Sold To The Mafia Lord ( Mafia obsession)

The rain had already soaked through Emilia's thin sweater by the time the black car stopped in front of the massive iron gates. She was shivering, more from fear than cold, but she didn't speak. She didn't dare.

"Out," the man in the passenger seat barked.

Emilia obeyed. Her shoes sank into the gravel driveway. She heard the door slam shut behind her, and the engine roared to life before the car disappeared back down the road, leaving her behind.

The gates opened slowly, creaking like something out of a horror film. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep her trembling hidden as two guards approached, dressed in black and armed.

"You're the girl?" one of them asked, looking her up and down with a frown. "He really paid for this?"

Emilia said nothing.

The guard snorted. "Follow me."

She was led through the front door of a mansion too grand to be real. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and silence so thick it echoed. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere. Her stepfather had signed the papers that morning. A contract-her life in exchange for wiping clean the blood debt he owed. She hadn't seen Lucien Moretti yet, the man who now owned her. Only heard his name whispered in fear on the streets. The Ice King. The Mafia Lord. The man who killed with a smile.

He didn't want her as a wife. Or a lover. He wanted to own her. A maid. A servant. A breathing reminder of her stepfather's shame.

The guard opened a door and gestured. "Wait here. Don't move."

Emilia stepped into a dark room lit only by the fire in the corner. She heard the door close behind her.

Then silence.

Her heart pounded so loudly it filled her ears.

She waited.

One minute. Two. Maybe five.

Then she felt it. A presence.

She turned slowly-and there he was.

Lucien Moretti stood near the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, dressed in a dark suit that clung to his tall, broad frame. His face was all sharp edges and cold beauty. He looked carved from stone. Eyes like ice. Lips that didn't know how to smile.

He didn't speak. He just stared.

So did she. Until his voice sliced through the silence.

"You're smaller than I expected."

Emilia flinched.

Lucien took a slow sip of his drink, then set it down. He walked toward her, each step calculated, calm, lethal. She backed up instinctively.

"I don't like noise. I don't like disobedience. And I especially don't like liars," he said, stopping just inches from her.

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

Her voice was so soft it was barely a whisper.

He tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes shimmered with fear.

"And I don't touch what's broken."

Then he let go, turning away without another word. Emilia stood frozen, heart hammering against her ribs, lungs struggling to take in air.

Lucien picked up his drink again, his voice flat. "Your room is down the hall. Rosa will show you. You start at five a.m. sharp. Don't be late."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

But he was already walking away, the firelight catching the silver glint of the ring on his finger.

That night, Emilia curled up on the edge of a giant bed in a room too luxurious for someone like her. She didn't cry. She'd done enough of that in the car.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling and wondered what she had just been sold into. And why the man who owned her had looked at her like she was already shattered.