Forceful pleasures: Subjected to the Don

Chapter One

Nella’s POV

Tallia hated sitting still.

“Don’t move,” I warned, narrowing my eyes at her.

“I’ve been sitting for thirty minutes,” she complained, trying not to laugh. “If this portrait makes me look ugly, I’m suing you.”

“You’re already ugly,” I replied calmly.

She gasped. “Rude.”

I smiled and dipped my brush into the soft amber shade. The late afternoon light from the New York apartment window rested gently on her face. It made her skin glow.

Tallia is so beautiful. 

My brush moved slowly across the canvas. I didn’t rush when I painted. Painting was the only time my thoughts didn’t fight each other. The only time the noise inside my head went quiet.

Tallia wasn’t just my friend.

She was the only person who truly knew me.

When I was thirteen, Spain turned into a nightmare.

I still remember the sound of gunshots outside our Madrid home. The shouting. The glass shattering. My father’s men running through the halls. My mother pulling me down to the floor.

I remember Antonio’s voice shouting orders.

After that night, everything changed.

Antonio, my father’s consigliere, moved my mother and me to New York immediately. He said it was for protection. My father had too many enemies in Spain.

We never went back.

Until now.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Tallia asked softly.

“I’m trying to capture your stubbornness,” I pouted.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s called personality.”

I stepped back and examined the painting.

Her dark eyes. The slight curve of her lips. The strength in her posture.

She had been my shield when New York felt lonely. When my father became a voice on the phone instead of a man who tucked me in at night.

We looked so much alike, too, same complexion, same hair color. Although she tinted hers, mine were natural.

We went to the same high school. The same university. She was there when I cried about boys. When I fought with my mother. When I pretended I didn’t miss my father.

“You think we’ll ever go back to Spain?” she asked suddenly.

My hand froze.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

Spain meant danger, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to go there yet.

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang.

We both looked at each other.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” Tallia said.

Neither was I. Mum no longer stays with us since she found a new lover. 

I placed the brush down carefully and wiped my hands on a cloth. Something inside me felt uneasy.

I walked toward the door and opened it.

Antonio stood there.

But he didn’t look like the Antonio I knew.

His shoulders were stiff. His eyes were tired. His tie was crooked.

“Antonio?” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

He looked past me and noticed Tallia behind me.

“I need to speak with you, Nella,” he said quietly.

My stomach tightened.

He stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him. The apartment suddenly felt too small.

“What is it?” I asked.

He removed his glasses and held them in his hand.

“The Don…” he began, then stopped.

My heart skipped.

“What about my father?” I asked quickly.

Antonio looked at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw pity in his eyes.

“The Don is dead.”

The words did not make sense.

“What?”

The word tore out of my throat before I could stop it.

“What do you mean?” I screamed. “What happened to my dad?”

Antonio stood in front of me, stiff and pale. I had never seen him look unsure before.

“He’s dead,” he repeated.

This time, the words landed.

Dead.

I grabbed his tie with shaking fingers. “No. No, you’re lying.”

But my knees gave way.

The floor met me hard, and the sound that left my mouth did not sound human. It was broken. Raw. I curled into myself, my hands gripping my dress as if that could hold me together.

Antonio crouched beside me. His hand hovered near my shoulder, but he did not touch me.

I cried until my throat burned.

Until my head hurt.

Until there were no tears left.

“What happened?” I whispered, finally.

“He had a heart attack,” Antonio said, avoiding eye contact.

A heart attack.

My father was powerful; he was the Don and was mostly known as Vito Moretti.

Feared. Untouchable.

Men like him did not die from something so… ordinary.

“We spoke about a few things when he called last week.”

My voice cracked again.

The last time I saw my father, I was thirteen. After that dangerous attack. My father said it was temporary.

Temporary became years. 

“The funeral is in Madrid.”

Madrid.

The word made my stomach twist.

“I don’t want to go alone,” I whispered.

“You won’t,” Tallia said softly from behind me.

She came forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I leaned into her without thinking.

“You have me,” she said.

I nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

I wanted my father.

***

The chapel in Madrid felt suffocating.

Candles flickered beside the coffin. The air smelled like incense and something metallic.

He was dressed in white.

My father hated black.

“Papa,” I whispered as I stood beside his coffin— white and gold.

His face looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping.

I reached out and touched the polished wood.

He used to check on me at night when I was little. Even when he was busy. Even when men waited for him downstairs.

He would open my door quietly, and his smile was contagious. He’ll admire my paintings, pat my head, and say, “My princess, I’m so proud of you.”

He was my biggest cheerleader.

I pressed my forehead against the coffin and cried again. Not loud this time. Just silent tears sliding down my face.

The room was filled with men in dark suits. Hard eyes. Cold faces. They bowed their heads, but none of them comforted me.

They respected the Don.

Not his daughter.

My mother had not arrived yet.

Antonio stood a few feet away,

“Yes, I know.” He looked at me with the corner of his eye. He was speaking quietly to someone on the phone. He looked leery. Too cautious.

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel safe.

When the priest said the final prayer, I felt something inside me break.

They lowered him into the ground slowly.

I wanted to scream at them to stop.

To bring him back.

But I stood there. Frozen.

Tallia held my hand tightly as the coffin disappeared beneath the earth.

And just like that, my protector was gone.

The drive home was silent.

No one spoke. Not even Tallia.

When we arrived at the mansion, I walked straight to my old room.

The moment I turned the knob, nostalgia wrapped around me.

My paintings were still hanging on the walls. My easel stood in the corner. On my desk sat a framed picture of Papa and me at the fun park. He was smiling. Really smiling.

Like he had no enemies in the world.

Tallia stepped in behind me. Antonio followed quietly.

His phone rang.

He glanced at the screen and answered immediately.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Everything is going as planned.”

My head snapped toward him.

Planned?

He stepped out of the room before I could ask anything.

I looked at Tallia. “What’s going as planned?”

She rubbed my shoulder gently. “Calm down. It might be business.”

Business.

My father was in the ground.

What business could still be running?

Antonio returned a minute later.

He was holding a brown file

My name was written across it in bold letters.

NELLA MORETTI.

My stomach tightened.

Inheritance?

“There’s something you need to see,” he said.

Antonio stretched out the envelope to me.

“Your father signed it before he died.”

My fingers trembled as I reached for it.

And for the first time that day, I felt something worse than grief.

Fear.