you were always a 'resourceful' girl. He said I should keep you. That you’d be a good 'addition' to the Volkov assets."

The room tilted. The silence was absolute. I looked down at my hands, the hands that had tried to save that man, the hands that had held a knife to his enemy’s throat to protect his honor. I felt a laugh bubble up in my throat—a dry, hysterical sound that died before it reached the air.

"He sold me," I whispered. "He really sold me."

"He didn't sell you, Brielle," Roman said, his voice unusually low. "You can't sell something you never valued. He traded you for a plane ticket."

I looked up at him, my vision blurring. "So what now? Do you give him the ticket? Do you get your money and let the 'asset' go?"

Roman reached out, his thumb catching a tear that escaped my eye. His touch was no longer cold. It was possessive, yes, but there was a strange, desperate warmth to it.

"The money is irrelevant now," Roman said. "He insulted my intelligence by thinking I would let him walk. And he insulted me by thinking I would ever let you go back to a man like him."

He leaned in closer, his forehead resting against mine. Our breaths mingled in the small space between us.

"I gave the order, Brielle. The cleaners moved in five minutes ago. Your father is gone. The Moretti name ends tonight."

I should have felt horror. I should have screamed. I should have hated the man in front of me with every fiber of my being. But all I felt was a crushing, final sense of relief. The ghost that had been haunting my life—the debt, the lies, the fear of his next mistake—it was gone.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice trembling. "You could have just let me keep believing he was out there. You could have kept using him as a threat."

"Because I don't want your fear anymore, Brielle," Roman whispered, his lips brushing against mine. "I want your truth. I want the girl who held the knife. I want the queen who is going to help me rule this city."

He kissed me then.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was the taste of whiskey, blood, and the dark promise of a future I hadn't asked for but couldn't turn away from. I reached up, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the solid reality of him to drown out the hollowness in my chest.

He groaned into my mouth, his hands sliding down to my hips, lifting me out of the chair and onto the mahogany desk. Papers scattered, a glass tipped over, but neither of us cared. In the wreckage of my old life, Roman Volkov was the only thing that felt real.

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes wild and dark. "You're mine now, Brielle. Not because of a debt. Not because of your father. But because you chose to stay in this room when the door was unlocked."

I looked at the door. He was right. The bolt was thrown, but I hadn't even looked at it.

"I didn't choose you, Roman," I whispered, even as I pulled him back down to me. "I just ran out of places to hide."

He smiled—a real smile this time, sharp and dangerous.

"Then let's give them something else to talk about tomorrow, shall we?"