Under The Mafia King's Protection

The cold steel of the elevator doors reflected Celeste Bianchi's pale face as she stared at her own ghostly reflection. The numbers above the buttons flickered, climbing higher and higher, carrying her deeper into the unknown. Her hands clenched the strap of her handbag as if it were a lifeline, her heart a steady drumbeat of uncertainty. She had no choice but to be here. When the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, she stepped into a world so far removed from her own that for a moment, she hesitated. The penthouse was a masterpiece of wealth and power.

Dark marble floors stretched out beneath her, sleek and cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the twinkling city lights of Rome, the streets below reduced to mere whispers of movement. Every inch of the space screamed control-minimalist furniture in deep, masculine tones, not a single object out of place. Even the air felt thick with authority, a silent force that pressed against her skin. And then she saw him. Salvatore Russo stood by the window, one hand in the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other holding a short glass of amber liquid. He hadn't turned to acknowledge her yet, but he didn't need to. His presence filled the space, commanding, suffocating. She knew who he was before she even arrived. Everyone did. The Mafia King. The man who ruled Rome's underworld with a steady hand and an iron will. The same man her brother once trusted with his life. Now, he was the only thing standing between her and death. "You're late." His voice was deep, smooth, but edged with something dangerous. Celeste swallowed. "I-" His gaze snapped to her, and whatever excuse she had died in her throat. His eyes were cold, calculating, dark as the shadows that lurked in every corner of this place. "Did you expect me to roll out a red carpet for you, cara mia?" He took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim. The pet name was mocking, a cruel contrast to the warmth the words could have held in another life. "I didn't ask for this," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "I didn't ask for protection." "No," Salvatore mused, setting his glass down on the bar. "But you need it. And I don't break promises." Celeste stiffened. "To who? My brother? Because he's gone. Dead. And I'm not some charity case for you to take in out of guilt." A muscle ticked in Salvatore's jaw. "This isn't about guilt," he said evenly. "It's about survival. Yours." He moved toward her then, slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. Celeste held her ground, even as her pulse raced. "You may not want my protection, bella, but that doesn't change the fact that without it, you're already dead." She hated the way his words slithered under her skin, the truth in them colder than the marble beneath her feet. "Why do they want me?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. Salvatore studied her, his expression unreadable. "Because they believe you know something. A secret your brother died for." "I don't," she insisted. "I didn't even know what he was involved in until it was too late." His silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. "We'll see." Celeste frowned. "You don't believe me?" "I don't trust easily, Celeste." He took another step closer, until the scent of his cologne-woodsy, dark, and expensive-wrapped around her like a warning. "And I don't take risks. If you're lying to me, I'll find out." Something inside her snapped. "Then maybe you should let them kill me." A flicker of something-anger, amusement, something darker-passed through his eyes before he leaned in, his lips a breath away from her ear. "Not an option." Her breath hitched, her fingers twitching at her sides. "Why?" He pulled back, just enough to look at her. "Because you're mine to protect." The words settled between them, final and unyielding. Celeste hated the way they made her feel. Because for the first time since her world fell apart, she wasn't sure if the man standing in front of her was her savior... Or just another monster waiting to consume her whole. Celeste's hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she willed herself not to tremble under Salvatore's gaze. He was too close, his presence overwhelming, the scent of his cologne-smoky, dark, and undeniably male-wrapping around her like an invisible restraint. "You think you can just claim me like that?" she asked, her voice sharp despite the thundering of her pulse. "Like I'm some possession of yours?" Salvatore didn't flinch, didn't even blink. Instead, he smirked, slow and deliberate, like he was amused by the very idea of her resistance. "You misunderstand, bella." His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a promise. A threat. "This is not about ownership. This is about keeping you alive." Celeste let out a hollow laugh, stepping back-not out of fear, but to put distance between herself and the man who made her stomach tighten with a confusing mix of dread and something else entirely. "Maybe I don't want your protection." Salvatore exhaled sharply, as if she were a stubborn child refusing to see reason. "And maybe I don't give a damn what you want." His words hit her like a slap, stealing the air from her lungs. "You think I enjoy this?" he continued, stepping closer again, forcing her back until she felt the cool glass of the penthouse windows pressing against her spine. The city lights glowed behind him, casting him in shadows, making him look even more formidable. "You think I wanted this? To be stuck with a woman who looks at me like I'm the devil himself?" Celeste swallowed hard. She wasn't sure what rattled her more-the frustration in his voice or the way he was looking at her now. Like she was something fragile, something precious, something he didn't quite know what to do with. But she wasn't fragile. And she sure as hell wasn't his problem. "Then let me go," she whispered. "Let me run. I can disappear-" "No." The word was sharp, final. She shuddered. "Why?" Salvatore's jaw clenched, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were restraining himself from doing something reckless. Then, after a long pause, he leaned in again, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin. "Because if you run, they will find you," he murmured. "And when they do, they won't just kill you, cara mia. They'll make you suffer." Celeste squeezed her eyes shut, willing the images away. The blood. The screams. The gunfire that had torn through her brother's apartment the night he was murdered. Salvatore must have sensed her fear because, for the first time since she'd walked into this penthouse, his voice softened. "I don't make empty threats, Celeste." She opened her eyes, meeting his once more. "Neither do I." Salvatore tilted his head, watching her as if trying to figure out whether she was bluffing. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed and stepped back, giving her the space she so desperately needed. "You'll stay here," he said, turning toward the bar. "For as long as it takes." "How long is that?" He poured himself another drink, swirling the amber liquid before bringing it to his lips. "Until I say otherwise." Celeste's chest tightened. "That's not an answer." "It's the only one you're getting." Her fingers twitched with the urge to grab something-anything-and throw it at him. "You can't just lock me up here." Salvatore smirked against the rim of his glass. "I already did." Her blood boiled. "You're unbelievable." "So I've been told." He was impossible. Infuriating. And worst of all, he was right. Because whether she liked it or not, she wasn't safe anywhere else. She turned away from him, needing to get her bearings, needing to think. The penthouse was vast, yet it felt suffocating. She spotted a hallway leading to what she assumed were the bedrooms and started walking. "Where do you think you're going?" "To find a room to sleep in." There was a beat of silence. Then, "Second door on the left." Celeste didn't thank him. She didn't even look at him. She just walked. Because if she stayed near Salvatore Russo any longer, she wasn't sure whether she'd scream at him... Or let herself fall into the temptation of the danger he radiated.

