Claimed by the Ruthless Mafia Boss: Our Twisted Nights

Three days. Three days of sleeping in doorways and abandoned buildings, of scrounging for scraps of food, of jumping at every shadow. The city's underground had become my world—a maze of forgotten tunnels, empty warehouses, and condemned apartments where desperate people like me could disappear.

I'd found shelter in an old factory on the east side, its broken windows letting in just enough light to see by during the day. The other squatters avoided me, sensing the danger that followed in my wake. They were right to be afraid. Giuseppe Messina's reach extended into every corner of this city, and I was naive to think I could simply vanish.

On the second day, I heard the whispers. Street vendors closing their stalls early. Homeless camps packing up and moving deeper underground. The word spread like wildfire through the forgotten places: the Messina family was hunting.

"They're offering ten grand for information," an old woman muttered to her companion as they hurried past my hiding spot. "Ten grand for some girl who crossed the boss."

My blood turned to ice. Ten thousand dollars was more money than most of these people would see in a year. I wasn't just running from Giuseppe's men anymore—I was running from an entire city full of desperate people who would sell me out for a chance at that reward.

By the third day, paranoia had become my closest companion. Every footstep in the hallway above made me freeze. Every car that slowed on the street outside sent me scrambling deeper into the shadows. I barely slept, barely ate, my body running on pure adrenaline and terror.

I should have known it wouldn't be enough.

The alley behind the factory had seemed like the perfect escape route—narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and debris, easy to disappear into if someone came looking. I was picking through a garbage bin, looking for anything edible, when I heard the footsteps.

Not the shuffling gait of another vagrant or the hurried click of someone trying to get through the alley quickly. These were measured, purposeful steps that echoed off the brick walls with military precision.

I dropped behind a dumpster, my heart hammering so hard I was sure it would give me away. Through a gap between the metal and the wall, I could see expensive Italian leather shoes moving closer. Above them, the perfectly pressed pants of a man who had never known hunger or desperation.

Marco Bianchi. Giuseppe's right hand, his enforcer, his hunting dog.

"I know you're here," his voice carried easily through the narrow space, calm and conversational. "The old woman in the factory sold you out an hour ago. Ten thousand dollars buys a lot of loyalty."

I pressed myself harder against the cold brick, trying to become invisible. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, maybe if I didn't breathe—

"Come out now, and I'll make this easy on you." There was no emotion in his voice, just the flat tone of a man doing a job. "Make me come find you, and I promise you'll regret it."

I closed my eyes, weighing my options. I could try to run deeper into the alley, but it was a dead end. I could try to fight, but Marco was twice my size and undoubtedly armed. Or I could surrender and face whatever Giuseppe had planned for me.

The decision was made for me when strong hands grabbed my shoulders and hauled me out from behind the dumpster. I hadn't even heard him approach.

"There you are," Marco said, his grip like iron on my arms. "The boss has been very worried about you."

"Please," I gasped, struggling against his hold. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll work harder, I'll—"

"You'll do exactly what you should have done three days ago," he cut me off, already dragging me toward the mouth of the alley where a black sedan waited. "You'll learn your place."

I fought him every step of the way, screaming until my throat was raw, clawing at his hands, kicking at his shins. None of it mattered. He was a professional, and I was just a frightened girl who'd made the mistake of thinking she could outrun the Messina family.

The ride back to Giuseppe's compound passed in a blur of terror and despair. Marco said nothing, his attention focused on the road while I sat handcuffed in the backseat, my wrists already chafing from the metal. The city streamed past the windows, normal people living normal lives, oblivious to the nightmare I was being dragged back into.

When we arrived, Marco hauled me through the same servant's entrance I'd escaped from, up the marble stairs I'd fled down, past the expensive artwork that had witnessed my humiliation. The house felt different now—not just a prison, but a tomb.

Giuseppe was waiting in his bedroom, standing by the window with his back to us. He didn't turn around when Marco shoved me through the door.

"Three days," Giuseppe said quietly. "Three days you made me look like a fool in front of my associates. Three days you cost me time and resources and reputation."

His voice was eerily calm, which somehow made it more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. I knew that tone. It was the sound of barely contained violence.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I was scared, I didn't think—"

"No." He turned around slowly, his dark eyes burning with cold fury. "You didn't think. But I'm going to make sure you never forget to think again."

Marco pushed me toward the massive four-poster bed that dominated the room. My legs gave out, and I collapsed to my knees on the thick carpet, my body already anticipating what was coming.

Giuseppe moved to a drawer in his nightstand, pulling out a pair of handcuffs that gleamed silver in the afternoon light. "Hold out your hands."

"Please, Giuseppe, I won't run again. I promise I won't—"

"Your hands."

I had no choice. With trembling fingers, I extended my wrists. The metal was cold against my skin as he secured the cuffs, then attached the chain to one of the ornate bedposts. I was trapped, helpless, at his mercy.

Marco left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him. Giuseppe and I were alone.

"Do you know what happens to things that try to run from me?" Giuseppe asked, loosening his tie with deliberate slowness.

I couldn't speak. Terror had stolen my voice.

"They get reminded of their place," he continued, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. "They get reminded that they belong to me."

He was on me before I could react, his weight pinning me to the mattress, his hands rough and unforgiving. I sobbed and pleaded, but he was beyond hearing, consumed by his need to reassert dominance over what he saw as his property.

It was during the worst of it, when I thought I might break completely, that his hand brushed against my inner thigh. He paused, his fingers tracing something I'd forgotten about in my terror.

"What's this?" His voice had changed, become curious rather than angry.

I looked down through my tears and saw what he was touching—the crescent-shaped birthmark I'd had since childhood, usually hidden by clothing. In the harsh light of his bedroom, it was clearly visible against my pale skin.

Giuseppe's eyes met mine, and I saw recognition there. Not just recognition of my body, but of who I was. What I was.

"Interesting," he murmured, his thumb tracing the mark again. "Very interesting indeed."