40 Days With The Mafia King

I thought death would be loud. It wasn’t. It was quiet. Italian. And it wore a $10,000 suit. The sound started at 2:13 AM. Not a knock. A kick. My dad’s art studio door in the back of our run-down warehouse in Warri splintered on the third hit. Men flooded in, black jackets, no faces I recognized. Just guns, and the smell of rain and blood. “Where is he?” one of them snarled, grabbing my wrist. His grip was iron. I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t scream. “Gone.” My voice didn’t shake. Much. “He left three days ago.” “Liar.” He slammed me against the easel. Canvases crashed to the floor. Paint bled across the concrete like open wounds. My father, Matteo Moretti, had been a lot of things. A failed painter. A worse husband. But a gambler? No. Worse. A dealer. He ran small. Local. Until he didn’t. Three weeks ago he took a shipment on credit from the Romano family. Two million dollars’ worth of product. He was supposed to move it, pay them back, disappear. Instead, he moved the money. And vanished. Leaving me. “Please,” I whispered, when his hand went to my throat. “I don’t know where he is. I swear—” The room went still. Because someone else had walked in. And when he did, the other men moved back like he was the tide. He was tall. Taller than the doorway. Dark suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up once. Black hair, a little too long, a little too perfect. And eyes. God, his eyes. Gray. Cold. The kind of gray you see right before a storm breaks. Luca Romano. I’d seen his picture once. On the news. “Il Re.” The King. Head of the Romano family. Thirty-five, no arrests that stuck, no enemies that lived. He didn’t look at the men. He looked at me. Head to toe. Slow. Like he was inventorying damage. My paint-stained jeans. My bare feet. The bruise forming on my wrist from the other man’s hand. “Let her go,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The man holding me dropped my wrist like it burned him. Luca stepped closer. He didn’t touch me. But I felt it anyway. The air got heavy. “Matteo Moretti owes my family two million dollars,” he said. No preamble. No threat. Just fact. “He took product on credit. He sold it. He kept the cash.” “I know,” I said. Stupid. Reckless. But fear made me stupid. His gaze flicked to mine. And stayed. “Do you know what happens to men who steal from me?” “No.” My throat was dry. “They don’t get a second chance.” A cold weight settled in my stomach. “He’s gone. You can’t—” “I’m not here for him.” He said it like he was discussing the weather. My breath caught. “What?” “The debt doesn’t disappear because the debtor does.” He tilted his head. Studying me. “Matteo signed for the shipment. Under Romano law, family is collateral.” “Romano law isn’t real law.” The words flew out before I could stop them. A ghost of something almost like amusement touched his mouth. Almost. “In my city, it is.” One of the men behind him shifted. Luca raised two fingers. He stopped. Luca took another step. I backed up until my back hit the cold wall. There was nowhere left to go. “You have two options, Miss Moretti,” he said. “Option one: I take the warehouse. I take everything in it. I sell it. You still owe me one point eight million. And I will find you.” I shook my head. Tears burned. “I don’t have—” “Option two.” He cut me off. “You come with me. Now. You live in my house until your father returns with my money. If he does, you walk free. If he doesn’t…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. My father’s debt. My life. “That’s not fair,” I whispered. “Fair.” He said the word like it was foreign. “Your father stole from me. Fair left this room when he did.” I wanted to run. To fight. To slap him like he was just some man. But he wasn’t. He was Luca Romano. And the men with guns were still here. “Forty-eight hours,” he went on. “That’s how long I’ll wait for Matteo. After that…” His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second. Too short to be sure. Too long to be nothing. “After that, the debt is paid another way.” Revulsion twisted in me. “You can’t— I’m not—” “I don’t traffic women, Miss Moretti.” His voice went flat. Colder. “I don’t need to. You will stay in my home. You will be watched. You will not leave. You will not call anyone. And you will not, under any circumstances, lie to me again.” He turned. “Antonio. Her bag.” A younger man stepped forward with a duffel. He dumped my sketchbooks, two shirts, a pair of shoes on the floor. “Pack,” Luca said. I didn’t move. His gray eyes came back to me. And for the first time, there was something else in them. Not anger. Not pity. Expectation. Like he’d already decided how this ended. “Now, Aria.” He knew my name. My hands shook as I shoved clothes into the bag. I didn’t look at him. If I did, I’d scream. Or cry. Or worse— beg. Two minutes later, I was between two of his men, walking out of the studio I grew up in. The rain had started. It hit my face, cold and sharp. A black SUV waited at the curb. Tinted windows. No plate I could read. Luca opened the back door himself. “Get in.” I stared at him. At the car. At the city beyond, dark and wet and endless. If I ran now… His hand came up. Not to grab me. He just brushed a strand of wet hair from my cheek with one knuckle. The touch was light. It shouldn’t have made me freeze. “Run,” he said softly. Only for me. “And I will chase you. And when I catch you, Aria, the deal is over.” My heart slammed against my ribs. I got in. The door closed. The lock clicked. The SUV pulled away, and my old life got smaller in the rearview. Twenty minutes later, we stopped at gates. Iron. Ten feet high. Cameras everywhere. The Romano estate. A butler took my bag. A maid showed me to a room that was bigger than my entire apartment. White sheets. No windows I could open. And then he was there. In the doorway. Luca. Still in that suit. Still watching me like I was a problem he hadn’t solved yet. “This is your room,” he said. “For now.” “For now?” His mouth curved. Not a smile. A promise. “Rule number one in my house, Aria.” He stepped in. Closed the door behind him. “Don’t run.” He took another step. “Rule number two…” He stopped two feet away. Close enough that I could smell cedar and gunmetal and him. “Don’t make me want you.” _Click._ The door locked. And I was alone. With him. With a two-million-dollar debt I could never pay