Celeste's heels clicked against the marble floors as she strode down the dimly lit hallway, her mind racing. Everything about this place was suffocating-its cold beauty, its stillness, and most of all, the man who occupied it. Salvatore Russo. The name alone carried weight. Power. Fear. She had heard it whispered in the streets growing up, always in hushed tones. He was a legend, a ghost, a man who ruled with the sharp edge of a knife and the precision of a bullet. And now, he was the only thing standing between her and certain death. The second door on the left.

Celeste gripped the handle and pushed it open, stepping inside before closing it behind her. She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The room was... breathtaking. A king-sized bed dominated the space, covered in crisp white sheets that contrasted against the dark wooden frame. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Rome, the city sprawling beneath a star-dusted sky. A sitting area with sleek, modern furniture sat near the windows, and a door off to the side led to what she assumed was an en-suite bathroom. It was beautiful. But it wasn't home. Celeste set her handbag on the nightstand before shrugging off her coat, draping it over the back of a chair. She rubbed her arms, the chill of the night still clinging to her skin. She was exhausted, her body heavy with the weight of everything that had happened, but sleep felt impossible. She was trapped. Protected, yes. But at what cost? Her fingers grazed the edge of the bed, her mind drifting to Salvatore. The way he looked at her. The way his voice dipped when he spoke to her, even when laced with threat. The way he moved, controlled and unyielding, as if he carried the weight of a thousand sins on his shoulders. She hated him. She hated the way he made her feel-off balance, uncertain, as if the ground beneath her feet was constantly shifting. A soft knock at the door made her jump. She turned, pulse quickening. "Celeste," came Salvatore's voice from the other side. Deep. Steady. Unwavering. She hesitated. Then, slowly, she walked to the door, pressing her palm against the wood. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended. A pause. "To talk." Celeste sighed, rubbing her forehead. She didn't want to talk. She wanted answers. She wanted a way out. But she knew Salvatore wasn't the type of man to give her anything unless it suited him. She unlocked the door and opened it just enough to see him standing there, his face shadowed under the hallway light. "Say what you need to say," she muttered. His eyes flicked over her, assessing, searching. "You're safe here," he said simply. She huffed a humorless laugh. "Safe? You call this safe?" He leaned a hand against the doorframe, towering over her. "No one can get to you here." "Except you," she pointed out. His lips twitched. "I'm not your enemy, Celeste." "No? Because you sure as hell don't feel like a friend." A muscle ticked in his jaw. He exhaled through his nose, as if trying to rein in his patience. "I don't expect you to trust me." "Good," she said. "Because I don't." Another pause. His eyes darkened, something unreadable passing through them. "Get some rest," he said finally. "We'll talk in the morning." Celeste wanted to slam the door in his face, but instead, she simply shut it with controlled force, locking it behind her. She didn't need rest. She needed to figure out how to escape. Hours passed. Celeste lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, sleep taunting her from a distance. The penthouse was silent, the kind of silence that didn't feel empty but rather... watched. She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around her, but the weight in her chest refused to let up. Her brother was gone. Murdered. And she was next. A shiver ran down her spine. If Salvatore hadn't intervened, she would be dead already. She squeezed her eyes shut, her mind racing. Could she run? Could she find a way to disappear before the Calderones caught up with her? But where would she go? She barely understood why they wanted her in the first place. A creak from outside her door made her breath hitch. She sat up, heart hammering. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Not Salvatore's. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she slipped out of bed, moving toward the door. Then- A loud thud. The door rattled in its frame. Celeste slapped a hand over her mouth, backing away, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Then, just as quickly as it had started-silence. She stood there, frozen, waiting for something-anything-to happen. Then- A gunshot. A scream lodged in her throat as the sound echoed through the penthouse, sharp and deadly. She stumbled backward, her knees hitting the bed as the door was thrown open. Salvatore. Gun in hand. Eyes blazing. "Stay here." His voice was lethal, no room for argument. Then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness beyond the door. Celeste sat there, heart pounding, staring at the space where he had been. Someone had come for her. And Salvatore had just killed them.

