They escorted me to my room like I was property—silent, cold, and under strict orders.
I wasn't sure when my legs stopped working or when my mind began to spiral, but I stumbled in like a ghost, the shock of today settling into my bones like winter frost.
My head was still trapped in that lounge, in the suffocating silence after the gunshot, the lifeless body slumped in his seat. Blood. Just blood.
The head maid stood waiting with five others. They approached wordlessly, helping me undress, wiping makeup from my face, preparing to change me into something more "fitting."
But I yearned for solitude.
"Please leave," I said, my voice as though I was pleading for a life other than this.
They obeyed instantly, shuffling out without question.
I didn't even look at the mirror. I couldn't.
I dragged myself into the shower, turning on the faucet until steaming water pelted my skin. It was too hot—almost scalding—but I didn't turn it down. I needed something, anything, to ground me.
The water coursed over me, but it couldn't rinse away the images burning behind my eyes—the pot bellied man's leering face and rough hands, Don Pedro's cold execution, the gunshot's thunder, the splatter blood, the screams, the eerie stillness that followed.
Hot tears spilled freely, joining the streams running down my face. I bit my bottom lip to hold back the sobs, but they came anyway.
I would give anything to be back in my mother's arms, just one more time... to hear her hum while brushing my hair, to feel her warmth.
But that world was gone.
And this one... was hell.
When I emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel, my skin still damp and tingling, I felt it.
Him.
The scent of cigar smoke filled the air—rich, and unmistakably his.
His shadow flickered against the dim light. My heart slammed against my chest.
Don Pedro.
I hadn't even heard the door open, but he was already there—seated in the corner like a phantom, legs crossed, face half-hidden in shadow.
My breath caught.
A part of me knew this was my fault.
I didn't listen to him, and I doubted I'd walk away without punishment.
But I refuse to carry the blame.
Because when has silk ever given consent?
He took a final drag of his cigar, then crushed it into the ashtray.
"Why did those men try to touch you?" His voice was low, hoarse… dangerous.
I wanted to be brave. I wanted to meet his stare and throw the words like daggers.
But all I managed was a shaky breath and a broken whisper.
"Because they're animals…"
He leaned forward.
"Because you disobeyed me."
His voice was quiet – too quiet; the kind that warned of a storm brewing behind his eyes.
I stiffened. "So it's my fault your friends tried to assault me?" I spat, voice trembling.
His jaw clenched, his stare unrelenting. "If you'd listened, it wouldn't have happened."
I took a hesitant step forward, wrapping my arms around myself like armor.
"They tried to do what you already did to me," I whispered, the words trembling on my lips.
My throat ached. "So maybe… birds of a feather really do flock together."
I wasn't trying to accuse him — not really. I just needed him to see how shattered I felt.
The room dropped into a suffocating silence.
Something shifted in his eyes–darkness, fury, maybe guilt.
But then he stood.
Deliberate. Powerful.
My feet refused to move as he approached. I thought he might do something, maybe even hit me.
But I didn't flinch.
I couldn't.
But then... a knock.
He paused.
Tension hung in the air.
"Do not leave this room," he said flatly, and then he vanished.
The moment he was gone, I bolted.
I dressed in a soft cotton singlet and sleep shorts, but no amount of comfort could ease the way the room pressed in around me.
I needed air. I needed distance.
Screw it.
I opened the door, slipping silently down the marble hallway. The mansion was a fortress, eerily quiet but alive with shadows.
Every step felt like rebellion.
Then—voices. Whispers. Footsteps.
Panic surged. If he found me...
My eyes darted around. The nearest door was marked with a golden plaque:
"MASTER'S PRIVATE ROOM – DO NOT ENTER."
My heart thundered.
I hesitated.
The footsteps grew louder.
Shit.
Without thinking, I slipped inside, shutting the door just as the sound neared.
It was pitch black.
I pressed my back to the wall, holding my breath.
Then my shoulder brushed what felt like a sensor. A click. A soft mechanical hum.
The lights flickered on.
And then,
Air left my lungs–
No, it was ripped out.
My heart froze, stalling mid-beat at the sight before me.
The room wasn't just private, it was a sanctum.
Walls lined with dark velvet. Chains. Collars. Handcuffs. Whips of every size and material. A four-poster bed took center stage, draped in black silk and heavy rope. Mirrors adorned the ceiling and one side of the wall. A glass cabinet gleamed with sex toys, restraints, and polished leather accessories. The air smelled of leather, lust, and power.
And then—I saw her.
A girl.
Maybe a bit older than me.
Kneeling in silence. Dressed in a tight black playsuit, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, eyes downcast. Hands resting on her thighs. Unmoving.
Tears welled in my eyes as I searched for something—anything that could hold the weight of what I'd seen.
"Are... are you okay?" I managed to ask, voice barely a whisper, my throat tight.
She remained silent, didn't even take a glimpse at me.
And then the temperature in the room dropped.
He was behind me.
Don Pedro.
He stepped into the light like a god of sin, shirt sheer and unbuttoned, his chest sculpted, glistening slightly.
His ripped leather pants hung low on his hips, undone just enough to tease.
In his hand, a belt. Thick. Black. The silver buckle glinted like a threat.
The kneeling girl spoke first. "Master, I submit to your desires," she said without looking up, her voice dripping with practiced seduction.
It felt like a dream. Or a nightmare.
Something unreal–something no good girl should ever stumble upon.
But Don Pedro's eyes weren't on her.
They were locked on me.
He moved forward, slow and calculated.
"What part of 'do not leave your room' do you not understand?"
I stared at him, stunned, breath ragged.
I had a thousand things to say, but they caught in my throat like thorns.
I needed a moment, or more to process.
Finally, I managed:
"Who... are you?"
His gaze burned through me, his energy coiling tighter with each heartbeat.
His expression turned even more intense, his eyes glinting in the dim red light.
"I'm the deadliest, richest, and most ruthless mafia lord you'll ever come across."
I could see the darkness.
I could feel it.
I could feel everything.
A shiver ran down my spine.
His belt tapped against his thigh once… twice.
For a split second, I saw it. Not the monster. Not the king. Just a man—watching me with something terrifying in his eyes. Regret.
He blinked once. The moment was gone.
Then: "Leave." He commanded.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
But more than anything, I wanted to understand why the monster just looked at me like that.
And why part of me wanted to stay.