The Mafias Twisted Obsession

Eight-Year-Old Kaiza;

"Discipline is the path to mastery."

That's what Father always says. I don't fully get it yet. I mean, I'm only eight. But I have seven tutors teaching me different things, so maybe I'm supposed to understand more than most kids my age.

Father is strict. Everything he does is about control. He talks about discipline like it's a religion-something you follow no matter what. He's cold with Mother, but I think that's just how he is. He believes power is everything.

"Speak only when needed," he tells me, his voice deep and sharp. "Be fierce, always. Control is power."

His lessons aren't just about learning-they're about winning. He doesn't just want me to survive in this world; he wants me to own it. To make people listen when I speak. To make them afraid. I started handling a gun just two month ago and I practice every day how to shoot. Sometimes I go hunting with father too because he says it enhances my way of thinking when I have to catch my preys. I shot a rabbit once and wanted to cry when I saw it got hurt but I got spanked by father for showing weakness.

Mistakes aren't allowed. If I get something wrong, there's always a punishment. Sometimes a slap, sometimes no dinner. The bruises on my arms and legs stay hidden under my clothes. No one can know what happens at home.

Outside, we play the perfect family. At events, Father smiles and shakes hands, acting like he's not the same man who punishes me for slipping up. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to remind me-"Don't mess this up."

I watch him, study him. How he moves, how he controls a room. I copy everything because one day, I'll take over the family business. I have to be ready. I have to be ready because father wants nothing less than perfect.

Tonight, we're at a huge estate in Florence. It's fancy-big marble floors, endless vineyards outside. I stand near the window, pretending to listen while men praise Father and their wives smile politely. That's when I see her.

A girl, maybe a little younger than me. Dark chestnut hair, freckles. She looks out of place, her eyes distant like she doesn't want to be here. I know that feeling. I've felt it at different occasions and even now i feel it. Boredom and eveything in between, i was tired of the facade.

Then, she slips out of the room. The girl and without thinking, I follow.

She moves through a side door into the gardens, and I keep up, dodging past adults too busy talking to notice me. The garden is massive-hedges trimmed into silly shapes, roses everywhere, making the air thick with their annoying sweet scent but i like that it's very quiet and no adult was here.

She stops by a fountain, staring at the water like she wanted to wish upon it with a coin. I hesitate, then step closer.

"Hi," I say. "I'm Kaiza. Are you okay?"

She looks up, eyes flickering with surprise before settling into something calmer. "I'm Coraline," she says softly. "I just needed air. It's too crowded inside."

"Yeah," I nod. "It is. It's quieter out here." I say and listen to the breeze whistling and the way it played and carried the leaves about.

We stand in silence, just listening to the water. It's nice, not having to talk and to just exist as a person. As a child and not whatever it is father wants me to be. He already made me handle a gun.

After a while, I ask, "How old are you?"

"Six," she answers, her voice is a little wobbly.

She wipes her sleeve across her face, and I realize she's been crying. I hesitate, then take her small hand and pull her down to sit beside me on the fountain edge.

"Why are you sad?"

Her fingers trace circles on the stone edge of the fountain. "M-My mom died," she stutters in a whisper. "And my father... he doesn't care. He just tells me to behave. To do what I'm told. But I miss her."

I don't know what to say. I just nod. I get it, in a way. We're both stuck in lives that don't care how we feel. My myother was dead too, at least that's what father told me but i never really got to meet her much. I can barely even remeber what she looked like unless I stare at the tall painting of her that seats in fathers study just behind his chair on the wall. She was never a part of my life even before she died so I never cared much after but I still miss her sometimes, the presence of a mother I never really felt. Some of fathers men say I look like her,I have her pretty green eyes and her nose. I don't really know, i'm just a kid.

"I'm sorry," I manage to say. "It's hard, isn't it? Trying to be what they want us to be."

She nods, shoulders shaking. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm all alone."

I squeeze her hand. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'll keep you safe."

She looks at me for a long second, then smiles-a small, shaky smile, but it makes her freckles stand out more.

I don't really know who she is, and maybe I lied when I said I'd protect her. But in that moment, she trusted me. And that meant she was mine now.

We sit there, quiet, holding onto something neither of us can name.

