Chapter 4: What the Devil Owns

ELENA’S POV

“You’re still as loud as ever.”

His voice was smooth, arrogant, the kind of voice that didn’t ask, it declared. The words wrapped around me like a noose, pulling tighter with every second I stood there in his shadow.

Enzo—Il Diavolo.

The man who I’d saved five years ago. The man who had thrown five million euros like it was loose change just to claim me.

My pulse pounded against my ribs, panic and fury crashing together until it burned my lungs to breathe. I jerked against the hands holding me, shoving, scratching, clawing at anything I could reach.

“Let me go!” I screamed. “You can’t keep me here against my will. You don’t own me!”

Enzo didn’t flinch. He sat sprawled in his leather chair, a glass of whiskey balanced between his fingers like the world belonged to him. Cold eyes, dark and merciless, dragged over me in a way that stripped me bare. He didn’t even bother standing.

Without a glance, he flicked his wrist at the men stationed by the door. “Leave us.”

The command cracked like a gunshot.

The man who had hauled me earlier hesitated only a second before bowing his head and ushering the others away. Boots echoed on marble, heavy locks clicked, and then—silence.

It was just us.

My chest tightened. My breath stuttered.

“Fuck you,” I groaned, making my way for the front door.

“One more step and your body will be wrapped in a body bag.” His voice was lazy, sharp and haunting. “Non darmi idee, bambina.” Don’t give me ideas, baby girl.

I halted, scared, confused, but I tried my best to conceal it.

“You can’t keep here,” I half-begged. “I’m not your property.”

He chuckled, swirling the glass of whiskey in his hand. “You’re my property,” he replied, his voice soft. “I bought you, so that makes you mine.”

“No!” My throat burned with it. “You can’t just—”

He cut me off with a flick of his wrist, dismissing my existence like a servant’s mistake. “You should thank me. Dante would’ve chewed you up and spat you out by sunrise. At least with me, you get silk instead of chains.”

Silk? Chains? My stomach twisted.

I wanted to spit in his face. To scream. To claw at those calm, arrogant eyes until he bled. But all I could think about was Matteo—my boyfriend. All I just wanted was to get the hell out of here and go be with the love of my life, even though he put me in this mess in the first place.

“You don’t own me,” I choked out, fighting to keep the crack out of my voice. “I have a boyfriend who’s going to come for me—”

That was when he finally moved.

Enzo leaned forward, slow, deliberate, his elbows resting on his knees. The whiskey glass dangled from his fingers. A dangerous smile tugged his mouth as if he’d been waiting for the exact line.

“You mean this one?”

He darted his eyes to a black envelope on the table. I hadn’t even seen it there until now.

My heart stalled.

Enzo pushed it toward me with two fingers. “Go on, bimba. Open it.”

I shook my head.

“Open it.” His voice dropped to a command.

My hands trembled as I reached for the envelope, tearing it open with shaking fingers. Photos slid into my lap, glossy, damming, impossible to look away from.

Matteo. My Matteo. Naked and fucking different women in different style positions. His hands, his lips, his mouth—all over them.

I froze. The room spun.

“No,” I whispered. “That’s not… that’s not real.”

“It’s very real,” Enzo said, sipping his drink. “Your boyfriend sold you, Elena. He offered you to the Mafia for a slice of debt forgiveness. He does not deserve you.”

My throat closed. Tears blurred the photos in my hands until I couldn’t see them anymore. My chest ached with something sharp, a betrayal so deep it hollowed me out.

“No.” The word cracked from my lips as I stumbled back. “You’re lying. He loves me. He—”

“Wake up,”Enzo snapped, slamming his glass down. The sound made me jump. “Men like him don’t love. They use. They sell. You were never his woman. You were his bargaining chip.”

I shook my head violently, hot tears running down my face. Rage clawed its way through the grief, raw and feral.

“You think you can break me with this?” I hissed, snatching up the nearest thing—his gun from the edge of the table. My fingers fumbled around the cold steel as I pointed it at his chest.

His men moved instantly, but Enzo raised one hand, stopping them. His eyes, dark as sin, pinned me in place.

“Interesting,” he murmured, standing finally. “The little nurse wants to play with fire.”

“Stay back,” I warned, my whole body trembling. “I’ll shoot. I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”

He kept coming. One slow step after another, each one draining the strength from my fingers.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Stop!” My voice cracked. “Don’t—”

In one brutal movement, his hand shot out, twisting the gun from my grip like it was nothing. He slammed me back against the wall, the weapon clattering to the floor. His other hand came up, pinning my throat—not choking, but enough to remind me who held all the power.

I gasped, my heart in my throat. His body pressed into mine, caging me.

“Do you feel that?” His voice was low, dangerous, the devil’s whisper. “That’s control. Mine. Every breath you take, every scream you let out, every tears that falls—belongs to me.”

I tried to shove him, but he didn’t budge. His hand slid down, gripping my breast through the thin fabric of the kimono I was wearing. I gasped, outrage and heat tangling in my chest.

“Don’t—”

“Fight me all you want,” he said, his thumb dragging over me, slow, possessive. “It only makes me harder. But understand this, Elena—I don’t want to hurt you. I will, if you force me. And if I do, you’ll regret it. We both will.”

My eyes burned with fury. I wanted to scream, to bite, to claw my way out of his hold. But his scent—expensive whiskey, smoke, something darker—wrapped around me, suffocating.

For a moment, I froze under him, my body betraying me with a shiver I couldn’t hide.

His mouth curved, satisfied. “Good girl.”

The door banged open.

“Don Enzo,” a man barked in rapid Italian. “Abbiamo un problema—”

Enzo’s grip loosened on my throat, though his body stayed pressed to mine. His eyes didn’t leave my face, like he was memorizing every crack, every weakness.

Finally, he stepped back, his jaw tight. “Take her upstairs.”

“No!” I shoved at him, desperate. “You can’t keep me here—”

His head tilted, cold amusement flashing. “Watch me.”

Rough hands grabbed my arms, dragging me out the room. I thrashed, screamed, kicked, but it didn’t matter. His men were walls of stone, hauling me down endless hallways until we stopped before a set of tall double doors.

They shoved me inside.

The door clicked shut behind me.

My chest heaved as I spun, searching for an escape. The room was massive—vaulted ceilings, velvet drapes, a bed too big for a single person. My pulse stuttered when my eyes landed on the far wall.

A painting.

Not just any painting.

Me.