Keeper, Not Lover

I was a violin prodigy. But to pay my mother’s debts, I was forced to give up everything.

That’s when I met the man who would own me: Dante Moretti.

He was the king of New York's underworld. The Don of the Moretti family.

With a single phone call, fortunes were made. With a single glance, blood was spilled.

The world didn't just bend to his will—it broke.

And on that day… what he wanted was me.

He gave me a five-year contract. A penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking all of New York. More jewels and gowns than I could count.

Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex.

Five years. 999 times.

There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me.

Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman.

I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover.

Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me.

Instead, I turned my back on him. And married another man.

...

My keeper, Don Rocco, sent another velvet box.

Inside was a lace teddy, so thin it was like a whisper. Tucked beside it was a pink diamond necklace from a Sotheby's auction. It cost more money than I’d ever see in my life.

I stared at it, my face blank, and dropped it in my jewelry box.

Gifts like this? I’d gotten hundreds over the past five years. They meant nothing to me anymore.

I turned to the calendar on the wall.

Seven days.

Seven days until my five-year contract was up.

I’d already bought a one-way ticket to Austria. Back to my violin, back to my dream.

But first, I had one last act to perform.

The sound of a key in the lock.

I snapped my gaze away from the calendar, forcing a smile. When I turned, I pasted on the sweet, obedient smile he loved most.

Rocco Moretti walked in.

Something was off about him today.

His usual lazy control was gone. He smelled of blood. The thick scent was so strong, not even his expensive cedar cologne could hide it.

"Rocco, you're finally here."

I smiled and glided toward him, taking his coat like I had a thousand times before.

This was the part where he’d give my ass a playful slap and tell me to be a good girl and wait for him in bed.

But today, his gray eyes were ice.

Before I could react, he swept me off my feet. He was holding me with one arm, heading straight for the bathroom.

"Rocco?" I gasped, my arms flying around his neck.

As he walked, he unbuttoned his shirt with his free hand.

Buttons popped, revealing his hard chest.

I knew what was coming next.

I clung to him, my eyes falling to the side of his neck. And then I froze.

A smear of dark red.

Lipstick.

And right next to it, a deep bite mark, still oozing blood.

The memories hit me like a tidal wave.

Five years ago. My father left us for another woman. My mother took out a loan from loan sharks so I could go to Juilliard. They pushed her off a roof.

She just left a note: "Clara, I'm tired. You're on your own now."

I went to my father for help. He had his new wife on his arm. "I don't have the money," he said, his voice cold. "And I don't have a daughter."

The loan sharks hunted me. I took my last few dollars to an underground casino, ready to risk it all. Some creep cornered me in an alley.

Just as his filthy hands started ripping at my dress, Rocco appeared.

He stepped out of the darkness like a god. One kick, and he shattered the man's jaw.

"I'll pay the debt," he said, looking down at my trembling body. His voice was colder than the concrete.

"The price is you. Five years."

Later, I learned who he was. The Don of the Moretti family. The king of New York's underworld.

"Hiss—"

The showerhead roared to life, spraying ice-cold water over me, yanking me back to the present.

No foreplay.

He slammed me against the slick tile and roughly forced his way in.

Pain shot through me. I bit my lip. My hands did what they were trained to do—grip his broad back, match his rhythm.

This was the interest I had to pay on my mother's debt.

Suddenly, he stopped.

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at the marks on his neck.

"You see this?" he rasped, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not curious who did it?"

My heart skipped a beat, but I kept the perfect, fake smile plastered on my face.

"I'm your canary, Rocco, not your wife." I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his Adam's apple. "It's not my place to wonder where my keeper has been."

Rocco's eyes went dark.

That wasn't the answer he wanted.

The last bit of warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold rage.

"Good girl," he sneered. "Since you know your place, you'll take it."

The storm broke. There was no tenderness, only punishment. Every thrust was meant to pin me, to break me, to shatter what was left of my soul.

I remembered trying to fight back once,three years ago.

The day he came to me smelling of another woman, I finally found the courage to speak, my voice trembling. "If someone else already fed you, why are you here?"

Rocco just took a slow drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.

"Know your place, Clara," he said, his voice flat. "The affection I show you? I can take it back anytime. Your dignity… I bought and paid for it."

From that day on, I learned. I was nothing more than Don Rocco Moretti's canary.

…

When it was all over, the bathroom was a wreck.

I slid to the floor, my body limp, my legs shaking too much to stand.

I braced myself against the wall, about to push myself up to wash the filth out of my body.

"Don't move."

Rocco's voice came from above. He cut the water and wrapped a towel around his waist.

I thought he would leave, but instead, he walked behind me, slowly lowered himself, and gathered me into his arms from behind.

His warm, hard chest pressed against my cold back. His palm rested on my lower stomach, his thumb drawing lazy, absent-minded circles.

The sudden intimacy made my body go rigid.

His voice, low and rough with afterglow, rumbled against my ear.

"Clara," he murmured. "Didn't you say you liked my scent?"

I didn't understand what he was doing. I could only manage a stiff nod.

He chuckled, kissing my earlobe, his tone a lazy, possessive command.

"Then don't wash it off. Keep it on you for a day. There's a reward for you tomorrow."

I lowered my head. "Yes, Rocco," I whispered.

The next morning, I woke up in an empty bed.

The space beside me was already cold. Rocco was gone.

My phone lit up. A message from my friend, Chloe. A link to an Instagram post.

But a second later, the message was unsent.

Immediately, a new one from Chloe popped up:

"SHIT! Clara, you didn't see that, did you? I'm so sorry, I sent it to the wrong person! My thumb slipped! Whatever you do, don't get curious and click it!"

The more she insisted, the heavier the dread in my stomach grew.

I tapped the red icon.

My feed was flooded. Every gossip site had the same picture.

It was a candid shot.

In a dimly lit, private poker room, Rocco was leaning back in his chair. A woman in a red dress was draped in his lap.

In the photo, she was holding a tube of dark red lipstick, provocatively painting his lips with it. Rocco’s head was tilted back, the bite mark on his neck on full display.

My eyes drifted down to the caption that had set New York's elite on fire:

"The King and his Queen."