Then, a loud voice calls her name from the house. She sighs, standing up and brushing off her dress.

"That's my brother. I have to go," she says, looking down at me. "But we'll see each other again, right?"

I nod. "Yes, Coraline."

She walks away, back into the bright lights of the house. I watch until she disappears inside.

We'll meet again, my Coraline.

CORALINE POV

I work at the Highrise hotel, one of the best in New York. It took a great deal for me to get this job without a college degree in management but somehow how I pulled it off. Maybe, I had my fiance to thank for his connections. And I've worked here for two years now with no issues but then one day, my Director had told us we had a special guest. We didn't understand why he made such a big deal out of it when all we ever had in our hotel were important people. It was a five-star hotel, so it wasn't exactly shocking to host VIPs.

Still, he ensured that every staff member was dressed to the highest standard, every surface gleamed, and not a single door handle had a smudge. Maybe it was the owner of the hotel, we all thought. It made sense.

And then, later during my shift, the director approached me personally and said I needed to tend to the guest in the royal suite.The royal suite was almost never occupied. The entire floor belonged to the suite, and it was usually assumed that whoever used it had bought it outright. That meant one thing-the owner had finally arrived.

I worked as an attendant at the front desk, not room service, but I wasn't about to tell my director no and risk losing my job. So, I agreed to handle the guest's needs.

I stepped out of the elevator onto the private floor, adjusting my uniform as I approached the suite. The hallway was unnervingly silent, lined with men in black suits, their gazes sharp and assessing. Tension curled in my stomach. This was different. This wasn't just a rich guest-this was someone important.

Taking a steadying breath, I approached one of the men. "I'm here for suite 201. The occupant requested assistance."

He barely glanced at me before giving a curt nod. "Follow me."

The plush carpet swallowed our footsteps, making the silence even more oppressive. When we reached the door, he swept a metal detector over me before stepping aside."Go in."

I hesitated for half a second before swiping the MasterCard and stepping inside.The suite was breathtaking, wrapped in dark wood, leather, and the faint scent of sandalwood. It was the definition of luxury, but my attention snapped to the sound of running water before I could take in the details.I had just enough time to process it before the bathroom door swung open.

A man stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, water droplets sliding down his toned chest. His dark hair was damp, pushed back, revealing sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes. He carried himself with the kind of presence that made the massive room feel suffocatingly small.

I froze.His gaze flicked to me, unreadable. "You're the attendant?"

I cleared my throat, dragging my eyes away from the muscles flexing beneath his skin. "Receptionist. But yes, I'm here to assist."He stepped closer, and the air thickened.

"Your name?"I squared my shoulders. "It's not appropriate to share personal details with guests, sir. What do you need?"

His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "What I want?" His Italian accent wrapped around the words, slow and deliberate. "You don't want to know what I desire, darling."

Heat crept up my neck. "Uh... please don't call me that. Also inappropriate "

"You didn't give me your name, so I'll call you whatever I please." His gaze flicked over me, assessing, lingering. He moved with the kind of effortless confidence that told me he was used to controlling every room he entered.

I forced myself to remain professional, even as my pulse pounded. "Is there something I can get for you, sir?"

"Your finest dish, delivered in twenty minutes." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Food arrangement could've been made over the phone, I didn't need to come up here.

I exhaled slowly. "That's not really how kitchens work sir, but I'll do my best."

His smirk deepened. "I have faith in your resourcefulness. Impress me, Darling."

The way he said it made my skin crawl.

Trouble. He was pure trouble.

And somehow, I already knew I was in way over my head.

At the kitchen, my phone buzzed, but I barely glanced at the screen as I watched Mr. Arrogant's meal being assembled on a gold tray. Ten minutes-that's how long it took to prepare his extravagant request: Lobster and Avocado Tartare with Caviar. Everything had gone smoothly, thanks to our top-tier kitchen staff.

Every other order had been pushed aside just to prepare this one dish."Do you think this is necessary?" I asked James, the head chef, nodding toward the flashy presentation.

He barely spared me a glance. "What's necessary?"

"The golden tray."

As if to answer, James drizzled something ridiculously expensive over the dish and added a delicate leaf for flair. He stepped back, satisfied. "It's not every day we serve an elite guest like this."

