Taken by the Mafia King

Sera

Jim Harrison. Tall, blond hair, big baby blue eyes. And dimples that showed off every time he flashed his dashing white smile. Everything about him screamed American Dream-broad shoulders and a finely defined jaw, well-fitting Levi jeans, and the kind of face that made me envision a life where we got married, bought a condo in Jersey, and adopted a Golden Retriever named Buddy. Jim would train him to heel, sit, and stay. I'd let him sleep at the foot of the bed. We'd argue about it, but Jim would eventually forfeit and lose a quarter of his half of the bed. Buddy deserved the best.

I'd been crushing on Jim on and off for the better part of a year, but so had every single other teacher in the Ardmore, Pennsylvania district. Yet, somehow, on a sunny Thursday afternoon in October, Jim walked me out to my car after our students left for the day and started flirting with me. Reality turned to sand, running between my fingers.

Finally.

"Sera?" He laughed, waving a hand in front of my face. I snapped back to the real world in an instant, totally aware of the way my cheeks burned.

"Long day," I mumbled, flashing him a warm smile as I adjusted the heavy weight in my arms. "Did you say something?"

"I was just asking what you have planned this weekend." He gave me another smile that showed off the extensive and expensive dental work he'd had done as a teenager. He had a million-dollar smile most actors would envy.

"Grading," I replied, shrugging as I adjusted the numerous folders I was carrying in my arms. "I've been at it all week. Midterms, you know."

Jim smiled again, that dimple making my knees go a little weak as his eyes met mine. Of course, he wouldn't be able to empathize with the hell that was middle-school midterms. He was the beloved gym teacher, after all. While all of the teachers at Jefferson Middle School slaved away for a week straight, our fingertips stained with red ink and our eyes rimmed with dark circles, Jim threw dodgeballs at unsuspecting thirteen-year-olds and drank coffee in the teachers' lounge.

"What about the dance?" he asked, leaning on his shiny blue Subaru.

"What dance? Oh, God. The Fall Formal?" I set my papers on the hood of my beat-up Volvo station wagon and sighed heavily, running my hand over my face. "Is that this weekend?"

"Didn't some of your classes do the posters for the dance?"

"We might have done some editing." I massaged the crinkles between my eyebrows. The days had been blending into the weeks lately. How it was already October, I had no idea. I'd just been getting my footing at Jefferson as the eighth grade reading teacher. There were protocols and structures my education hadn't set me up for, not to mention temperaments and behaviors of students. The last six weeks had been dedicated to trying to bond with said students. It had been a tricky task, but I finally felt like I was finding my footing. Perhaps I'd gotten a little too cocky. After all, I was supposed to chaperone the dance.

There go my weekend plans.

"Well, I'm going," he mused, and something in his eyes gave me pause. "Maybe we could-I don't know-Grab a drink afterward?"

My heart started to race. "Like, all of us chaperones?"

"I was thinking just me and you, if you're cool with that.

I felt pretty smug all of a sudden as I causally leaned on my car, stealing a glance at my reflection in the frosty windshield. My thick, gently curling dark brown hair had fallen loose from the claw-clip I was in the habit of wearing, dark tendrils falling over my shoulders. I met his gaze again, noticing the way his eyes dipped to follow a single curl that rested above the swell of my breasts and curved over my tight sweater.

"Sure." I grinned. The crush I'd been harboring for him rushed to the forefront of my mind. Jim was a good guy. The kind of guy who took you to get ice cream and who you'd want to bring home to meet not only your family, but your Nonna. Well, maybe not my family, including my Nonna, but still.

"Cool, it's a-it's a date," he stammered a bit, cheeks shimmering a pale rose as he winked at me and climbed into his car.

"See you tomorrow," I said with a short wave as he pulled out of his parking spot. I sighed as I turned back to my car and fished for my keys, grumbling under my breath as the cold started to bite my skin.

