The Mafia's Little Doll

Maria’s POV

The guard’s eyes felt like he could see through me.

For a second, I thought he’d ask for my ID, or worse, call someone to check the list. My heart pounded so loudly that I almost didn’t hear him say, “Come on in, ma’am.”

Relief washed over me so fast I nearly laughed. I was inside. My plan had worked.

The invitation card I had shown him wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone named Elena Sarto. I found it that morning on the floor of the coffee shop where I worked, dropped carelessly beside an empty cup. I told myself it was fate. My one chance to step into the kind of world I always saw from the outside.

The main hall felt like another universe. Cold air, marble floors, white walls that gleamed under soft lights. Perfume and expensive wine drifted together in the air. The people here didn’t just walk anyhow, they walked with a confidence. As if the floor itself carried them.

I pulled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. If you’re in Rome, act like a Roman, I whispered to myself, trying to quiet the noise in my chest.

A waiter stopped beside me. “Champagne?”

“Of course,” I said, taking a glass like I had done this a thousand times.

It burned lightly going down. I didn’t care. It made me feel like I belonged, at least until the bubbles disappeared and the room reminded me again that I didn’t.

The paintings were beautiful. Too beautiful. Each one seemed to breathe on its own, like it knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. I walked slowly, pretending to study them, but really, I was just trying to calm the tremor in my hands.

Then I saw her.

A woman in a storm, running through wind and rain, her hair tangled and her face turned away. I stopped breathing for a moment. Something about her felt familiar, that same desperate energy of someone trying to escape something she couldn’t name.

“Alexa.”

The voice came from behind me. Deep. Smooth. Certain.

I ignored it.

“Alexa.”

I turned.

He stood there, tall and perfectly put together, his navy-blue suit hugging him like it was made just for him. His hair was dark and his face strong, the kind that made you feel both safe and nervous at once.

“Excuse me?” I said quietly.

He studied me for a moment, his eyes tracing my face like he was searching for a memory he couldn’t find.

“I thought you were someone I knew.”

“Alexa?” I asked.

His lips curved slightly. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You just called the name.”

He blinked, then gave a small laugh, low and unsteady. “Right. Forgive me.”

“It’s fine,” I said, offering him a polite smile. “I’m Maria.”

He looked down at my hand before taking it, and when he did, his touch was slow, deliberate. His eyes stayed on mine and not on the handshake. For a moment, the noise of the hall faded.

Then he looked at the painting. “You seem so engaged with this painting. What do you see when you look at it?”

“A woman running,” I said.

“From something?”

“Or toward something,” I replied before thinking.

He smiled, faintly. “Interesting.” His voice lowered. “And what about you, Maria? Which one are you doing?”

The question hit harder than I expected. I felt caught in an act.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

He took a step closer. His scent, dark and manly, surrounded me, and it took effort for me to stay still.

“Or are you running toward something you shouldn’t?” he asked softly.

My mouth went dry. It's obvious he knows I'm not supposed to be here but I don't think he's bothered by that.

I turned back to the painting. “And if I am?”

He smiled at the canvas, not at me. “Then I’d say you’re brave.”

The words came out smooth and his tone was simple. He made it sound like he really meant it.

“Something tells me you’re not supposed to be here,” he said quietly.

My heart jumped, if course he knows but... “And what will you do about that, Mr De Rossi?”

He finally turned to me again. “Nothing.” His gaze lingered. “But I’d like to see you again.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

He moved his head, with his eyes dark and unreadable. “Because I want to... little doll.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned and walked away, calm, slow, certain.

I watched him go, my chest tight for reasons I couldn’t name.

I looked back at the painting. The woman still running through the storm. I felt her now. The fear, the pull, the thing she was running toward even when she knew she shouldn’t.

“Little doll.”

The words echoed in my head again, soft and dangerous.

I didn’t know it yet, but that name was going to change everything.