Bound to the Ruthless Don

TWO—-Luca

Most people don’t notice when they’re being watched.

Isla didn’t either.

I’ve been watching her for months now—a habit, a compulsion, a fixation I should’ve cut off before it rooted itself so deeply in me.

She’s a constant reminder of something untouched. Something still good.

Soft. Kind. Untainted by blood or betrayal.

And that should’ve been enough.

Just watching.

Just knowing she’s safe.

But it never is.

I twirl my favorite knife between my fingers as I watch the man bound to the chair in front of me. His shoulders shake. Fear bleeds from his pores.

Good. He knows what’s coming.

He’s already dead. He just hasn’t caught up to the fact yet.

He’s one of mine—or used to be. A foot soldier in a business that requires loyalty, discretion, silence. But lately, all three have been in short supply. Someone is leaking intel, orchestrating moves behind my back. A rat.

And I don’t do rodents.

I crouch in front of him and press the tip of my blade to his thumb. His pupils dilate.

“Give me a name,” I murmur, voice low, almost gentle. “And you walk out with all ten fingers.”

His throat bobs. For a second, I think he might break—

But then, he laughs. It’s hollow, shaky, and laced with fatalism.

“Vincenzo… you’ve never let a prisoner go.” He meets my eyes, a flicker of defiance in his. “Just shoot me and be done with it.”

I smile.

It’s not the friendly kind.

He thinks dying fast is mercy.

He’s not wrong.

But mercy? That’s not something I give to traitors.

I bring the knife down fast.

His thumb hits the floor with a wet thud.

He doesn’t scream—his body jerks violently instead, as if his nerves are short-circuiting.

I rise slowly, motioning to Dante, who stands silently at the edge of the room.

“Waterboard him.”

Dante nods once. No hesitation.

A cloth. A jug of water. A tilt of the chair.

And the gurgling begins.

The man thrashes, limbs bound, mouth open in soundless agony as water invades his lungs. His body’s fighting for survival, but his mind is already breaking.

They always think they’re tough—until they’re not.

I wait. Not out of cruelty, but necessity.

Pain is the most honest language in my line of work.

When I see the life draining from his movements, I raise a finger. Dante yanks the cloth away.

The bastard gasps for air like a newborn, coughing, sputtering, spitting up curses.

“Diablo… Diablo… Diablo morirás,” he chokes.

If I had a dollar for every time someone called me the Devil, I wouldn’t just own this city—I’d own the world.

Then again, I already own enough of it to be dangerous.

I wipe the blade clean on his shirt, bored.

“Keep him breathing. No hits to the head. I want him lucid.”

Dante hesitates—barely—but doesn’t argue. He knows I don’t enjoy repeating myself.

I never delegate torture. It’s the one part of the job I take personally.

But tonight… tonight, something more important demands my attention.

Someone.

I pull out my phone and tap the tracking app.

Isla’s still at Sue’s Diner. Good girl.

Predictable.

She has no idea I cloned her phone the first day I saw her. She thought I bumped into her by accident. Smiled when I helped her pick up her dropped receipts.

People like Isla never suspect the real monsters. We hide behind charm and expensive suits.

And when I saw her smile; soft, dimpled, calming the storm of an angry customer, I knew I’d never let her go.

She was patient that day. Gentle, even when the man screamed in her face.

That kind of patience doesn’t exist in my world.

In my world, kindness is currency, and the cost is usually death.

It’s how I lost Gianna.

My breath catches. Just for a second. I press two fingers to my temple and breathe through the memory.

Gianna smiled like that too. Bit her lip when she was thinking. Twisted her curls around her fingers.

But Isla is not Gianna.

She can’t be.

Gianna was my first mistake. My last.

My father thought she made me weak.

So he eliminated her.

A lesson I never forgot. A warning carved into my soul.

Never love something fragile. Because fragility breaks.

But Isla…

She makes me forget that rule.

I don’t even know what I want from her.

Peace, maybe. A piece of something untouched.

Or maybe I want to ruin her, too. Keep her. Mark her. Make her mine.

Tonight was supposed to be routine.

I’d make sure she got home safe.

But then she ran out of the diner, crying. And just like that, my patience snapped.

I saw red.

And then an SUV pulled up. My territory. My streets.

And some fuckers tried to take her.

Tried.

I called Pike for the car and handled the bastards myself.

Three down. One left alive. Bullet to the knee. Enough pain to loosen his tongue later.

When I turned back to Isla, she was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, chest heaving, hands clenched.

“Isla.”

I didn’t even realize I’d said her name out loud.

Her eyes met mine, wide, wild, confused.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered.

That was my cue to walk away.

But I didn’t.

I’m not a man who walks away from things he wants.

Especially not when they look at me like I’m a stranger in the middle of a crime scene I caused.

So I stepped closer.

Reached for her.

She flinched.

A smarter man would’ve left her alone.

But I’m not that kind of man.

My father killed the last woman I loved. And yet here I am, wanting again.

Not just wanting. Needing.

Isla could be useful. Her presence beside me would quiet the whispers. The doubts.

“She’s too soft,” they’ll say.

“She won’t last.”

They’re probably right.

She has no idea what it takes to stand beside someone like me.

She doesn’t belong in my world, too gentle, too naive.

But if an opposing gang tried to kidnap her, she’s not as innocent as she looks.

Maybe she’s hiding something.

Maybe she’s just good at pretending. I’ve met women like that.

They always die when I uncover their secrets.

It would be a shame for Isla to end up in an unmarked grave.

I glance down at her legs,long, shapely, trembling.

They’d wrap perfectly around my waist.

She tenses under my gaze. Good. She should.

I place a hand on her thigh, grounding her or maybe grounding myself.

She jerks away like I burned her.

The disgust in her eyes is loud.

I almost smile.

Let her keep that attitude. I prefer a fight.

Because now that she’s in my grasp…

Now that I’ve touched her, saved her, claimed her in ways she doesn’t yet understand—

I’m not letting go.

Not ever