I'd just put my key into the driver's side door when I heard a vehicle peeling into the parking lot. I looked up, alarmed, and spotted a white van with heavily tinted windows barreling over potholes in its haste to drive right at me.

Shock clouded my senses as I yanked on my door, but it was too late. The van hadn't even come to a complete stop before two men hopped out and rushed at me, their faces hidden by black masks. I yanked on the door again, prying it open, but one of the men grabbed me by my hair and pulled me backward so hard I lost my footing completely as I was dragged over the gravelly parking space between me and the van. I tried to get traction with my heels, digging them into the ground, but the searing pain in my scalp was distracting, and I grabbed at gloved fingers wrapped around my hair.

A hand pressed against my mouth before I could scream, and before I had time to register what was even happening, a bag came down over my head and a rope was tied around my neck. The gloved hands yanked the rope tight, securing the bag around my neck. I choked on a yelp as I was thrown into the van, my head cracking against something hard, cold, and metal.

"Wait," I pleaded, the word tasting of acid and coming out in a hoarse, desperate cry.

You have the wrong girl!

"You sure she's the one?" came a male voice somewhere nearby.

"Yeah, that's a Bianchi, alright. I could spot one from a mile away."

My blood ran cold. Maybe they didn't have the wrong girl. Maybe they had exactly who they were after. But why now? After all this time...

Sera

Breathe Sera.

Fingers fisted my hair and pulled upward, forcing me to look up at the man who'd just pulled a bag from over my head. He wore a suit and mask, both so black in color they seemed to suck the light right out of the room. There were no designs on the full-faced mask. It was just a void, a black hole, a vacant space where his face should have been. His hands were bare, and in the light of a huge crystal chandelier above our heads I caught the glint of the gold ring he wore on his right ring finger.

I sucked in my breath as my focus locked on the ring and the insignia woven across the golden band.

Il mio sangue scorre per la famiglia.

My blood runs for the family.

The Marino family motto.

Hot, uncontrollable tears blurred my vision as my body trembled with terror. I stole a glance around the room, seeing nothing but gold trim and gilded wallpaper that brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. I knew where I was. I knew this place. Worst of all, I knew what was rumored to happen here once or twice a year.

"Please," I choked, turning pleading eyes toward the masked man towering above me. He rifled through a black duffle bag and tossed a handful of things on the floor where I knelt. Handcuffs caught the light of the impossibly expensive crystal chandelier above our heads as he tossed them on the floor, followed by a black strip of fabric that shimmered like fine silk, and a bundle of zip ties.

"Shut up," he growled, his voice distorted by the mask hiding his face.

"My dad-"

"I don't give a fuck who your daddy is." His hand clamped around my neck so fast I didn't have time to react. He lifted me off the floor and pressed me against the wall. "You're as good as cattle now."

I clawed his hands with my fingernails until he released me, and I crumpled to the floor, the zip ties binding my wrists and ankles together biting into my skin.

"Hey, dickhead, you're not supposed to rough up the girls!" a male voice shouted from across the room.

"She's asking for it. Mouthy, this one," he retorted, and I could practically see the shit-eating smirk that followed his words. In reality, I hadn't said a thing to this man other than please and why.

"Bet she can do an awful lot with that mouth," a third male voice purred as the light in the room became suddenly shadowed by his figure, his face hidden by another black, faceless mask. He reached down and pinched my lower lip between his fingers and pulled. "Stick your tongue out for me, baby. I want to see what we're working with."

I choked on another sob, trying to pull away from him. His hand met my cheek, and fire erupted over my skin as his slap echoed around the room.

"What the fuck did I just say?" The second man walked into view. Unlike his two companions, he wasn't wearing a mask. My blood ran cold as I met his dark brown eyes, taking in that familiar face and black hair. Niccolò Marino looked down at me without an ounce of sympathy in his eyes. He reached out, shoving the two masked men out of the way and gathered up the handcuffs and black silk before grabbing my wrists and pulling me upright.

