Guarding The Mafia Princess

​I hate my life!

​That was the first clear thought Isabella Damiano had as her eyes snapped open to total darkness and the stench of rotting wood.

"Ugh," she groaned, but the sound was muffled by the thick tape covering her mouth. Her head throbbed, as if someone was banging a drum inside it. She tried to lift her hands to rub her aching temples, but nothing moved.

Panic hit her all at once. She jerked hard against the chair and winced as something rough dug into her wrists. “Mmmph,” she squeezed her eyes shut as the sharp sting traveled up her arms. Her hands and ankles were tied tightly behind the back of the wooden chair.

Where the hell am I? How did I get here?

Then she heard muffled voices from outside the door.

“Keep your eyes open, man. Better not screw this up.”

“Nah, she won’t wake up yet. They put enough of that junk in her drink to floor a horse.”

​Isabella went still. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

The last thing she remembered was the party she had gone to with her best friend, Bianca Caruso. She could still picture Bianca’s smile as she leaned in and said, “I’ll be right back,” shouting over the music before heading to the restroom. Isabella had reached for her Margarita, taken one sip, and then... nothing.

Her father had insisted that the only way she could attend the party was to have a bodyguard, and she had rolled her eyes but grudgingly agreed. Now here she was, tied up and helpless, with the bodyguard nowhere in sight.

“Dio mio,” she whimpered into the tape, tears welling in her eyes.

Was Bianca safe? Or was she in a room just like this one?

Then she heard voices outside the door again.

“Tell the boss the girl is secured.”

“Yeah, we called, and the boss said we should wait.”

“Relax,” another voice added. “We keep her breathing for now, and we get paid. It’s just business.”

Business? This wasn’t a warning. It was a hit!

“Papa… Luca… please find me,” she mumbled under the tape, then began frantically scanning the floor with her eyes for a nail, a glass shard — anything to cut the ropes.

Back at the Damiano house, everything was a mess.

“ISABELLA!” Salvatore’s roar shook the room as he slammed his fists onto the dining table with the force of a sledgehammer. A glass shattered beneath his hand. He didn’t even flinch as blood began to seep from his split knuckles, dripping onto the tiles.

“If they touch a hair on her head, I will burn this city to the ground.”

At sixty, Salvatore commanded the room, with his gray hair slicked back and his intense dark eyes scanning the room. He was the Capo dei Capi, and someone had dared to take his daughter.

The bodyguard sent to protect Isabella knelt in front of him, his eyes wide and shaking, shimmering with tears he was too scared to let fall. His face was a ruined mess of purple bruises. 

“I trusted you,” Salvatore growled, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I put my daughter in your care, and you let them take her.”

"Please, boss... I don’t know what happened. I just turned for a moment..."

​Salvatore didn't let him finish. He whirled around and backhanded the man so hard that the slap knocked out two of his teeth.

Luca Damiano, Isabella’s brother, stepped forward. His knuckles were white as he gripped the back of a chair. “Father, we need to question him further; he might reveal something…”

“No,” Salvatore growled, reaching into his coat and drawing a matte black pistol. “A man who fails me does not deserve to breathe.”

“Father, wait…”

The sound of a gunshot cut Luca off. The bodyguard slumped forward, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him.

Salvatore holstered the gun and turned toward the corner of the room. “Adriano.”

“Yes, boss,” ​Adriano Vitelli stepped out of the shadows. He was a giant — broad-shouldered, stoic, and cold. He was the Damiano hitman, the man they sent to erase a problem from history.

“Find her, bring her back unharmed, and eliminate every bastard involved,” he ordered.

“Yes, boss.” Adriano bowed his head and vanished into the night.

Back in the dirty room, the heavy iron bolt slid back with a screech. Isabella braced herself as her muscles tensed, and the door swung open, revealing three men. One stood guard at the door. A tall one lurked in the corner of the room. The third, a short, greasy man who smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat, stopped right in front of her.

​He crouched down, his face inches from hers. ​"Wakey, wakey, princess," he mocked, a yellow-toothed grin spreading across his face.

​Isabella didn't look away. She stared him down, her eyes burning with pure hatred.

​“Good, you are awake,” he smirked. “That saves us the…”

Before he could finish the sentence, ​Isabella lunged forward and slammed her forehead into the bridge of his nose.

“FUCK!” the man shrieked, clutching his face as blood sprayed onto his green shirt. He lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Isabella’s hair and yanking her head back so hard her neck strained. “You think you’re tough, bitch?” he snarled, his eyes watering from the pain.

​Isabella didn't blink. She gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat directly into his open, shouting mouth.

The man’s face turned red with anger. “Bitch!” He swung his hand, slapping her across the face with all his might. Her head snapped to the side, a sharp ringing filling her ears.

“Hold her still!” he barked at the tall man. He grabbed her hair again and struck her even harder across her face the second time. Blood poured from her nose, soaking into the tape over her mouth. She couldn't scream because the tape still covered her mouth, but she kept struggling against the ropes, trying to free herself.

The tall man stepped in, grabbing her chin and squeezing hard. “Stop fighting, girl. It’ll only get worse.”

Isabella lifted her chin, her eyes shouting what her mouth couldn't say: Go to hell.

The short man wiped the blood from his lip and nose. “Tape or no tape, she's too feisty.”

The tall man shrugged. “Boss wants her alive. That doesn't mean she can’t learn some manners.”

“She wants to act brave; let’s see how long she lasts,” the short man teased as he wiped his hand on his pants.

The third man at the door shifted his weight, furrowing his brow. “Are we calling her brother or not? This is a waste of time.”

The short man ignored him. He bent slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Isabella’s face, and picked up a heavy metal pipe leaning against the wall.

“Common man, what the fuck are you doing?” the guard at the door yelled.

He stepped toward Isabella, the pipe swinging like a pendulum at his side.

Isabella clenched her fingers around the rope as her heart pounded against her ribs.

He lifted the pipe, testing its weight, his eyes fixed on her knees.

​"Shit, man! Have you gone crazy?” the tall man asked, fear written all over his face.

Isabella’s breath hitched. She glanced desperately at the other men, hoping they would stop him.

He took another step toward her.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, praying for a miracle, for her father, for anyone.

​Then he swung the pipe.