Spoil Me, My Mafia Lord

Isabelle felt as though all the blood in her body had turned to ice. Her hands trembled uncontrollably at her sides while her eyes slowly shifted toward Sebastian, hoping with every shattered piece of her heart that she had misunderstood what she had just heard. Yet the cold indifference on his face told her there was no misunderstanding at all. The man standing beside her was indeed Sebastian, her boyfriend of six years, the man she had loved with complete devotion, the man she had planned to marry, and he was discussing her future as if she were a commodity placed on display for bidding.

A violent sting rose behind her eyes, but Isabelle bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing herself not to cry in front of him. Rage, humiliation, and disbelief burned inside her chest until it became difficult to breathe. For six years she had believed every sacrifice he made for her was born out of love. She had believed his concern whenever she struggled financially, his willingness to support her studies, and the endless promises of a stable future together were proof that she had found a man worth trusting. Now every memory was turning poisonous in her mind, each act of kindness transforming into evidence that she had merely been a long-term investment.

"The client will be here soon," Sebastian said in a tone so casual that Isabelle's stomach lurched. There was even a trace of smug satisfaction in his eyes, as though he had accomplished something worth celebrating. "They will like you, and they should. I spent too much money building you into something valuable. It is only right that I get every cent back."

His words struck her harder than any slap. Isabelle looked at him, searching desperately for some flicker of remorse, some sign that the man she loved was still buried somewhere inside him, but there was nothing. Sebastian looked at her the same way merchants looked at luxury merchandise behind a glass display. In that instant, Isabelle understood with horrifying clarity that his love had never been real. She had not been his partner, nor his future wife. She had been a product he patiently polished until the day he could sell her at the highest price.

She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her skin, grounding herself against the dizziness threatening to consume her. Crying for him would be pointless. Begging him would be humiliating. Sebastian was no longer the gentle man she once knew, if that man had ever existed at all. He was a monster who had worn affection like a mask.

Around them, the ballroom glittered with unbearable beauty. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, scattering golden reflections over the polished marble floors. Elegant guests laughed with glasses of champagne in hand while expensive perfume mixed with the rich scent of liquor. The music was loud enough to drown any hidden screams. To the outside world, it was a glamorous elite gathering, but to Isabelle it felt like she had been thrown into a den of predators dressed in designer suits.

Her breath caught when three men approached Sebastian. They were all broad and intimidating, each one dressed in black tuxedos that failed to soften the violence radiating from them. Their eyes landed on Isabelle immediately, and the way they looked at her made her skin crawl. There was no courtesy, no restraint, only the shameless examination of men assessing whether an item was worth its price.

"Is this the woman?" one of them asked.

Sebastian nodded with pride that made Isabelle want to retch. "Yes. Beautiful enough to make any man obsessed."

One of the men stepped closer, his gaze sliding from Isabelle's face to the curve of her waist. "The boss has been waiting ever since he saw the photos."

A wave of nausea twisted Isabelle's insides. Photos. The word alone made her feel violated in ways she had never imagined. She remembered countless moments when Sebastian had taken pictures of her, claiming he wanted to keep memories of the woman he loved. She had smiled for him, laughed for him, trusted him completely, never realizing those same photographs had been sent to strangers as samples for purchase.

"All the women you sold were good," another man commented with a low chuckle, "but this one looks expensive."

Sebastian reached out and gripped Isabelle's chin, lifting her face for them to inspect. "She is more than expensive," he said with disturbing pride. "Look at her body, her skin, her face. Men at the top will fight over her. And the best part is, she is still untouched. I never laid a finger on her."

The room around Isabelle spun. Every word that left Sebastian's mouth felt like acid being poured over her dignity. She yanked her face away, but the men only laughed, amused by her disgust and terror. At that moment, whatever remnants of love she still held for Sebastian were extinguished completely. There was nothing left except hatred so sharp it made her chest ache.

Without warning, the men grabbed her by both arms. Isabelle struggled immediately, twisting and trying to pull free, but their grips were merciless. She was dragged away from the dazzling ballroom toward a dark hallway where the music slowly faded behind her. The further they walked, the colder the air became. The luxurious sounds of celebration were replaced by the echo of hurried footsteps and Isabelle's uneven breathing.

At the end of the hallway stood a massive steel door. Isabelle's pulse pounded against her ribs so hard it hurt. Every instinct screamed at her that whatever waited behind that door would mark the beginning of the worst nightmare of her life.

The men pushed it open and hauled her inside.

