Episode 3: First Blood

365 Days to Fall in Love with Mr. Mafia Boss

Daria woke me at 6:30 AM by opening my curtains.

“You’re expected downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said, setting a garment bag on the bed. “Signor De Santis wants you presentable.”

Presentable. Like I was a painting he was loaning out.

The garment bag held a black dress. Not the red silk from last night. This one had long sleeves, a high neck, and a slit that stopped at mid-thigh. Conservative, for Alessandro. It fit like it had been measured to my skin.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Daria didn’t answer. She just handed me a pair of heels and left.

Day two. Rule five incoming, probably.

Alessandro waited in the foyer, phone to his ear, speaking Italian too fast for me to catch. He hung up when he saw me. His eyes did a slow, clinical sweep from my shoes to my face. No approval. No disdain. Just assessment.

“You read?” he asked, instead of hello.

“Chapter one,” I said. “Power is never given. It’s taken.”

His mouth quirked. “Good. You’ll need that today.”

He didn’t explain. He just walked out to the waiting car. I followed because the alternative was being dragged.

The drive took us away from the lake, up into the hills. We stopped at another estate, this one older than Alessandro’s. Stone walls, ivy, guards with guns they didn’t bother to hide.

“Family dinner,” Alessandro said as the car door opened. “My mother’s birthday. You’ll be polite. You’ll smile. You’ll not speak unless spoken to.”

“Rule five?”

“Rule five is: In my world, silence keeps you alive.”

The front doors opened before we knocked.

La famiglia was already gathered in a sunroom that overlooked vineyards. Eight people. All of them stopped talking when we entered.

The first to move was an older woman in pearls. She had Alessandro’s eyes—gray, sharp—but hers were lined with decades of calculation. His mother. Vittoria De Santis.

“Alessandro,” she said, kissing both his cheeks. Then she turned to me. No kiss. Just a stare that peeled skin. “So this is the Rossi girl.”

“Isabella,” Alessandro said. His hand landed on my lower back. Possessive. Warning. “She’s staying with me.”

“Staying,” Vittoria repeated. The word sounded dirty in her mouth. “Like a guest?”

“Like a contract.”

A man at the bar snorted. Early thirties, Alessandro’s build but softer around the edges. Drunk at 11 AM. “Contract? You mean Luca Rossi’s collateral. I told you we should’ve just taken his kidneys, cousin.”

Alessandro’s hand flexed against my spine. “Marco.” One word. The room went cold.

Marco raised his glass in mock toast. “Relax. I’m just saying, you’re letting the enemy sleep in your bed now.”

“She’s not in my bed,” Alessandro said flatly.

“Yet,” Marco muttered into his drink.

I wanted to sink through the marble floor. Vittoria’s gaze hadn’t left me.

“You’re very quiet for a woman who walked into my son’s club and signed her life away,” she said. “Most girls cry. Beg.”

“I don’t beg,” I said before I could stop myself.

Rule five, broken in under five minutes.

Alessandro’s fingers pressed harder into my back. Not pain. A signal. Stop.

Vittoria’s lips curved. “No. I don’t think you do. That will get you killed here.”

Lunch was served on the terrace. I was placed between Alessandro and a woman named Chiara—Marco’s wife, I guessed. She had a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and a diamond on her finger big enough to buy my brother twice.

“So,” Chiara said, cutting her veal like she was imagining my throat. “What do you do, Isabella?”

“I’m a graphic designer.”

Marco barked a laugh. “Useful. Can you design a grave?”

“Marco,” Vittoria said, not looking up from her wine. “Enough.”

“Why?” He leaned forward, drunk and mean. “We all know what she is. A bargaining chip. A whore with paperwork. How long until she’s in his bed, Alessandro? A week? Two?”

The table went silent. I felt every eye. Alessandro set his fork down. Slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Apologize to her.”

Marco blinked. “What?”

“You insulted something that belongs to me. Apologize. Now.”

Something that belongs to me. Not someone. Something.

Marco’s face flushed. He looked at Vittoria for help. She sipped her wine.

“Alessandro,” she murmured, “she’s not family.”

“She’s under my protection,” he said. “Which makes her mine. And in this family, we don’t touch what’s mine.”

The threat was quiet. Absolute.

Marco stood, chair scraping. “You’re whipped in two days. Pathetic.” He grabbed his glass and stalked off the terrace.

Chiara followed, shooting me a look that promised retribution.

Vittoria sighed. “You’ve made an enemy, girl.”

“She’ll survive,” Alessandro said, and finally looked at me. “Won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

We left after dessert. No one said goodbye. In the car, Alessandro loosened his tie and stared out the window.

“You spoke,” he said.

“He called me a whore.”

“And?”

I turned to him. “And I’m not. I’m not yours, either.”

His head snapped toward me. For the first time, I saw something past the ice. Anger. Real and hot.

“You signed the contract, Isabella. You sleep in my house. You eat my food. You wear the clothes I provide. You are mine for 363 more days. Say it.”

“No.”

He moved fast. One second he was across the seat, the next his hand was around my jaw, not squeezing, but holding. Forcing me to look at him.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice low. “Or I call Marco back and let him show you what happens to women who aren’t protected.”

My pulse hammered against his palm. I thought of Luca. Of Marco’s drunk, cruel eyes. Of the guns at the gate.

“I’m yours,” I whispered. “For 363 days.”

He searched my face, then let go like I’d burned him. He didn’t touch me again for the rest of the drive.

That night, I found a book on my nightstand. The Art of War. No note.

I opened it. On the first page, in black ink, sharp and precise:

Rule six: Enemies are everywhere. Trust no one. Not even me.

I closed the book and looked at the camera in the corner. Red light, blinking. Always blinking.

I was learning his rules. But he was learning mine too.

I don’t break.

I don’t beg.

And I don’t belong to anyone.

Not even for 363 days.