I folded my arms. "Are you serious? Important, rich guests are all we serve."

James ignored me, adding sides-microgreens, artisan bread, elegant garnishes. Then, he finished it off with our priciest champagne, nestled in a golden ice bucket.

"This guy isn't just rich. He is wealth," James said, rolling out a trolley and setting the tray on top. "Ever heard of old money?"

I nodded, intrigued despite myself. Not that I cared much-my father owned a vineyard and a mansion in Florence, but I had left that life behind.

"He's from old money, and they've got other businesses too. No idea what. I don't even know his last name, but the bosses made it clear he's special."

"Do you know his first name?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

James shrugged. "Nope. Boss didn't say. Now, take this up. We're behind schedule."

I sighed. "Why am I the one doing this? I'm not an attendant and you know it. This is unprofessional."

James gave me a look. "Because he specifically asked for you."

I froze. "What? I don't even know him!"

"Maybe, he saw you at reception and requested you."

"But why me?"

I don't know this man from anywhere and I didn't even see him come in. So how did he see me at the reception desk when he was crowded by all those men. I knew it was something else. Maybe the boss just recommended me to him.

CORALINE POV

With a deep breath, I pushed the trolley toward the VIP elevator. My pulse quickened as I pressed the button, and when the doors slid open, a cool draft washed over me. As the elevator ascended, soft piano music hummed in the background, doing little to soothe my nerves. If anything went wrong with this guest, I could lose my job.

The doors chimed open, revealing a grand hallway. Pushing the trolley forward, I approached the men in dark suits standing like statues, their sunglasses adding to the intimidation factor. One of them swept a scanner over me and the trolley before giving a curt nod, signaling me to proceed.

"Room service," I called out, keeping my voice bright as I stepped inside.

"Dining area," a deep voice commanded.I followed the sound and found him seated at the table, a sleek laptop open in front of him.

He was dressed now-loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone, revealing a hint of a lean chest. His black pants fit perfectly, tailored to his frame. His hair, damp from a recent shower, fell in careless waves, giving him an effortlessly dangerous air.Get a grip, Coraline.

His piercing green eyes locked onto mine. "Are you going to stand there all night? You're already five minutes late. Sit."

I swallowed. "Sir?"

"You heard me, darling." His Rolex caught the light as he leaned back. "Sit."

Bristling at the arrogance, I kept my cool, setting the meal down with steady hands.

A sudden sneeze broke the silence. He covered his nose, irritation flashing across his features.I blinked. "Are you allergic to something?"

"Those damn flowers," he muttered. "Get rid of them."

So much for James's fancy touch. I rolled the trolley back toward the foyer, catching my reflection in a mirror. White blouse, black pencil skirt-professional but slightly rumpled. My dark hair was pulled into a bun, though a few loose strands had escaped. And on my left hand, the only sparkle-my diamond engagement ring."Darling," his voice called.

I gritted my teeth at the endearment and headed back inside. He gestured to the seat beside him.

"Sit," he repeated.

Hesitating, I finally lowered myself onto the chair, feeling the cool fabric against my skin. He watched me, studying every movement. The only sound was the clinking of his fork against the plate as he ate.

At least he didn't ask me to taste the food first. That would have sent me running. Billie, my friend and also a staff here at the hotel had speculated that he might be involved in the mafia, but he seemed too young for that. Too polished. He looked more like a politician's son or a billionaire heir-nothing as sinister as guns and knives. Yet, he still carried a presence that made him dangerous in an entirely different way.His phone buzzed. He picked it up, staring at the screen before answering.

"Marco," he said, setting his fork down. "Any word from him?"

I stared at my hands, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Why had he even requested me? Was this some strange rich-person quirk?

His voice sharpened. "Make sure everything is in place. No mistakes. Three days."He ended the call and looked back at me. I quickly averted my gaze, heat creeping up my cheeks."Business," he said as if it were an afterthought. "It never leaves you alone."

I nodded, unsure how to respond.

As he resumed eating, I fought the urge to flee. But something about him made me stay-curiosity, maybe? He was a contradiction. Dangerous yet refined. Cold yet oddly magnetic.

