Sold to the Mafia king

Lina's POV I woke up to silence. Not the normal kind. Not the kind that comes at night when the world sleeps. This silence felt aware-like it knew I was awake and was waiting for me to catch up. My hand pulsed as I moved, a dull ache spreading behind my eyes. The bed beneath me was too soft, swallowing me whole. The kind of comfort that didn't belong to someone who had been dragged somewhere unconscious. Something brushed my arm. Silk. I frowned, rubbing it slowly between my fingers. Smooth. Cool. Expensive. My stomach twisted-not the sick kind, not yet-but tight enough to warn me. I pushed myself upright. The room was dim, lit by a warm glow that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Lamps shaped like old torches flickered softly, shadows clinging to dark wooden panels. Polished mahogany lined the walls, carved carefully, deliberately. Someone spent money here. Real money. Thick velvet curtains-black and heavy-spilled onto the marble floor. The marble was spotless, reflecting light like glass. This wasn't a place you stayed by choice. My heartbeat picked up. Where did they bring me? The floor was cold when I stood, the chill biting straight into my bones. That's when I noticed the door-tall, solid, intimidating. Not the kind you kicked open. Not the kind you escaped through without a plan. I walked toward it. Hesitated. My hand hovered over the handle as instinct screamed at me. Once I stepped outside this room, things would become real in a way I wasn't ready for. Still, I opened it. And everything inside me went still. My breath caught painfully in my chest. The hallway stretched endlessly-wide, polished-crowned by a chandelier so massive it looked like it could fall and crush anyone beneath it. Crystal and gold trapped the light effortlessly, dazzling without trying. As I moved forward, my footsteps echoed. Loud. Lonely. As if the house itself wanted to announce me. Portraits lined the walls. Men stared down at me from their frames, dressed in sharp black suits. Cold eyes. Unreadable faces. No smiles. No warmth. Just authority framed in gold. These weren't men who asked. They took. At the far end of the hallway stood two guards. They didn't move when they noticed me. Black suits. Calm expressions. Hands resting casually where their guns were visible-no attempt to hide them. No need to. The message was clear. My stomach sank. I walked past them anyway. Neither of them spoke. Neither did I. Beyond them, the mansion opened into a massive hall. A curved staircase rose upward, elegant and deliberate, like it led to a throne instead of a second floor. Symbols were etched into the railings-not decorative. Warnings. I didn't recognize them. I understood them. Black marble. Deep reds. Gold threaded through it all-not as decoration, but as a reminder. This luxury wasn't meant to impress. It was meant to intimidate. No one needed to explain what kind of man owned this place. Only one kind ruled in silence-surrounded by guards, history, and fear dressed as elegance. I wasn't in his mansion. I was in his kingdom. And he was the kind of king people whispered about. The kind whose name carried consequences. He was Carlino Lacentra. The realization dropped into me like a stone into a bottomless pit. The Mafia king of the Lacentra empire. My heart sank as the truth settled-cold, heavy, unavoidable. I hadn't fallen into the hands of a small-time crime lord. Not someone dangerous but contained. He was the danger. No-he was the crime itself. "Wandering around?" The voice came from behind me. Deep. Commanding. Sharp enough to jolt my body into motion. I staggered as I turned. He stood there, unmoving. His gaze locked onto me, intense, suffocating. It wasn't just a look-it was an examination. Like my soul had been dragged into the open, stripped bare, and he was searching for something rotten inside. I swallowed hard. The words burned on the way out. "Y-you're... Carlino Lacentra?" Silence followed. Not the ordinary kind. The kind that crawled into your bones and stayed. He didn't answer. His face revealed nothing. His lips didn't move-but his legs did. He started toward me with unhurried precision, each step deliberate. Panic flared. What was he doing? I stepped back. He stepped forward. Again. And again. The distance between us disappeared too quickly. My back hit the wall, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. Before I could react, he had me caged in-one arm braced beside my head, cutting off every possible escape. "Rules are rules," he said calmly. "You don't wander when you have nothing to do." His eyes dipped briefly, assessing. "Back to your room. Now." Something icy slid down my spine. This wasn't just authority. This was certainty. The kind that came from a man who had never been told no-and had buried those who tried. I lifted my chin, forcing my voice steady. "I wasn't told I was a prisoner." For the first time, something shifted in his eyes. Not anger. Not surprise. Interest. "You weren't told anything," he replied. "That should concern you more." That was my cue. I ducked beneath his arm before he could stop me, my heart slamming violently against my ribs as I hurried down the hallway. Right now, defiance was a blade with no handle. Dying wouldn't help me escape. I had to live. I wouldn't let his intimidation own me. Being trapped in this place-this prison-might just be the key to my- "Ouch-" Pain shot through my toe, sharp and immediate, stopping me cold. I gasped, blinking back tears as I looked down. A wheelchair. My gaze lifted. An elderly man sat there, perhaps late fifties, early sixties. Silver threaded through his hair, though dark strands still clung stubbornly. His face was lined with quiet exhaustion, but his eyes-tired yet alert-studied me calmly. He wasn't startled. He wasn't angry. He was watching. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I wasn't paying attention." He didn't respond right away. His stare lingered, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then, finally, his lips parted. One word danced out of his mouth. "Dwan."