TRIGGER WARNING⚠️⚠️⚠️🔞🔞
TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️⚠️⚠️🔞🔞
TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️⚠️⚠️🔞🔞
TRIGGER WARNING:⚠️⚠️⚠️🔞🔞
This chapter contains explicit depictions of sexual assault, coercion, violence, and emotional trauma. It includes non-consensual sex, abuse of power, and graphic psychological distress that may be disturbing or triggering for some readers.
Please proceed with caution⚠️⚠️⚠️
The author does not glorify these actions, readers discretion is strongly advised🙏🙂
Strictly for matured adults ONLY 🔞🔞🔞
If you've read this far, it means you're prepared for a story that doesn't flinch from darkness—violence, power, and violations.
This chapter contains disturbing content, including graphic sexual assault and extreme emotional and physical abuse.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
LILY
The bathroom was the only place that didn't feel like a trap.
I turned on the shower, let the scalding water rain over me, and stood there, trying to wash off the suffocating anxiety coiled in my chest. The steam blurred the mirror, blurred the truth, blurred the reality I didn't want to face.
"Mr. De Luca had a delayed flight, but he'll return soon," the head maid had said with a bow, as if her words weren't a guillotine.
Mr. De Luca.
Even his name sounded like a verdict. A man I hadn't seen, hadn't touched, hadn't spoken to—yet was now legally bound to as his wife.
My thoughts spun: What if he's old? What if he's cruel? What if he's both?
I was alone. Trapped in a gilded cage with too many shadows.
Then my phone rang. Sharp, sudden. A siren in the silence.
I stumbled out of the shower, soaked and shaking, my fingers slipping as I grabbed it.
"Hello?" My voice cracked. "Mom?"
"Mi tesero," she breathed, soft and urgent. "I'm not sure if I should be calling."
"I'm alone," I whispered, clinging to the sound of her voice like a lifeline.
"How are you really, mi cara?"
I hesitated. The truth lodged in my throat like a shard of glass. "Scared, but I'll be fine." My voice broke.
"I love you, mija."
"I love you too, Mama," I said, blinking through tears.
"I have to go—before your father gets home."
Then the line went dead.
I dropped the phone onto the bed, my heartbeat crashing in my ears.
That's when I felt him.
Smoke drifted from the shadows, lazy and deliberate. He sat there—still, composed, dangerous. The ember of his cigar lit the sharp edge of his jaw, a faint halo of fire around a man carved in power. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched—like judgment wrapped in silk and sin.
I froze, naked and dripping, paralyzed under his gaze.
His eyes—dark, cold, and hungry—raked over my body like a sentence passed.
"You have a perfect body for a twenty-one-year-old," he said, voice low, gravel against steel.
I swallowed hard. My voice barely rose above a breath. "Mr. De Luca?"
He stepped forward. "Don Pedro," he corrected, calm and final.
My stomach twisted. The way he moved—the weight of him in the room—was too practiced. Too powerful. He wasn't just a man. He was a storm wearing skin.
"Go on," he said, eyes still locked on me. "Take your bath. We'll break words later."
I backed into the bathroom, heart pounding, limbs trembling. The hot water was no longer comfort—it was camouflage. My breath hitched, my mind spinning. I'd seen him. The man I'd married hours ago. And he wasn't old. He wasn't what I'd feared.
He was worse.
Because he was everything I hadn't expected.
You don't imagine the devil being handsome.
I stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a thick white towel, my hands trembling against the marble sink. He was gone.
For a second–just one, I felt relief.
I walked to the wardrobe they'd prepared for me. Silk robes in muted colors hung like offerings. I reached for one, desperate to cover myself, to feel something like control.
But the door swung open. Then shut.
The finality of that sound crushed the breath from my lungs.
I didn't look up. I didn't need to. I could feel him.
His presence was suffocating. Heavy. Calculated. The air changed with him in the room—turned sharper, colder. His stare pinned me in place, paralyzed me.
My skin prickled.
And then—
Rough hands.
Unyielding grip.
A blur of motion.