The room that greeted her was both lavish and grotesque. A magnificent chandelier hung above, illuminating velvet furniture, gold-trimmed walls, and polished glass tables. Yet beneath all that luxury was a scene so vile Isabelle nearly collapsed. Half-naked men lounged carelessly around the room, some drunk, some laughing, others inhaling white powder from the tables. Several women were sprawled unconscious on the floor while a few sat in dazed silence, too numb to react to anything around them.

The entire place looked like a palace built for depravity.

Then Isabelle noticed him.

At the center of the room, elevated on a grand chair that resembled a throne, sat one man who looked entirely detached from the chaos around him. Unlike everyone else, he was fully clothed in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo. One hand rested lazily on the arm of the chair while the other held a cigarette between long fingers. Smoke curled around his face, giving him an almost unreal aura.

He did not need to move to command attention. His presence alone was enough to silence the room inside Isabelle's mind.

When his eyes settled on her, Isabelle felt a strange jolt run through her body. Those eyes were dark and unreadable, carrying a level of authority that made every other man in the room seem insignificant. She should have only felt fear, but for reasons she could not understand, there was also a disturbing flutter deep in her stomach.

A shirtless man approached her and roughly grabbed her cheek. "So this is Sebastian's prized merchandise," he sneered. "Beautiful enough to make any man lose control."

Before Isabelle could react, he shoved her to her knees. Pain shot through her legs as they hit the hard floor. Tears finally spilled down her cheeks as humiliation swallowed her whole.

"Do it," the man ordered.

His hand reached for her hair, but survival struck Isabelle with sudden force. She jerked away, scrambled to her feet, and ran toward the only man in the room who had not touched her.

She collapsed at his polished shoes, clutching his leg with trembling fingers as sobs tore out of her throat.

"Please," she begged brokenly. "Please help me. I will do anything. Just get me out of here."

For several agonizing seconds, the man did not respond.

Then Isabelle saw him rise.

He stood over her like a dark monument, broad-shouldered and composed, every movement carrying effortless control. He crouched and gripped her jaw, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his.

His face was devastatingly handsome, but there was nothing gentle about it.

"Then surrender your body," he said in a deep voice sharpened by a foreign accent. "Because your refusal means nothing here."

Isabelle stared at him through blurred vision. She knew this man was no savior, yet compared to the beasts behind her, he was the only wall standing between her and complete ruin.

Her body shook violently as she nodded.

"I will give you everything," she whispered with broken desperation. "My body, my soul, anything you want. Just save me from them."

The moment Isabelle heard her own desperate promise, she felt a wave of regret rise inside her chest, but the words had already been spoken, and there was no way to pull them back. She could only remain frozen where she knelt, her trembling fingers clutching the polished leather of the man's shoe while tears blurred her vision. As he stepped closer, Isabelle forced herself to lift her gaze, and for the first time she saw his face without the haze of panic clouding her mind.

He was undeniably foreign. The sharpness of his features, the pale coldness of his blue eyes, and the aristocratic severity etched into every line of his face made him stand out even among the dangerous men crowding the room. His beauty was striking enough to steal breath, yet there was nothing warm or reassuring about it. He looked like the kind of man whose hands were accustomed to power and blood in equal measure. Even the silence surrounding him felt heavier than the drunken laughter echoing in the chamber.

Recognition came to Isabelle like a slap.

Fynn Wunder.

His name was not unfamiliar to ears that had heard society's darker whispers. Behind expensive parties, hidden business deals, and conversations spoken only in hushed voices, Fynn Wunder existed like a phantom ruler of the underworld. He was known as a man whose wealth could buy nations, whose influence could erase people without consequence, and whose enemies seldom survived long enough to seek justice. Isabelle had never imagined she would stand this close to someone whose reputation was built on fear.

A tremor passed through her body as she realized that in trying to escape one nightmare, she might have thrown herself into the hands of something far more dangerous.

Fynn looked at her with unreadable calm, as if he were studying a rare object placed unexpectedly in front of him. Isabelle expected lust from his eyes because every other man in the room had looked at her with naked hunger, but his gaze was disturbingly composed. It traveled over her tear-stained face, lingered briefly on the trembling of her lips, and then, to Isabelle's surprise, his thumb rose to wipe away the moisture clinging to her cheek. The touch was careful, almost restrained, and that quiet gentleness made Isabelle's fear deepen rather than soften. Before she could process his intention, he slipped his hand beneath her arm and lifted her to her feet, moving her behind him as though she were now under his protection or perhaps under his possession.

Maximo's outraged voice shattered the stillness. "What exactly do you think you are doing, Wunder? That woman is mine tonight."

