HIS

Chapter Five

---

Abigail paced about her room, thinking of how to get out of the hellhole she was in, when the door opened.

Frances entered and bowed her head.

"Mistress, the master told me to inform you that he has restored internet access to your device. But, he will be watching your every move." She left.

Abigail stood there, processing the words, then picked up the phone given to her and went on i********:.

"He really did restore it back," she mumbled, then remembered the last part of Frances’ sentence.

He's a psycho, she thought.

---

One hour later

She was sitting by the window, legs curled under her in defiance, when the door creaked open. Frances and Lily walked in—quiet, obedient, heads low.

She looked at them, her tone flat. “Did I ask for company?”

Frances bowed slightly. “The Don sent us, miss. He said it’s time to get ready.”

“Get ready for what?”

They didn’t answer.

Before she could argue further, the heavy door swung open again. And there he was. Rafael Moretti. Towering. Cold. Dangerous.

She had done her research on him, and what she found out sent fear through her being. But she refused to let him control her. Her determination only grew stronger.

“We’re attending a private event tonight,” he said, voice low and calm.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, jaw tight.

“Not interested.”

He stepped closer, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

“It wasn’t a request, amore mio.”

Her fists clenched. “You can drag me there, but I won’t smile for you.”

He smirked faintly, then turned to the maids.

“Dress her in the black one. Satin. With the slit,” he ordered.

His voice dropped a note—quiet, possessive.

“Make sure she wears the diamond choker. She’ll look perfect in it.”

“I’m not your doll,” she snapped.

He walked up to her, leaned in close, speaking softly by her ear.

“No. You’re not. Dolls are hollow. You burn. And that’s why I bought you.”

She turned her face away, but not before he saw the heat in her glare.

His voice turned soft, almost mocking.

“Let them dress you, cara. You’ll want to look unforgettable when I parade you through a room full of people who’d kill to be where you are.”

Then he walked out—without waiting for her reply.

The maids moved in, silent and hesitant.

She scoffed coldly. “Fine. Dress me up. Just know I’d rather be wrapped in chains than wear his diamonds.”

---

Downstairs, Rafael stood at the foot of the grand staircase, busy on his phone.

The soft clicking of heels made him look up. His expression remained unreadable, but a glint of possession and satisfaction passed through his eyes.

Abigail descended the stairs, and he outstretched his palm like a gentleman.

She looked at it, then placed her palm in his. He smirked and kissed her knuckles.

“Sei bellissima.” {You look beautiful.}

She didn’t say anything, just stared at him. He led her outside to the awaiting limo. His personal bodyguard, Luca, stood next to it.

He bowed when he saw them and opened the door.

Rafael turned to look at her, but she had already moved as far as she could from him.

“I don’t bite, cara,” he said teasingly.

“No, you don’t. You spit venom,” she mumbled under her breath, but he heard her and smirked.

---

The grand ballroom glowed with crystal chandeliers and murmurs of dangerous men. Every corner whispered wealth, every guest wore secrets like perfume. But when Rafael Moretti entered, silence followed like a shadow.

And on his arm — a woman they had never seen before.

He stepped into the room like he owned it—because he did.

He wore a tailored black suit, stitched in fine Italian wool that hugged his broad shoulders and sharp frame like armor. The jacket was slightly undone, casual but controlled, revealing a black silk shirt unbuttoned at the top, just enough to show a hint of tattoos and danger.

No tie. He never wore one. Chains wore him. Around his wrist: a sleek black watch worth more than most people’s lives. His dark dress shoes gleamed like his reputation—clean, ruthless, and precise.

His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His jawline was sharp, his expression unreadable, but his eyes? Always locked on her—like she was his next target, even though she already belonged to him.

She wore a black satin evening gown, custom-made to fit her like a secret. The fabric clung to her curves, smooth as sin, with a deep plunging neckline that dipped just enough to make people stare—and make him possessive. The dress had a dramatic open back, held by the thinnest of crisscrossed straps, barely there, like whispered threats.

The slit up her leg was dangerously high—revealing black heels sharp enough to kill. Around her neck, a choker of diamonds, tight and cold—one of the many things he’d bought her, but it felt more like a collar than a gift.

Her hair was swept up to show off her neck—elegant, exposed, vulnerable—the way he liked. Her lips were blood red, eyes cold, and the tension between them was fire and ice.

