Taken

I would get sold.

It wasn’t something I found myself surprised to think about—not when I was Isabella Romano and my sorry excuse of a father was Raffaele Romano.

I hurried down the street, making sure to look over my shoulders just in case I was being followed by someone predatory. Odd—I wouldn’t even notice if one of the Donatelli gang members decided to corner me. It wasn’t just a rumor anymore; it was real. The Donatelli mafia had been put in a tight spot, and only the Code of Conduct preserved them—or him, the Don, whoever he might be.

It was a code we knew by heart.

Codice dell’Ultimo Onore.

As I rushed forward, my throat tightened, the possibilities running wild in my head. It wasn’t news for a young woman to be sold in Palermo to the Donatelli familia, a woman whose father owed a mountain of debt. Just like my father did.

The certainty of it made it even more frightening.

For once, the Donatelli mob had been shaken by the Moretti clan, and the Code of Conduct was the only thing that held a truce between the two mafia clans. So, according to tradition, the Donatelli familia needed an heir to redeem them. And if an heir was needed, so was a bride.

Wait—what am I thinking? I muttered to myself as I turned the corner, heading toward the little cottage my family had stayed in before my father bolted.

Something was wrong.

My first instinct was to run when I spotted a sleek, dark Porsche parked outside my house. Porsche cars certainly did not visit my home on a normal day.

A bulky, bearded man towered over my mother, speaking to her in a tone that looked to me as too difficult for her to understand.

I wanted to turn back, to flee, but my legs suddenly felt liquidated.

My assumptions had always been right since I was a child. And my assumptions had always been really bad.

My mother was the first to notice me. Her eyes widened, panic written across her face. But before I could react, the man followed her gaze, his dark eyes locking onto me.

And just like my stupid legs had a mind of their own.

I started to run.

“Get her!”

I heard a scream, and at the same time I had to get the hell out of there, but it was all a blur of noise and adrenaline.

No one had ever run away from the Donatelli Mafia clan.

Well, my father had.

I guess it was in the family blood—because I was running now.

There was a reason no one ever escaped them. I found out the hard way.

I barely made it three steps before I was yanked back with a force that knocked the breath out of me.

"This is extreme, why bother running?" A hoarse voice with a thick Italian accent boomed in my ear.

"Let go of me!" I twisted, fighting against the grip holding me captive.

"You don’t want to know why we came?" he asked.

"There’s nothing good about the Donatelli Mafia showing up at my home!" I yelled, still struggling to break free.

"We shall see," he murmured.

And then, with a swift movement, I was hurled onto his shoulder, a strong arm securing me like I weighed nothing.

I kicked, thrashed, clawed at his back, but it was like hitting solid stone.

"Please, spare my daughter for running. She acts foolishly," my mother’s shaky voice cut through my frantic fight.

I twisted my head, desperate to see her, but all I caught was the bulky bearded man from earlier giving her an unimpressed look.

"Don't you think it would be a problem for the Don to have a foolish bride?"

Bride?

My eyes widened.

How on earth were my stupid assumptions always on point?

"Put me the hell down!" I screamed, panic swallowing me whole as I pounded my fists against the man’s back.

Everything felt surreal.

"Not now," the man carrying me muttered. "Rizz, the Don has sent for her."

I gasped.

Before I could process what that meant, I was shoved into the backseat of the Porsche.

Somehow, I knew I shouldn’t waste my energy screaming.

Even the police wouldn’t be able to save me.

I didn’t know how long the drive took, but I was soon dragged out of the car—the same way I had been shoved in—slung over the blond’s shoulder.

"Hey! Put me down! I can walk!" I spat angrily.

He ignored me.

Instead, I was carried into an enormous mansion.

What struck me first was the number of armed men. They were everywhere, guns at the ready.

They looked so solemn.

Of course, they had just lost the war.

What exactly was their plan? Get me to make a baby immediately?

I swallowed hard.

But then I knew it wasn’t possible for an heir to be birthed out of wedlock. He would be named illegitimate—just like the Don.

He wouldn’t want to repeat that mistake.

Would he?

I prayed I was at least safe for the night.

The doors creaked open, and we stepped inside.

The thick scent of cocaine hit me hard, making my head swell.

"Why are you holding her that way?"

The voice was unlike anything I had ever heard.

It was smooth—soothing and rich—but edged with something sharp, something dangerous.

The man carrying me muttered something, his grip tightening for a brief second.

I could sense his fear.

It mirrored mine.

And for some reason, I knew that the Don was the only one I should be truly afraid of.

"Put her down. Now."

His voice was almost too casual.

And that was what made it terrifying.

I was set on my feet, swaying slightly as I turned just in time to see a blur of movement—then the sharp crack of a skin against skin.

The blonde recoiled, his head snapping to the side. The effect of the slap taking toll on him.

"You’ll learn how to respect her. She could be your mistress," the Don said. "Now, both of you—get out."

My mouth fell open, my hand pressing against my chest as I watched the two men bow before hurrying out.

I stared after them pleadingly, suddenly desperate for them to stay.

It was ironic. I had tried to run from them, but now I so badly wanted them to be here.

Because now, I knew who the real predator was.

The room felt suffocating.

I hadn’t even looked at him yet, but I could feel his gaze, searing into me, stripping me bare. Would he want me to actually strip for examination?

Not another stupid assumption.

Taking a slow breath, I forced myself to meet his eyes.

And forgot how to exhale.

His eyes…God, his eyes—were magnetic.

They dragged me in, stirring something deep inside me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

His dark hair was slicked back, highlighting sharp, refined features.

But then, my gaze fell to his bloodied shoulder, and I gasped.

"You're hurt…"

I bit my lip, immediately regretting speaking out of turn. Who knew if it were a crime to speak without being spoken to?

"On the bed," he ordered, his voice smooth, unreadable.

I blinked.

"My father—the Godfather, wants me to marry a village dunce," he mused, almost to himself. "I have no problem with that if you can make me fall asleep."

I stiffened.

"How?" I whispered, half to myself.

"That’s left for you to figure out. Don’t think of stripping—that would do the opposite," he said, as if reading my thoughts.

My cheeks burned in embarrassment.

I hadn’t planned on doing that. It was just—what I assumed he would expect.

Swallowing, I stepped toward the bed, my heart hammering with every step.

I sat down and gestured to him.

"Come," I said.

He hesitated. As if not sure why he had asked me.

Then, finally, he walked over, settling on the bed and lowering his head onto my lap.

Cautiously, I ran my fingers over his temples, massaging gently.

He closed his eyes.

We stayed like that for a while, his tension melting away.

And soon, he was asleep.

I held my breath, staring at his features.

He was so eccentric. He looked like the molded sculpture of a demigod.

Would I really end up with this man?

Hours passed before his eyes flickered open. My legs were numb by now.

He stood abruptly, barely glancing at me.

"Someone come take your mistress home," he called out.

M

istress.

The word lingered in the air, colder than the night breeze slipping through the window. He didn’t look at me again.

I should have felt relief. Instead, all I felt was the weight of something I couldn’t yet name.