My back hit the bed, towel yanked away like it never mattered, like I never mattered. My wrists were caught—tight, bruising—and he bent me over the edge.
"Please," I gasped, but it came out like a breath lost in the dark.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The silence screamed louder than words ever could.
He tore my panties like paper. The air hit my skin like ice. My body locked in panic, heart threatening to burst.
Then—
Pain.
He entered me without warning, without mercy. A blunt invasion that ripped the breath from my lungs and the fight from my limbs. Each thrust was a blow, every movement a desecration.
I choked on my sobs, the sound swallowed by the mattress, the room, his power.
Tears streamed down my face. This is my life now.
I wasn't ready.
I would never be ready.
He gripped my hips like I was property—flesh to be claimed. Used. Broken.
I clenched my fists, tried to focus on something—anything—besides the way my body betrayed me, frozen and fragile.
When he was done, he pulled away without a word. No look. No guilt. Just silence.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I lay there, motionless. Legs trembling. Soul shattered.
The room was still.
But I was gone.
He didn't just break me.
He erased me.
And in that silence, one truth echoed louder than my heartbeat:
I belong to Don Pedro.
DON PEDRO
"Go on. Take your bath. We'll break words later," I told her, voice low, controlled.
She hesitated, eyes still rimmed with fear, but turned and disappeared into the bathroom.
The door shut.
Almost immediately, my phone rang.
My lieutenant.
Only bad news came at this hour.
"There's a rat," he said without preamble. "Inside your crew."
My blood turned to fire.
Betrayal.
Not a word — a sentence.
A disease that needed to be cut out before it spread.
I didn't wait. I was out the room in a heartbeat.
The prison cell stank of piss, rust, and death.
He was there — one of my oldest soldiers. A man who'd once stood beside me in blood and war.
Now on his knees, face swollen, mouth leaking red.
"Why?" I snarled, rage crackling in my voice.
He didn't lift his head. He didn't beg for life.
"Kill me," he whispered. "Please, Don Pedro. End this."
I looked into his eyes — glassy, ashamed, hollow.
I felt nothing. Not grief. Not loss. Just cold, merciless fury.
"You earned your mercy," I said.
I drew my gun.
"Say hello to my father in hell."
One shot.
Loud. Clean.
Final.
He slumped to the floor like dead weight. No last words. No legacy.
I turned to the men behind me, stone-faced and silent.
"Find the other rat," I ordered.
They nodded once and vanished like ghosts.
But the rage — it didn't vanish. It dug deeper.
At the wine stall, I grabbed the nearest bottle and smashed it against the concrete wall.
Glass exploded, blood splattered from my knuckles.
Still, it wasn't enough.
The storm inside needed release.
I walked back into my room.
And there she was.
Standing by the wardrobe, wrapped in a thick white towel — soft, plush, useless.
It clung to her curves, doing nothing to shield her from me.
She didn't hear me enter. Her fingers fumbled through hangers, looking for a robe.
So innocent. So fucking soft.
I couldn't look at her without remembering how the traitor smiled at me before I pulled the trigger.
I couldn't breathe without feeling the betrayal festering in my lungs.
Lust and fury coiled together inside me. Tight. Hot. Dangerous.
And then I lost it.
I crossed the room like a beast untethered, grabbed her, and dragged her back.
She gasped.
The towel slipped.
Her eyes went wide. "Please....Don—"
But I wasn't listening. Not to words. Not to tears.
I shoved her onto the bed.
Tore her panties away.
Stripped myself bare.
And took.
Everything inside me — the rage, the guilt, the darkness, the fury, I poured it all into her body like poison.
She screamed. She cried. She begged.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
Not until I'd emptied every demon inside me into her flesh.
When I pulled back, she curled into herself, shaking, broken. Her sobs were silent now, the kind that lived under the skin.
Without a word, I walked out into the cold night, chest heaving.
What's happening to me? I wondered, hollow and lost.
I'm Don Pedro — ruthless. Untouchable.
De Luca lineage, the deadliest, scariest mafia lineage.
But something inside me was cracking.