She looked like everything he owned: expensive, beautiful, and untouchable—except she wasn’t. Not to him.

And she hated that he knew it.

Murmurs rippled among the guests.

“That’s De Rossi’s woman? Didn’t know he had one.”

“He doesn’t. Not really. But look at how he watches her.”

Rafael’s hand never left the small of her back. Not possessive—claiming. Every man who dared look too long earned a cold, sharp glance.

Abigail smiled sweetly, her voice like ice. “You’re squeezing my waist like you own me.”

He replied without looking at her. “I do.”

She tilted her head, speaking through gritted teeth. “No, you bought my presence. Not my soul.”

He finally looked down, eyes cold and calm.

“Your soul came with the package, tesoro. It’s just too proud to admit it.”

They passed a group of men—business partners, killers in suits.

One said too loud, “If she ever gets bored of you, Don, send her my way.”

Rafael didn’t blink. But his grip on her hip tightened.

She replied before Rafael could speak.

“Sorry, I don’t do cheap suits and desperate energy.”

The men laughed awkwardly, but Luca just smiled—slow, dangerous.

“Sharp tongue tonight.”

“Comes with being forced into a dress like this.”

He leaned in, closer to her ear. “And yet you wear it so well. Makes me wonder what else you’ll do when I say so.”

She turned away, jaw clenched, heart thudding louder than the ballroom music.

---

They’d barely been there twenty minutes, and already, power vultures were circling.

Men in tailored suits approached Rafael one by one—glasses raised, smiles fake. Political allies, rival Dons in disguise, corrupted businessmen… everyone wanted a piece of him.

“Stay by my side. Look pretty. Say nothing,” he said in a low voice.

She looked up and formed a tight smile. “I wasn’t planning to entertain your fan club.”

She stood tall beside him, chin high, cold and stunning. Every man’s eyes flicked to her, then quickly away—because Rafael’s stare followed every one of them.

But when the fourth man in a row leaned too close to Rafael, he finally leaned toward her and murmured:

“Go stand by the railing. It’s about to get boring.”

She scoffed lightly. “You mean you’re dismissing me.”

Rafael smirked. “Don’t pout. You look better when you’re defiant.”

Before she could walk off, he turned to Luca.

“Stay with her.”

“Always.”

Luca nodded and fell in step behind her as she walked away, heels echoing on marble.

---

By the side balcony, she leaned over slightly, watching the crowd, aware of Luca’s looming presence behind her.

Abigail spoke dryly. “Do you always babysit the Don’s acquisitions?”

Luca didn’t respond, his face unreadable.

Suddenly, the crowd shifted.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Luca nodded toward the door.

Striding into the ballroom with the same aura of danger as Rafael was Romero Ivanov, Rafael’s closest business partner—and his own version of chaos. Sharp white suit. Piercing hazel eyes. And beside him, a woman with long, honey-brown hair and wary eyes.

“Who is that?” Abigail asked.

“That’s Romero Ivanov, and the lady is Aria. He bought her last month at the Milan auction. Word is she threw a wine bottle at him on night one. You two might get along.”

Before she could respond, she saw them walk toward her.

“Luca,” Romero nodded in greeting, with a grin that never left his face.

Luca bowed his head. “Don Romero.”

Romero turned to Abigail, who met his gaze, and his grin widened.

“You must be Rafe’s little tigress,” he mused, then looked at Aria. “What do you think of her, Mishka?”

Aria glanced up at Abigail but didn’t say a word.

Romero chuckled, though it unsettled both Abigail and Aria.

“You must forgive my little pet. She’s not in a good mood.”

Abigail pursed her lips and looked at Aria. She was wearing a choker as well, but with ruby dust set in. She was in a short gown that she seemed uncomfortable in, and her hair was down.

“Why don’t you two play together?” Romero asked, but it wasn’t a question—it was an order.

“Why?” Abigail asked.

Romero twirled a strand of Aria’s hair in his hands and smiled, mischief clear in his hazel eyes.

“You’re alone. She’s alone. And you’re both…” he traced Aria’s collar, “…in the same situation.”

Abigail furrowed her brows but couldn’t say anything. She knew she couldn’t offend him.

“Have fun, Mishka {bear},” Romero said, and walked away.