"Where am I?" I asked stupidly, already knowing the answer but needing confirmation to ensure I wasn't having a nightmare and this was, in fact, reality.

"I think you know," he said in a low growl, shoving me forward through a doorway and into a large walk-in closet the same size as my shabby apartment in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I tripped over my own feet as I locked eyes with an elderly maid. Her uniform smelled sharply of cigarette smoke. She clucked her tongue, frowning at me as she looked me up and down and then up at Niccolò for direction. "Clean her up. Make her look pretty."

I yelped in surprise as he shoved me forward. I couldn't catch myself with my wrists and ankles bound, so I just laid on my side and pulled my knees into my belly.

Niccolò cut the zip ties and kicked me in the back. "Get up, Seraphina."

"Why am I here?"

But I was answered by the door clicking shut and the callused hands of the elderly maid closing around my shoulders. She roughly pulled my sweater off and unclasped my bra. I shielded myself, shaking as she scolded me in Italian and pinched my arm so hard it brought tears to my eyes.

"Stand up," she ground out, and when I didn't move, she pinched my arm again, twisting harder this time. I shakily stood, tears streaming down my cheeks and along my jaw as she pulled my skirt down over my waist, then my tights, but had the decency to leave on the lacey blue thong I was wearing.

Shame rushed over my naked skin. I instinctively felt for the little golden rosary my mother had given me over a decade ago for my tenth birthday that I always wore around my neck, but it was gone. Pain cracked somewhere deep in my chest as I frantically felt for it, panic heightening to a whole new level. "My necklace?"

"Don't speak unless spoken to," the maid snapped, pulling a black chemise over my shoulders. I sucked in a ragged breath as she turned me around and started dabbing my face with heavy makeup.

"She's up, we need to go," Niccolò barked from just outside the door.

"She's done," the maid sneered. There was a moment where panic turned to desperation, and I nearly reached out and clasped the woman around the neck. It wouldn't take much to subdue her. She was even smaller than I was, barely five feet tall in my estimation.

But she wasn't the issue. The three men standing outside the door weren't even my biggest problem. It was the dozens of men from every prominent, powerful crime family on the eastern seaboard waiting in the Marino Mansion's stately ballroom that would be my demise.

"What's happening?" I croaked as Niccolò curled his fingers around my unbound wrist and pulled, leading me out of the room and into a dimly lit hallway.

"The auction. Why else did you think you were here?"

Killian

It'd been years since I last stepped foot in Sala delle Rose, the grotesquely enormous mansion situated on the Jersey coast. I avoided this place if I could help it. Grecian columns lined a long foyer as I walked toward the ballroom. Yes, a fucking ballroom. Riccardo Marino's grandfather had built this place back in the early nineteen thirties and had apparently thought of everything when it came to what his descendants might get up to when he was six feet under and nothing but a mural on the wall.

The Marinos were once the family-the ones calling the shots and ruling over practically the entire east coast. But Riccardo's rise to power some thirty years ago saw the end of their reign. Now, the man threw his fancy parties and sat on his throne, which was exactly that: a big golden chair with red velvet cushions that overlooked the entire ballroom.

I smirked as I entered and looked around.

"Your mask?"

I turned, looking Riccardo's son Niccolò in the eyes. His pupils widened before he gave me a quick up and down. Perhaps he was looking for a weapon. Perhaps he was confirming who he was looking at. Once confirmed, he took a step back.

"No," I said coldly, giving him a twitch of a smile. "Don't need it, do I?"

Every man in this room would know who I was even with a mask covering my face. There was no point in trying to shield my identity in a room full of enemies. Even on a night like this, where alliances were made between families who normally loathed each other, competed against each other, and solved their issues with death while others formed new grudges and made promises of revenge.

No, I wouldn't be wearing a mask to the Marinos' annual Rose Ball. And those who did? Cowards. All of them.

"On your left," Tommaso, my right-hand and friend for many years, chirped somewhere behind me, but his warning came too late.