Fynn did not answer at once. He merely straightened the sleeve of his tuxedo and tilted his head slightly, giving the impression that Maximo's fury was beneath his concern. When he finally spoke, his tone was smooth and low, but every syllable carried the chill of command.

"I have decided to take her."

Maximo let out a disbelieving laugh, though anger was already rising in his expression. "Take her? I paid eight million dollars for that girl."

Fynn slowly turned until his blue eyes settled on Maximo with the same detached calm one might use when discussing the weather.

"Then consider your payment wasted."

The room fell silent.

Even Isabelle could feel the shift in the atmosphere, as though everyone present instinctively understood that the line between business and blood had just been crossed. Fynn reached back, found Isabelle's trembling hand without looking, and enclosed it firmly in his own. His fingers were warm and unyielding, swallowing hers completely as he began to lead her toward the door.

For a brief second Isabelle allowed herself to believe they might actually leave.

But Maximo stormed forward and seized her wrist with brutal force, yanking her back so suddenly that she cried out. "You arrogant bastard," he snarled. "Do you think I will simply watch you walk away with what I bought?"

Fynn stopped moving.

Isabelle turned her head toward him and felt her heartbeat stumble. There was no visible anger on his face, no tightening of the jaw, no flare of temper. His expression remained frighteningly blank, and somehow that made him seem even more terrifying.

He pulled Isabelle behind him with one swift motion, placing his body between her and Maximo. Then his hand disappeared beneath his jacket.

The gunshot came before Isabelle could inhale.

The deafening crack ricocheted against the walls, tearing a scream from her throat. Maximo's eyes widened in stunned disbelief before his body dropped heavily to the marble floor. Blood spread beneath his head in a dark pool that gleamed under the chandelier's golden light.

Chaos erupted at once. Men cursed, chairs scraped violently, and several of them reached for weapons, but before anyone could react, the steel door burst open. Armed men dressed in black flooded into the chamber with practiced precision, their guns raised and their expressions emotionless. They moved like a machine built solely to obey one command.

One of them stepped forward and lowered his head respectfully. "Boss, the vehicle is prepared. We have secured the route."

Fynn slipped the gun back under his jacket as though he had done nothing extraordinary. "Dispose of the body," he said coldly. "Release every woman here. Kill the remaining filth and make it appear to be an overdose."

"Yes, Boss."

Isabelle stared at him, horrified by the ease with which he commanded death. Maximo had been alive only seconds ago, screaming in fury, and now he was a corpse cooling on polished marble while Fynn's tone remained unchanged.

Without another word, Fynn guided Isabelle out of the chamber.

The corridor beyond felt dim and suffocating, and Isabelle struggled to steady her breathing as her heels clicked unevenly against the floor. Her mind was still trapped in the image of blood splattering beneath the chandelier, and with each step she became more aware that the hand holding hers belonged to a man capable of ending lives without hesitation.

Halfway down the hall, panic returned to her in a fresh violent wave, and she stopped so abruptly that Fynn turned.

"I cannot let Sebastian see me with you," Isabelle said, her words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "If he realizes I escaped or knows I left with someone powerful, he will not come after me first. He will go after my parents."

Fynn looked at her silently. His eyes drifted over the fragile state she was in, from her tear-streaked face to the thin silk dress molded to her shaking body, and Isabelle suddenly felt far too exposed beneath that assessing gaze.

Without speaking, Fynn pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.

The answer came instantly. "Yes, sir?"

"Find Sebastian," Fynn said in a tone so calm it chilled Isabelle's bones. "Kill him before sunrise."

"No." Isabelle grabbed his arm with both hands, her fingers tightening desperately around him. "Please don't."

Fynn lowered his eyes to her face. "After what he did to you, you still ask me to spare him?"

Isabelle swallowed hard, struggling to sort through the chaos inside her. "I do not forgive him," she whispered, tears gathering again. "I hate what he did, but I cannot carry his death on my conscience. I just want him gone. I want him far away from my family."

For several moments Fynn simply watched her. There was a softness in her plea that did not belong in a place stained by so much cruelty, and something in him shifted in response to it.

He returned the phone to his ear. "Change the order. Transfer seventeen million dollars to his account and make sure he disappears. If he ever searches for her again, then kill him."

The call ended.

Relief weakened Isabelle's knees, but it did not erase the unease tightening around her heart. She was standing before a man who could decide life and death with a few spoken words. Gratitude toward him felt dangerous.

"Are you afraid of me?" Fynn asked.

His voice was low, almost conversational, yet Isabelle felt the question sink straight into her chest.

"Yes," she admitted honestly.