Celeste's breathing came in sharp, uneven gasps as she stared at the open doorway. The air felt thick, suffocating, every nerve in her body on high alert. The echo of the gunshot still rang in her ears, a stark reminder that danger was much closer than she had ever imagined. This wasn't some distant threat looming over her like a shadow. It was here. In the penthouse. She needed to move. Slowly, she pushed herself off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. Her heart pounded as she crept toward the doorway, gripping the frame for support.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the glow of the city filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And then she saw him. Salvatore stood at the far end of the hallway, his back to her, his gun still raised. A body lay crumpled at his feet. Her stomach twisted. "Is... is he dead?" she whispered, barely able to get the words out. Salvatore turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence but keeping his attention on the scene before him. "Yes." His voice was steady, unaffected. Like this was just another night for him. Maybe it was. Celeste swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to take a step forward. Then another. The body was dressed in dark tactical clothing, a black ski mask still covering his face. "He got in," she murmured. "How?" Salvatore didn't answer right away. He crouched beside the man's body, checking his pockets with swift, practiced movements. A phone. A knife. Extra ammunition. He studied the gun in the dead man's hand before tossing it to the side like it was nothing more than trash. Then, finally, he stood and turned to her. "There's a rat in my organization." Celeste blinked. "What?" His expression was unreadable, but his eyes... they were sharper than ever. "Someone gave away your location." The weight of his words sank deep into her chest. This place-this fortress-was supposed to be impenetrable. And yet, someone had managed to find her. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. "What does that mean for me?" "It means you don't leave my sight," he said, his voice like steel. Her throat tightened. "Salvatore, I-" "Go back to your room, Celeste." His tone left no room for argument. She hesitated. "But-" "Now." She flinched at the finality of the command, but something in his expression-something dark and lethal-told her that pushing him right now would be a mistake. So, she did as he said. She turned and walked back to her room, closing the door behind her. But she didn't lock it. She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because she knew, deep down, that if someone really wanted to kill her, a locked door wouldn't stop them. Or maybe... maybe it was because a part of her wanted to believe that Salvatore Russo was the only thing keeping her alive. The next morning, Celeste woke up to the scent of coffee. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The sunlight streamed in through the massive windows, casting a golden glow over the room. The sheets were softer than anything she had ever slept on, and the quiet hum of the city below made everything feel almost... normal. But then reality set in. Her brother was dead. A man had broken into the penthouse last night, and Salvatore had killed him. And she was still trapped here. She groaned, rolling onto her back. She had barely slept, her mind running in circles all night. She needed answers. She needed a plan. Dragging herself out of bed, she padded over to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face before stepping into the hallway. The scent of coffee was stronger now, mixing with something else-something warm and rich. Food. Her stomach grumbled in response, but she ignored it, making her way toward the living room. Salvatore was already there, sitting at the long, sleek dining table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He was dressed in his usual impeccable suit, dark and pressed, his tie slightly loosened. He looked up as she entered, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. "Morning," he said, his voice low and smooth. Celeste ignored the way it sent a shiver down her spine. "You cook?" she asked, nodding toward the plate of eggs, toast, and some kind of cured meat beside him. A smirk tugged at his lips. "I have people for that." Of course, he did. She sat down across from him, eyeing the food warily. She hadn't eaten properly in days, but sitting across from Salvatore Russo, pretending this was some kind of normal breakfast? It felt absurd. Still, her stomach had other ideas. She grabbed a piece of toast, tearing off a small bite. Salvatore watched her, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You didn't lock your door last night." Celeste froze mid-bite. She swallowed, trying to keep her expression neutral. "I forgot." "Liar." She scowled. "Why does it matter?" His fingers tapped against his coffee cup. "It doesn't. Just an observation." She huffed, turning her attention back to her food. "Well, congratulations. You caught me." Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Then, Salvatore leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make her pulse quicken. "I also noticed you didn't scream when you heard the gunshot last night." Celeste's grip tightened around her fork. "You think that means something?" His gaze darkened. "I think it means you're not as fragile as you pretend to be." She hated the way his words made her feel. Like he could see something in her that she wasn't ready to admit. She set her fork down with a sharp clink. "And I think you like playing games," she said, meeting his stare. "But I'm not one of your little soldiers, Salvatore. I'm not someone you get to control." His smirk returned, slow and deliberate. "That's where you're wrong, bella." She exhaled sharply, pushing back her chair. "I'm done." Before she could storm off, Salvatore caught her wrist. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. But enough to stop her. His touch was warm, solid, sending a jolt of something unfamiliar through her veins. "You're not leaving, Celeste," he said quietly. "Not until this is over." She swallowed. "And when will that be?" He held her gaze, his thumb brushing absently against the inside of her wrist. "When they're all dead." A chill ran down her spine. Because the way he said it-calm, certain, as if it were already decided-made her realize something terrifying. Salvatore Russo wasn't just protecting her. He was preparing for war.