Obsession of the Mafia King

The rain hit the windshield like bullets, each drop sharp, urgent—like the pounding in Amara’s chest.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles pale, as the wipers struggled against the storm. Naples was cloaked in darkness, the alleyways smeared in shadow, lit only by flickering neon signs and the occasional flash of lightning. Her old Renault coughed with exhaustion as it crawled up the narrow street.

This wasn’t where she wanted to be.

This wasn’t the life she was supposed to live.

She was supposed to be in Florence right now, sketching marble statues in art school, sipping coffee in old piazzas—not driving to a mafia king’s estate to beg for her father’s life.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the crumpled letter from her bag—ink smudged, paper damp.

> “You owe me, Lorenzo Voss. And if your daughter doesn’t walk through my gates by midnight, your blood is the price.”

— Dante Moretti

Terror constricted her throat like a noose.

She hated her father. Hated the gambling, the lies, the way he had abandoned her when her mother died. But she couldn’t let him die—couldn’t let the Mafia turn him into another nameless corpse in the Amalfi cliffs.

The gates appeared like black jaws in front of her, towering, cold, ancient iron.

Two armed guards in tailored black suits approached, guns holstered on their belts. One of them eyed her small car like it was a joke.

“Name?” the taller one asked in Italian, brows furrowed.

She swallowed. “Amara Voss.”

They exchanged a glance.

The gate opened with a groan that reminded her of coffins.

And then she was in.

---

The Moretti estate was not a house. It was a fortress.

Stone walls surrounded a Roman-style villa that looked like it had survived wars and built empires. The driveway was lined with flame-lit torches, dancing in the wind like warnings. Marble statues stared at her, lifeless eyes watching, judging.

She parked as directed and stepped out of the car, shivering from the wind and the dread knotting in her stomach.

A butler—yes, a real butler—approached.

“Miss Voss. You are expected. This way.”

His tone was emotionless, like reading a death sentence.

She was led through tall mahogany doors into a vast hall with gold-framed oil paintings, cathedral ceilings, and black chandeliers dripping with crystals. Everything smelled of cold stone and cologne—rich, ancient, masculine.

She tried not to tremble.

But then...

She felt him.

Before she even saw him, she knew he was there. His presence rolled through the room like thunder. Heavy. Dominant. Dangerous.

And then he stepped out from the shadows.

Dante Moretti.

The Devil himself.

Amara’s breath caught.

He was taller than she’d imagined, maybe 6'3", dressed in all black—suit tailored perfectly over a body forged from violence. His black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a tattoo that slithered down his neck, and his dark eyes... those eyes were merciless. Cold. Bottomless. As if God had forgotten to put light in them.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t greet her.

He just stared.

“I expected you sooner,” he said, voice deep, Italian accent sharp like broken glass. “Do you always take your time when your father’s life is on the line?”

Amara’s mouth opened, but no words came.

He walked toward her slowly, predatory. The room seemed to shrink with each step.

“I—I'm here,” she whispered. “You said... if I came, you’d let him go.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I said I’d consider it.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’re a liar.”

A low chuckle escaped him, dark and amused.

“I’m a mafia king, tesoro. Not a priest.”

He was close now. Too close. She could see the scar near his jaw, the ink on his collarbone, the shadow of stubble that somehow made him look more dangerous and devastating at the same time.

“And now that you’re here,” he murmured, voice dropping, “we can settle your father’s debt.”

She straightened. “How much does he owe?”

Dante smirked. “Money?”

He stepped even closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She flinched.

“No, amore. I have more money than God. Your father didn’t gamble with cash.”

Her stomach sank. “Then what?”

“You.”

She froze.

The word hit like a bullet to the chest.

“What... what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Dante said slowly, like savoring a wine, “your father offered you as collateral. He knew what would happen when he failed to repay. He gave you to me. As payment. As property.”

“No—” Amara took a step back. “That’s not legal! You can’t own a person!”

“In my world, I can.” His voice turned icy. “You should be grateful I accepted. The alternative would’ve been... messy.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“Let him go,” she said. “If you want me—fine. But let him go.”

Dante’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

“Done.”

She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t have a choice.

“Then what now?” she whispered.

“Now?” He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body. “Now you live here. You sleep here. You eat what I give you. Wear what I choose. Breathe when I allow it.”

Amara’s heart thundered.

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re worse. You’re mine.”

---

The next morning, the sun dared to shine over Naples—but not into the Moretti estate.

Amara sat in a velvet chair in the guest room—if you could call it that. It was larger than her entire apartment. Marble floors. Four-poster bed. Gold-framed mirrors. Silk sheets. And yet, she felt caged.

She had slept in her clothes, too afraid to touch anything.

The door opened, and a woman in a gray suit entered.

“Good morning, Miss Voss. My name is Bianca. I’m Mr. Moretti’s assistant. I’ll help you prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” Amara asked flatly.

“You are to dine with him this evening.”

“Like a date?”

Bianca’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Like an order.”

She left a dress on the bed. It was black. Sleek. Expensive.

And backless.

Amara stared at it in horror. “I’m not wearing that.”

“You will. Or Mr. Moretti will dress you himself.”

She blushed with rage—and fear.

“Fine.”

---

That night, Amara entered the dining hall like a lamb walking into a lion’s den.

Dante was already seated, swirling wine in a glass. The table was long, too long for two people, yet he had her seat prepared next to him.

“You clean up nicely,” he said without looking at her.

“I’m not here for compliments.”

“No. You’re here because your father is a piece of sh—” he paused, looking at her sharply. “You don’t deserve to pay for his sins. But life isn’t fair, is it?”

She said nothing.

The meal was decadent—lamb, roasted figs, fine wine. Amara barely touched it.

Dante leaned in, voice low. “Eat. Or I’ll feed you myself.”

She met his gaze. “Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t blink. “Because I can.”

---

Later that night, she wandered into the hallway, heart heavy, mind storming.

That’s when she saw it.

A door. Slightly ajar. Light flickering inside.

She peeked in.

It was a library—towering shelves, dusty books, and...

A photo.

Of her mother.

On the desk.

Framed.

Amara’s heart stopped.

She rushed inside, grabbed the frame. Her mother’s soft smile stared back at her.

“What the hell is this?” she whispered.

A voice behind her made her freeze.

“She meant something to me once.”

Dante.

Standing in the doorway.

Watching.

“She loved you,” he said, voice colder than ever, “but she never told you the truth, did she?”

“What truth?” Amara turned, eyes burning.

“That your mother was once promised to me. That your father stole her. That you were born of betrayal.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“And now you’re mine... just like she should have been.”

Amara dropped the frame. Glass shattered.

“Monster,” she hissed.

Dante’s eyes darkened. But he didn’t deny it.

He stepped closer, cornering her.

“You can hate me all you want,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “But don’t ever forget... you belong to me now, Amara. And I never let go of what’s mine.”