A faint shadow of amusement crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "You should be."

A shiver moved through Isabelle, though she still did not release his arm. Fear was there, thick and undeniable, yet mixed with it was the terrible realization that he was now the only barrier between her loved ones and Sebastian's wrath.

She gathered what little courage remained inside her and slowly slid her hand down until it covered his. "I know I have no right to ask for more," she said, looking up at him with pleading eyes, "but please protect my parents. I will repay you somehow. I will do whatever you ask."

Fynn stared at her hand resting on his and then at the desperate sincerity in her face. He had intended to remain composed, to treat her as a temporary responsibility rescued from Maximo's den, but the warmth of her touch and the trembling innocence in her voice broke through the restraint he had been forcing upon himself.

Without warning, he pulled her into him.

Isabelle gasped softly, both palms pressing against the hard plane of his chest as she looked up in alarm.\

Fynn lowered his face until only a breath separated their lips. His blue eyes held hers captive, darkened now by something far less controlled.

"You already promised me your body," he murmured, his voice dipping into a dangerous softness. "Did you truly believe I would let that promise fade?"

Before Isabelle could answer, his mouth claimed hers.

The kiss was deep, commanding, and unapologetically possessive, carrying none of the tenderness of rescue and all of the certainty of ownership.

Fynn ended the call with quiet finality, lowering the phone as the order settled into motion beyond his immediate sight. Isabelle's parents would be moved before sunrise, placed somewhere secure and far removed from the reach of men like Sebastian, and guarded with a level of vigilance reserved only for those deemed untouchable. It was a simple command, yet one that would reshape the lives of people who had no idea how close danger had already come to them.

The silence inside the car gradually deepened, and only then did Fynn allow his attention to return to the woman beside him.

Isabelle had fallen asleep without resistance, her body yielding to exhaustion as though it had been carrying far more weight than it could endure. Her head rested against his thigh, her breathing soft and uneven, and the faint traces of dried tears clung to her lashes like remnants of a storm that had only just passed. The tension that once defined her had faded, leaving behind a fragile stillness that made her seem almost defenseless.

Fynn observed her without interruption, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.

He had known many women, had kissed them without hesitation or consequence, yet none had lingered in his thoughts the way Isabelle already had. There had been something in that single moment between them that refused to be dismissed, something that did not align with familiarity or routine. It unsettled him in a way he had not expected, not because it was unfamiliar, but because it felt far too immediate.

His eyes moved over her features slowly, taking in the delicate curve of her face, the softness that remained even after everything she had endured, and the quiet vulnerability she revealed only in sleep. He recalled the way she had collapsed after their kiss, the sudden shift from resistance to stillness, and for a brief moment, a question surfaced within him that he did not immediately dismiss.

He wondered whether he had pushed too far.

The thought did not linger long, yet it left behind something more difficult to ignore, a sense of responsibility that did not belong to a man like him but had nonetheless begun to take shape in ways he could not entirely control.

***

Across the city, Sebastian sat alone, his attention fixed on the glowing screen of his phone as the numbers displayed before him refused to change. The balance remained steady, impossibly large, and for several moments he simply stared at it, as though expecting it to disappear the moment he blinked.

Seventeen million dollars.

The amount was enough to silence doubt, enough to justify choices that would otherwise have been difficult to accept. It eclipsed the payment he had received the night before, transforming what had already been a profitable decision into something far more significant. Slowly, satisfaction replaced the disbelief that had initially taken hold of him, and a faint smile curved along his lips.

"It seems you made quite an impression," he murmured quietly, leaning back as he allowed the thought to settle.

Yet even as he spoke, Isabelle's face surfaced in his mind with an unwelcome clarity. He remembered the way she used to look at him, the quiet trust in her eyes, the certainty that he was someone she could rely on. That memory pressed against him in a way that felt uncomfortably close to regret, though he made no effort to fully acknowledge it.

There had been a moment, brief and easily dismissed, when he had considered walking away from the arrangement. He had thought about choosing her instead, about holding on to the illusion of something stable and uncomplicated, but that hesitation had not lasted. The life he had built, the choices he had already made, and the ambition that drove him forward had left no room for second thoughts.

"You should not have looked where you were not meant to," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. "Things would have been easier that way."

The words carried no real conviction, and he knew it.

Even without her discovery, the truth would have surfaced eventually, and when it did, the outcome would not have been any different. Isabelle had never truly belonged in his world, and he had ensured she never would again.

Still, as he looked at the wealth now secured in his account, he chose not to dwell on what had been lost.

For him, it was already over.

***

When the car reached the estate, Isabelle remained asleep, undisturbed by the transition.

