SINNER'S SLAVE

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🖤 SINNER'S SLAVE

{Obey, Suffer, Survive}

Author's POV

They brought her in barefoot, blood drying on her knees, wrists bound in silk that mocked her suffering.

She didn't cry. Not anymore. That part of her had died hours ago, right there on the marble floors of her family's estate-between her father's last breath and the echo of her mother's scream.

Now, silence wrapped around her like armor.

A silence Damien Romano would take as a challenge.

She was the last daughter of a man who dared betray the Romano Mafia.

And Damien? He was the man who punished betrayal so thoroughly, generations felt it.

The room was full-his most trusted men watching, waiting, feeding on the tension that clung to the air like smoke. She didn't look at any of them. Just stared ahead, eyes glassy but unbroken, until someone shoved her forward.

She stumbled.

But she didn't fall.

That was the last piece of control she had, and she clung to it like her life depended on it. Maybe it did.

She was forced onto her knees before the throne-a monstrous, high-backed chair of black leather and gold. Damien sat there like the devil himself. Calm. Collected. Bored.

Like he hadn't painted her home with her family's blood.

His suit was dark, his tie undone. A silver ring gleamed on his finger as he drummed it lazily against the armrest. His stare was impossible to meet for long-cold, calculating, and somehow far too still.

She didn't speak.

But then, neither did he.

Until-

"Look at me."

The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They sliced through the tension like a blade, and the room fell even quieter.

She didn't move.

The silence stretched.

A man to Damien's left shifted, as if ready to hit her for her defiance-but Damien raised one hand, stopping him. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I said-" His voice dropped an octave, smooth as silk but sharp enough to bleed. "-look. At. Me."

She did.

And instantly regretted it.

His eyes were obsidian. Empty, except for one thing: hunger.

Not the kind you feed. The kind you suffer for.

"I was going to kill you," he said, almost conversationally. "But then I thought... what's the point of erasing a name, when I can turn it into a warning?"

He stood slowly, every movement calculated. Controlled. Predatory.

"I want the world to see you," he murmured, circling her. "To know who you are. To know what happens when your bloodline dares to defy me."

He stopped behind her. She could feel his presence-too close, too quiet.

"You're not a prisoner," he whispered near her ear. "You're a message."

She flinched.

Then, without warning, he stepped in front of her again and crouched. His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her to look up into his face.

"I don't kill what I own," he said simply. "And make no mistake, piccola, I own you."

The room remained silent. Frozen.

But in her chest, something screamed.

Rage? Despair? The last flicker of a soul no one cared about?

He released her chin like she was nothing. Like she didn't matter.

And to him-maybe she didn't.

He turned away, walking back to his throne.

"Take her to the estate," he ordered, not sparing her another glance. "Make sure she remembers who she belongs to. No food. No bed. Not until she begs."

A few men chuckled again.

She didn't react. Not even as two guards grabbed her arms and dragged her from the room like discarded trash.

But inside?

Something lit on fire.

She wasn't sure if it was survival. Or hate.

But either way...

She wasn't done yet.