"Killian! My boy," Carmine Alphonsi drawled in a thick, smoky voice as he clapped a large, sweaty hand on my shoulder. I rolled my eyes to his, then to his companion, a man I assumed was part of the Alphonsi family dynasty, but I couldn't be so sure with the stupid fucking mask he was wearing. "It's been a few years."

"Uncle," I said in greeting, mustering a tight-lipped smile.

Carmine puffed from a cigar, his mask barely fitting over his wide, overweight face. He was my mother's cousin in one way or another.

"He gets his looks from my side of the family, obviously," Carmine said to his masked companion, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Henry Cavill–Superman looking motherfucker, this one. Can't you see the resemblance?" It was obvious Carmine had no plans to introduce me to whoever he was talking to. It was also obvious my looks had nothing in common with the Alphonsi family, given that I towered over the man by at least a foot, and his body could only be described as that of a man who ate too many cold cuts over the course of his life with no plans to ever stop.

Tommaso snorted a laugh behind me, but I ignored him.

"I didn't think the Alphonsi family was invited this year." I tilted my head as I looked down at my uncle. "Given the whole... Boston incident."

"Bygones," Carmine said with a wave of his hand. "At least for tonight."

"Sure." I smiled darkly, glancing at Tommaso as he rocked on his heels and looked over the crowd. Bygones... there was no such thing in this world. Even with the Rose Ball being a night where rivalries and grudges were set aside, the entire ballroom hummed with nervous energy as I stepped past my cousin and walked deeper into the crowd. How many of these men had killed the loved ones of others? I walked amongst murderers of the worst kind here, but I fit right in. Hell, I could have been their fucking mascot.

Tommaso moved up beside me and spoke in a low voice. "Why aren't you wearing a mask, Killian?"

"There's no point when I tower over everyone here. Anyway, let them see me." Let them all see me. Let them all watch as Tommaso places my bid and starts a war.

That's what this night was really for, placing bids on the women brought in from all over the east. It was meant to be a night of pure, unadulterated debauchery without the risk of bloodshed or the cops showing up. That's what the Marinos were good for these days. They had a strongly rooted relationship with the authorities here in Jersey that helped keep their interest in the skin trade under wraps. Mafia families from all over-Philly, Jersey, Boston, New York-descended upon Sala Delle Rose once a year just for this.

Women were already being brought on stage as I came to a stop in the center of the crowd. Red paddles with black numbers were held up and shouts could be heard over the lively chatter.

This is what the masks were really for-hiding the identities of the buyers so that no one would know where these women would end up. Most, if not all of the women, were connected to the mafia in some way. Say someone snitched on his Don-the wife and daughters would be taken and sold, just like that. Or someone who paid for the protection of a family could have his daughter kidnapped and sold for failing to pay his tithe. The reasoning for it could be as grave as revenge for a death, or as simple as teaching someone a lesson about loyalty and obedience.

"Do you know what she looks like?" Tommaso asked as he handed me a paddle. I looked down at the number.

"I have a general sense of who I'm looking for." I scanned the crowd as a young red-headed beauty was dragged onstage in little more than a black chemise. She wasn't the one, so I ignored her, turning my attention to Tommaso instead. "It shouldn't be too difficult. I was told she takes after her father."

I'd heard rumors something had been brewing in the lead-up to the auction. There were several prominent families feuding right now. I glanced at Riccardo briefly as he sat on his gilded throne before turning back to the stage just in time to see a gorgeous, albeit absolutely terrified woman, walk into the spotlight, dragged forward by Niccolò Marino of all people.

That itself told me that this one was important.

Dark brown hair fell over her face as he shoved her forward. She fell onto her knees, her hands cuffed behind her back.

My fingers curled around the paddle as she looked up through her hair. Pale brown eyes that felt so incredibly familiar scanned the crowd before she locked her gaze with mine. Even from a distance, I saw tears clinging to her dark lashes. Her lips parted and she inhaled sharply, but her eyes remained fixed on mine-unblinking, wide, and petrified.