Fynn stepped out first before turning back toward her, lifting her into his arms with practiced ease. Her body shifted instinctively against him, her hand curling faintly against his chest as though seeking balance even in unconsciousness. The contact was subtle, almost insignificant, yet it did not go unnoticed.

The grand doors opened before he reached them, revealing the interior of a residence defined not only by wealth but by control. Warm light spread across polished marble floors, reflecting against high ceilings adorned with intricate detail, while a line of servants stood waiting, their posture composed, their attention fixed on his arrival. Each of them bowed as he passed, acknowledging his presence without a single word spoken.

Fynn moved through the space without hesitation, carrying Isabelle as though the surroundings held no importance. The estate extended in every direction, its design deliberate and precise, every element placed to reinforce authority and distance. It was a place where nothing existed without purpose, and nothing was left unguarded.

He ascended the staircase, entered the private elevator, and allowed the doors to close behind him. As the lift rose, the glass walls revealed the vast grounds beyond, stretching outward into carefully maintained landscapes illuminated by soft, calculated lighting. The view resembled something removed from reality, a space untouched by the chaos that existed outside its borders.

When the doors opened, he stepped directly into the master suite.

The room reflected the same quiet dominance as the rest of the estate, its size and design emphasizing control rather than comfort. The bed stood at its center, framed by carved wood and layered in fine fabric, while surrounding displays held rare objects collected not for display alone, but as markers of influence and reach.

Fynn approached the bed and lowered Isabelle onto it with measured care.

She shifted slightly but did not wake.

For a moment, he remained where he stood, his gaze lingering on her as though confirming that she was indeed there, placed within a space no one entered without permission. Only after that brief pause did he speak.

"Prepare something comfortable for her and ensure she remains undisturbed," he instructed, his voice calm but firm. "She is not to be approached without my approval, and I want her condition monitored at all times."

The servant nearby inclined their head immediately. "It will be handled exactly as you wish, sir."

Fynn gave a slight nod before turning away.

The meeting room fell silent the moment he entered.

Every man present straightened, their attention drawn toward him with instinctive discipline. There was no need to call for order. His presence alone was enough to command it.

Fynn took his place at the head of the table, his expression composed, his posture steady as he looked across the room. The faint stain of blood on his clothing remained visible, though no one dared acknowledge it.

"What happened tonight is not an isolated matter," he began, his tone even, yet carrying unmistakable authority. "Maximo was not acting alone and removing him changes very little unless we identify who stands above him."

Caine stepped forward slightly, his voice steady. "We will begin tracing every connection he had."

"You will do more than trace them," Fynn replied, his gaze sharpening. "You will verify each one and eliminate anything that presents a threat before it develops further."

Caine nodded without hesitation.

Fynn shifted his attention to him fully. "You will also oversee the security of Isabelle's parents. They are to remain untouched, unobserved, and completely protected. If there is any indication of interference, you will act immediately."

"It will be handled," Caine responded.

Fynn then turned to Lance, his expression unchanged. "Internal operations will remain under your control. I want absolute order, and I do not want a repeat of tonight's oversight. Every detail must be accounted for, and every movement must be intentional."

Lance inclined his head. "Understood. We will ensure there are no further complications."

The instructions continued briefly, precise and deliberate, until there was nothing left to clarify. One by one, the men acknowledged their roles before leaving the room, the weight of responsibility settling into place as they dispersed.

When the door closed and silence returned, Fynn remained where he was.

He removed his jacket slowly, setting it aside before glancing down at the faint traces of blood that marked the fabric. The sight did not disturb him. It never had. Violence was a constant in his world, one that required neither reflection nor justification.

Yet his thoughts did not remain there.

Instead, they returned to Isabelle.

He reached for a cigarette, lighting it with practiced ease as the faint glow illuminated his expression. The smoke rose gradually, filling the still air as he leaned back slightly, allowing himself a rare moment of pause.

Her image came to him with unexpected clarity.

The way she had looked at him, torn between fear and desperation, the way she had reached for him despite everything she had just endured, and the way her voice had softened when she spoke of her parents. None of it aligned with the world he operated in, yet none of it could be dismissed.

Fynn exhaled slowly, his gaze lowering.

He had entered that place with a clear objective, one that involved dismantling a network and removing those who stood in his way. Isabelle had not been part of that plan.

And yet she had become the only thing he could not ignore.

The realization settled into him without resistance, quiet but undeniable.

He wanted her.

Not as a fleeting distraction or a passing indulgence, but with a certainty that suggested something far more dangerous had already begun to take root.