His Little Ruin

(The girl who ran from hell)

“She thought she was running from her demons. She didn’t know one of them had learned her name.”

The story begins…

Milan was in her bedroom, reading a steamy Mafia romance novel when noise from downstairs pierced through her subconscious. She flinched as the door slammed closed, dreading the reality that her husband is finally back home from his long business trip.

Gripping the hardback in her already trembling hands, she anticipated his yells, demanding where the fuck she was.

Milan’s mind blanked out the ticking of the wall clock, her heartbeat taking its place.

She lingered, listening carefully.

“Mr. Vito, come on in and feel at home.” Giovanni’s voice was loud and fake, followed by the sound of his heavy footsteps.

“Where’s my stuff, Giovanni?” A firm, low-pitched voice followed.

Milan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

A guest?

That had never happened before.

Her devil of a husband had never brought any man home except his brother. He only brought different sizes of women occasionally and fucks them in their matrimonial bed.

“Either I leave here with my powder or your body, you’ll have to choose one soon, Rocci.”

Mr. Vito’s voice reached her ears, the sound carrying a heavy threat.

Wait… Vito?

“Not everyone answering to Vito is your Vito, Milan,” she reminded herself, dropping the book onto the bed and hurrying to the door’s peephole.

“Of course, it can’t be my Vit—”

Her breath caught.

There he was.

Her heart began to pound beneath her ribs at the sight of the man on the other side of the door—her high-school bully.

Everything about him was the same, only six years had turned him into something even more dangerous, a beauty sharpened to a weapon. Or maybe a monster.

His dark hair, the taut jaw, the long straight nose, and those rare violet eyes… exactly as she remembered.

But what on earth is Vito Salvatore doing in my private hell?

She wanted to scream, but her mind went foggy and her legs trembled with extreme dread.

“I have your powder in a safe place, Mr. Vito,” Giovanni said calmly, like Vito wasn't threatening his life.

Vito’s dry chuckle reached her a moment later. The sound made her skin crawl; there was murder hidden inside that laugh. Giovanni didn’t seem to notice. Not until the unmistakable click of a gun cocking filled the air.

“You have MY powder in a safe place? What are you? A fucking storekeeper?”

Chill ran down Milan’s spine as she watched Vito point his pistol at her husband’s head.

Giovanni’s lips raised in a smile like he was taunting Vito to pull the trigger.

Milan blinked, gasping as beads of sweat began to pool at her temple.

What the hell is going on? How did Giovanni meet Vito? What powder are they talking about?

“If you kill me, you’ll never find your shit, Vito,” Giovanni said with a mocking chuckle. “We both know you can’t afford that, can you?”

He slowly turned to face Vito, the pistol now aimed at his own temple. The two powerful men stared at each other darkly, a storm gathering in the narrow space between them.

For a second, everything seemed to stop.

Her pounding heart.

The ticking clock.

Even the air itself.

The room felt suspended between life and death, between two of the most dangerous men Milan had ever met.

“Let’s have a nice chat, Vito. I brought you to my home to show my sincerity, not to get killed by you,” Giovanni sighed, but Vito’s taut expression didn’t change.

Milan wasn’t surprised. If he was still the same Vito Salvatore she remembered, he would never waver.

Questions raced through her mind.

Why was Giovanni suddenly involved with the most feared mafia family in Milan? Surely, he must have heard of the Salvatores’ ruthlessness.

He must think he can tyrannize everyone as he does with me, she thought bitterly, shaking her head.

“If my powder isn’t here in your home, you can consider yourself dead,” Vito said, his deep voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The sound of it went straight through Milan’s body, freezing her where she stood.

Her lips began to tremble in fear. And maybe, just maybe, in hope.

“I do not have your powder here with me,” Giovanni said, a smirk twisting his lips, “but I have a nice bitch for you.”

For a heartbeat Milan thought she’d misheard. He can’t be referring to me… can he?

Her pulse spiked, a violent thrum in her chest as she stumbled back from the door in shock.

Her husband hadn’t just offered her like a toy to the most dangerous man alive. He couldn’t have.

Her knees gave way. She crashed onto the soft fur rug, the impact stealing her breath while hot tears stung her eyes.

Wasn’t it enough?

Wasn’t being his punching bag, his plaything, his hidden shame enough?

He had already locked her away, kept her silent while he paraded other women in their home and across his social media like trophies.

Did he have no shred of remorse left in him?

“…Are you offering me a slut to delay your death?” Vito’s voice cut through the silence, smooth but deadly.

The word slut hit Milan like a slap. Her stomach clenched and her skin crawled with shame, and disgust.

Is that what I am? she thought numbly. Is that what I’ve become to him? To the man I left my family and my dreams for?

Vito’s tone turned colder, almost curious.

“Tell me, Giovanni. Does she know what you’ve been trading for your life?”

Milan pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

The air felt too heavy, the walls too close.

She wanted to vanish, to sink into the rug and disappear forever.

Giovanni laughed again, high and false. “You always liked fine things, Vito. She’s the finest I’ve ever owned.”

“Milan! Milan!! Get your fucking ass here, bitch,”

Giovanni’s anticipated yells came after, jerking Milan from her confused state of mind.

Her body started to quaver, shuddering as hurried gasps escaped her throat.

I can't go downstairs. I can’t ever let Vito see me.

He would ridicule me and taunt me in front of him.

Milan whispered these frenzied words to herself as she felt the danger surge through the air like static before lightning.

Her body shook. Fear drenched every nerve, yet beneath it all an unwanted feeling stirred.

“Milan!!”

“You are screaming.” Vito’s voice unexpectedly became relaxed, and she blinked.

He hadn’t figured out that it was her—had he?

“She can be dumb sometimes,” Giovanni said with a dry laugh. “Can you at least lower your gun so I can go get her?”

Milan lurched to her feet after hearing that Giovanni was coming for her. Panic clawed at her chest as she searched for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

The bathroom? No. He would check there first.

Under the bed? Too obvious.

Her trembling legs carried her toward the walk-in closet. She slipped between rows of expensive dresses she never got to wear, their silk and velvet brushing against her arms as she pressed herself into the shadows.

From downstairs came the dull thud of Giovanni’s footsteps on the stairs. It was slow, deliberate, and heavy.

He was coming for her.

He always found her.

If he hadn’t been a criminal, he could have made a damn good detective.

The thought barely flickered before her door creaked open.

Milan clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing the air from her lungs into silence as the sound of his heavy breathing filled the room.