Desired by the Mafia King

Cherry POV

I down another shot of tequila, wincing as the liquid burns my throat. This dingy bar tucked away in downtown San Laurent wasn't my first choice, but it's exactly what I need tonight—anonymity.

"Another?" The bartender raises an eyebrow at me.

"Please." I slide my glass forward, watching as he refills it.

A man slides onto the stool beside me. "What's a pretty thing like you doing drinking alone?"

I give no response, hoping my silence will drive him away. It doesn't.

"I'm talking to you, blondie." His hand lands on my thigh.

"Not interested." I brush his hand away, but something feels wrong. The room starts to spin slightly. I've only had two shots. I shouldn't feel this disconnected.

The man smiles, revealing yellowed teeth. "You will be soon, sweetheart."

Realization hits me. My drink. He must have slipped something into it when I wasn't looking. I try to stand, but my legs feel like they're made of cotton.

I stumble through the crowded bar, the man following close behind. My heart hammers in my chest as I push through the exit door into a dark alley. Cold air hits my face, momentarily clearing my head.

Footsteps echo behind me. "Don't be like that, baby. I just want to have some fun."

I try to run, but my feet won't cooperate. His hands grab at me, tearing the sleeve of my dress. I scream, but it comes out as a pathetic whimper. Fighting against the drug's effect, I claw at his face, feeling my nails connect with skin.

He curses, momentarily loosening his grip. I seize the opportunity, pushing past him and staggering toward the street. My dress is torn, hanging off one shoulder, but escape is all that matters.

I burst out of the alley onto the main street, disoriented and terrified. Headlights blind me. Tires screech. Next, I'm thrown to the ground. I lie there, unable to move.

A car door opens. Footsteps approach.

"Shit," a male voice says.

The back window of the car lowers halfway. "Leo, what the hell is going on?" Another voice—deeper, impatient.

"I hit a woman, sir. She just ran out from the alley. Her clothes are torn."

"Just get her in the car. Drop me at the club first, then take her to a hospital."

"Yes, sir."

Strong arms lift me from the pavement. Through half-closed eyes, I see my attacker from the bar standing at the alley entrance. He takes one look at me and retreats back into the shadows.

The interior of the car is spacious. My drug-addled mind registers a man sitting in the back seat, his white shirt partially unbuttoned, revealing tanned skin beneath. My body feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending screaming for relief from the heat the drug has created within me.

I find myself moving toward him, drawn like a moth to flame. His skin feels hot against mine—or maybe we're both burning up. In my confused state, all I know is that this man's car just saved me from a predator and is taking me to the hospital. He must be good. He must be safe.

He tries to push me away, but I cling to him. "Please," I slur. "I've been drugged. Help me."

He freezes, his hands stopping mid-push. "You've been what?"

I melt into his chest, my fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons of his shirt. "Someone drugged my drink. Please help me."

His voice drops to a low, dangerous register. "What's your name? Do you understand what you're doing?"

"I'm Cherry..." I peel his shirt open. "You seem like a good person. Please. I need you to fuck me."

The drug takes full control as I press my lips against his chest, his neck, his jaw, whispering, "Just sex, please, I can't stand this burning." To my surprise, he doesn't resist anymore. Instead, his hands begin helping me shed my torn clothing.

The car stops abruptly.

"Sir, we've arrived."

"Get out." The command is harsh.

"Sir? Are you sure you want to... with her?"

"I said get out. Now."

The driver exits, leaving us alone.

His rough hands slide up my thighs, pushing aside the remnants of my torn dress. My body arches toward him as I feel his hardness pressing against me through his trousers. I fumble with his belt, freeing him, my fingers wrapping around his thick, hot cock. His fingers find my soaked core, slipping inside.

There's no gentleness, only need—his thrusts as he enters me are deep, urgent, my walls clenching around him. Each movement sends shocks of relief through my burning limb. When it's all over, I collapse against the leather seat, trembling, the drug's grip finally loosening.

And then, reality crashes down on me with devastating clarity. What have I just done? My mother named me Cherry hoping I'd understand the importance of my virtue. Now I've lost it to a stranger.

I glance around, taking in the luxury of the vehicle. The man beside me is lying there with his eyes closed, his profile sharp and handsome in the dim light. At least, I didn't end up with the creep from the bar.

I look out the window, mortified that someone might have seen us, but the glass appears dark.

"It's one-way glass," he says, reading my thoughts.

I startle at his voice. "I'm so sorry," I blurt out. "I was drugged. Thank you for saving me."

His lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk as he reaches for his wallet. "No need to thank me. I've seen women like you. I'll give you some money. You leave, and you don't tell anyone what happened."

My gratitude evaporates instantly. What does he think I am? "Thank you for your generosity," I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Here's my counteroffer: I'll give you twice that amount if you leave me alone and never mention this to anyone."

He actually laughs. "You've got spirit. How about neither of us pays the other? Where do you live? I'll have Leo drive you home, or to a hospital if you need to be checked out."

"No, thank you. I can manage." I reach for the door handle. I'm already late for home.

He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. He reaches into a compartment and pulls out a set of women's clothes. "Your dress is ruined."

Seeing the logic in his suggestion, I accept the clothes. He exits the car to give me privacy, waiting outside while I change.

When I emerge, I thank him again, anxious to put this night behind me.

He grabs my hand before I can leave, pressing a card into my palm. "Take this. If you feel unwell or have any problems, call this number."

The card contains only a phone number. "What should I call you?"

"You can call me Nick."

"Alright, Nick. See you never."

He frowns, seemingly surprised by my eagerness to leave. But he doesn't stop me as I walk away.

Only when I'm several yards from the car do I realize where we are—the infamous Purgatory Club, the exclusive members-only establishment owned by the Salvatore crime family, its clientele a mix of high-profile business tycoons and political heavyweights. The mere thought of this family pulls me back to the harsh reality of my own situation: the Salvatores are the very family I'm supposed to marry into.

And that man, Nick, must be a member of this club. No wonder he had women's clothes stashed in his car—probably always prepared for situations like this. And his rush to throw money at me, to get me out of his life, it makes sense now. He's likely terrified of tarnishing his reputation and business dealings.

I hurry away, afraid of being seen. The last thing I need is for my future husband to discover me disheveled outside his club after sleeping with a stranger.

When I finally reach home, my father is waiting at the door, his face a storm cloud of anger. "Cherry Miller! Do you know what time it is?" he demands. "You're about to be married, and you're out gallivanting all night. Where are your original clothes?"

I accept his scolding in silence. Mother and I are guests in this house; standing up to him would only result in punishment for us both.

"The Salvatores have sent representatives to town," he continues. "Nicholas himself, their current head. That's how seriously they're taking this marriage. We'll meet with him tomorrow to discuss your engagement."