His lashes flickered as he took another bite. My gaze dropped to his hands-strong, lean, and veined. His jaw tightened slightly as he chewed, and for a second, I thought...Stop staring, Coraline.

His gaze met mine, and a slow smirk tugged at his lips. Embarrassed, I snapped my head away, but it was too late. His expression shifted as if he'd caught me in the act.

Reaching for the champagne, his fingers brushed condensation off the bottle. I quickly stood, taking it from him and drying it with a napkin. My pulse thrummed.Trouble. That's exactly what he was. And I needed to leave.

"Don't hurt yourself with that, darling. Give it here," he said as I struggled with the bottle.

"I got it," I huffed, twisting and turning until the cork popped. I poured the champagne into his glass, but his gaze remained fixed on my hand. A frown creased his brow."Engaged?" he asked.

I nodded."I see."Something in his tone changed, but I couldn't quite place it.

"You need anything else, sir?" I asked.

"No, we're through. You can leave now."His mood had shifted, though I wasn't sure why. Still, I was more than glad to escape his intimidating presence.

****

Later that day, I thought it best to go get some drinks with my friend, Billie at a local bar. The place was really run down and I didn't know why she always suggested coming here. Maybe it was the type music that blasted through the speakers or the weird strawberry smell that somehow clung to the hair and the floor of the bar.

I had dressed in a short black dress and black heels. Today was exhausting with the perfect stranger from the hotel bossing me around, telling me to sit, and fetch his food and blah blah. I wish I could knock the smirk off his face eat time but I couldn't. I didn't.

Billie was also very curious about him so it's probably why she keeps feeding me lots of drinks to talk until I felt my stomach twirl and turn so I exit to the restroom for a break.

I wash my face, wipe damp sweat off my neck and then redo my makeup, bright red lipstic and shadowed eyeliner. With a smile, I step out of the bathroom again and just as I maneuvered around a group of dancers, I bumped into someone. A guy, clearly drunk, sloshed his drink onto his shirt.

"Hey, watch it!" he slurred. Then his gaze landed on me, his eyes trailing down my bare thighs, and his grin turned lazy. "Well, hello there."

I tried to step around him, but he blocked my path. "What's your rush, beautiful? Have a drink with me."

His breath reeked of whiskey. I took a step back. "Not interested. Move."

He chuckled and reached for my hair. "Come on, don't be like that. You're too pretty to be alone."

Before I could react, a strong, gloved hand clamped onto the man's shoulder, yanking him back. "She said she's not interested."

The drunk guy turned, irritation flashing in his eyes-until he registered the newcomer's size. He muttered something and stumbled off.I turned to thank my rescuer and froze. Striking green eyes. Tailored suit. The perfect stranger from the hotel.

"Are you alright?" His voice was deep, controlled.

"Yeah. Just some whiskey on my chest." I tried to wipe it off, my fingers trembling.

He pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. "Here."

I hesitated, then took it, dabbing at my dress. Heat crept up my cheeks.

His gaze didn't waver. He was watching me. Not in a creepy way. Just... watching. Like he saw everything. Was he stalking me now?

"Thank you," I whispered.

His lips curved slightly. "No, thank you."

I swallowed, my heart racing.

He reached for the handkerchief, but I pulled away. "Let me wash it first," I said with a nervous laugh. "I feel embarrassed enough already."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, darling. And don't worry, I'll take it as it is."

His fingers brushed mine as he took the cloth from my grip, his touch lingering for just a second before he tucked it into his pocket.

"You always carry a handkerchief?" I asked, attempting to steady my breath.

His lips twitched. "A habit."

"A very old-fashioned one," I mused, tilting my head.

"Perhaps. But some traditions are worth keeping."

His gaze remained on me, unwavering, unreadable. The way he looked at me-like he saw everything, like he knew things I hadn't even said aloud-made my stomach twist. I should look away, but I couldn't.

"So," I cleared my throat, "Are you going to leave now?"

I didn't even know why someone like him would be in this old rundown club and not something fancy.

"Would you rather I stay?"he questioned and we both went silent. I didn't want to admit it, but he was definitely growing on me, and I wasn't sure it was in a good way because my stomach kept tightening each time I saw him.

I opened my mouth, he exhaled, almost amused, then took a step back. "Enjoy your night."And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd. Like he was never there.