The mafia's king bride claimed by his obsession.

The doorbell rang. It felt like a death sentence. "He's here," my father said. He didn't even look at me. No birthday wish. No apology. Just two words, and at eighteen, my life was over. I stood in the lobby of our mansion empty now, echoing and cold. The paintings? Gone. The vases, the silver? All sold. All that was left was me. Nobody bothered to answer the door. It just swung open. He walked in like he already owned everything. Maybe he did. Damiano Rossi. I'd seen his face in the newspapers. The photos didn't come close. Or maybe they did, if you thought justice was supposed to be cold, beautiful, and sharp enough to bleed. He was taller than I imagined. Wore a black suit worth more than whatever debt my father still owed. His eyes gray, like a winter sky swept the room, landed on me. Not my father. Me. "Mr. Rossi," my father began, voice trembling. "Giovanni." Damon's voice was smooth, almost bored. "Is this her?" My father just nodded. Damon stepped toward me. I didn't move. Couldn't. "Look at me." I forced my head up. His stare felt like ice on my skin. "Elena, right?" I nodded. "You know why you're here." He didn't phrase it like a question. "My family's debt," I whispered. "Your family's debt is gone," he said, correcting me. "As of now. You're the payment. Do you understand what that means?" My throat tightened. "It means I belong to you." A flicker of a smile, but nothing friendly. "Smart girl. Get your things." "I... I don't have anything." He glanced at my sad little bag by the stairs. "So I see. Let's go." He turned and walked out. That was it. My father finally looked at me. His face was wet with tears. "Elena, forgive me." I picked up my bag. I didn't say goodbye. Outside, a black car waited. Damon held the door open. I slid in, and he followed, close enough that our knees almost touched. The driver pulled away. My home disappeared behind us. "Rules," Damon said, eyes forward. "You live in my house. You don't leave without my say-so. You don't question me. You don't embarrass me." "What am I supposed to do?" I sounded hollow. "You exist." He finally looked at me. "You're a symbol. A wife, in name only. I don't want you. I don't need you. But I own you. Remember that." He said it so simply, it actually hurt to hear. "Why?" I blurted. "If you don't want me, why do this?" He leaned in. I could smell his cologne, rich, dark, and expensive. "Because your father begged. And because I can." He leaned back as the car wound through big, iron gates. The house ahead loomed, twice the size of the one I'd just left. All sharp lines and dead windows. The car stopped. Damon got out and opened my door himself before the driver could. "Welcome home, Mrs. Rossi," he said, making it sound like a curse. He led me inside. Marble floors stretched out, cold and shining. From the stairs, a beautiful blonde woman in a silk robe floated down. She smiled at Damon, ignoring me, as if I never existed. "There you are," she purred, coming to his side. She didn't even see me. "I was getting lonely." Damon put his hand on her waist. "This is Isabella," he said to me, like she was another piece of furniture. "She's staying the weekend." Isabella glanced my way, amused. "Oh. The new one?" "Something like that," Damon said, still watching my face, waiting for the moment it broke. "Elena, your room's on the third floor. Alessandra will show you. I'll be... occupied." He turned Isabella toward the hallway, his hand low on her back. "Wait," my voice cracked. He stopped, looked back. "You're my husband," I said. The words tasted like ash. That empty smile again. "On paper." He walked away, Isabella laughing as he led her toward his bedroom. I stood there, alone in the giant, freezing foyer, clutching my bag. A woman came out of a side door. She was older, gentle-looking. "Miss Elena? I'm Alessandra. Come, I'll show you to your room." I followed her up the grand staircase. At the end of the hall, behind a closed door, I heard a woman's muffled moan. Damon's low laugh followed. I stopped, my heart hammering. Alessandra touched my arm, her eyes sad. "This way, dear," she whispered. Those sounds followed me all the way to the third floor and into a beautiful, empty cell. That night, alone in a cold bed, listening to the angry silence of a house that hated me, I made my first promise. He might own me. But I wouldn't let him break me.