A Deal With The Mafia Lord.

Chapter 5.

The room was draped in shadows, dim light flickering from a vintage chandelier overhead. It was just the three of them—Jasmine, Jerald, and the lawyer—but the weight in the air made it feel like something far greater loomed over them.

Jasmine sat at the edge of a long mahogany table, her arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle. Her posture exuded confidence, but deep inside, a storm raged.

Opposite her, Jerald DeLuca leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests like a king surveying his next conquest. His gaze, dark and unreadable, never strayed from her.

It burned. Blazed.

Jasmine refused to flinch.

The lawyer walked in, carrying a pristine leather file in one hand. He bowed to Jerald before taking a seat. No words were spoken. The moment had begun.

The moment that would change her life forever.

With the silence thickening, the lawyer slid the contract across the table. The soft rustle of paper against wood was deafening.

Jasmine’s eyes flickered downward, finally breaking from Jerald’s searing stare.

Her name was already printed on the document.

All that was left was her signature. She didn't need to worry about how he could easily get her name crested on a file. He was a man of affluence. He could easily command it.

She took a steady breath, her fingers grazing the edges of the file. The fine parchment felt heavier than it should have, as if the ink itself carried the weight of something irreversible.

She read.

Every clause. Every term. Every requirement.

Everything seemed… standard. Almost too standard. No tricks, no hidden agendas. Nothing screamed dangerous.

Until her gaze landed on the pay.

Her breath hitched.

Her throat tightened.

Her fingers clenched the contract as if she needed something to anchor her.

Her salary as Vice President of the insurance company—two years’ worth of grueling work, sleepless nights, and unrelenting stress—didn’t even come close to what was being offered here.

For one month.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage.

Her eyes lifted, darting between the lawyer and Jerald.

“This…” Her voice faltered for the first time since stepping into the room. It was the tiniest crack, but Jerald caught it—his gaze sharpening like a predator spotting weakness.

“Is this real?” she asked, disbelief tainting her tone.

The lawyer barely reacted. His professionalism was carved from steel. “Whatever you see in that document is real, Miss Jasmine.”

She swallowed.

Her hand was damp against the paper, her body betraying the iron-clad control she always prided herself on.

The lawyer’s voice cut through her swirling thoughts.

“My client has a lot of money, Miss Jasmine.” A pause. “He does not make jokes.”

Jasmine exhaled sharply, blinking down at the contract.

It was a ridiculous amount. An amount that could save her.

But at what cost?

She thought she had already come to terms with this, but now, staring at the cold, hard reality—a signature away from selling herself—it clawed at something inside her.

A bitter voice sneered in her head. Look at yourself. Nothing but a desperate slut willing to trade dignity for money.

Her jaw clenched.

The lawyer noticed her hesitation. He opened his mouth, but—

A single raised finger from Jerald silenced him.

Jasmine stiffened.

No words. No commands. Just one gesture, and the man who had been speaking confidently shut down instantly.

The power in that simple act sent a shiver up her spine.

Jerald didn’t move, but his presence stretched across the room, pushing into every corner, suffocating, overpowering. His gaze never wavered from her, calculating, waiting.

Jasmine forced herself to breathe.

She had come here with a goal.

To make money, heal, and prepare for proper revenge.

Her family’s face flickered through her mind. The blood. The pain. The loss.

Her fingers tightened around the pen.

She ignored the self-loathing. The shame. The nagging voice whispering that she was no better than the women she once mocked for selling themselves to survive.

She signed.

The ink glided smoothly against the paper, sealing her fate in flawless cursive.

A name that now belonged to him.

The lawyer nodded. “Your room has been prepared—”

Jasmine’s head snapped up.

“Room?”

The lawyer’s expression remained impassive. “Everything was in the contract, Miss Jasmine.”

Her pulse spiked.

She must have skimmed past that part.

Shit.

But she wasn’t about to admit it.

She merely swallowed, gave a stiff nod, and forced herself to remain composed.

The lawyer packed his files neatly, stood, and made his exit.

And then—

The air changed.

The silence stretched, dark and suffocating, as Jasmine found herself alone with him.

Jerald didn’t move immediately. He simply sat there, staring, unreadable.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he rose.

The leather chair creaked softly as he stood, but the sound was drowned out by the pounding of Jasmine’s heart.

He simply stood there.

Towering. Unyielding. A force of nature.

His presence alone thickened the air, filling the dimly lit room with something heavy, something suffocating.

Jasmine fought to keep her breathing steady, but the pressure of his unwavering gaze made it feel like she was being peeled apart, layer by layer.

And then—he stepped forward.

One step.

The sound of his Italian leather shoes meeting the polished floor was deceptively soft, but to Jasmine, it crashed like a warning shot through her chest.

Two steps.

Heat coiled in her stomach, an instinctual reaction to danger, to power, to the sheer weight of him.

Three steps.

By the time he reached her, his presence had devoured the space between them.

The air turned electric.

The heat of his body licked at her skin, even without touching her.

Jasmine clenched her fists against the table’s edge, willing herself not to react, not to pull away, not to show a single ounce of weakness.

She had never let a man intimidate her before.

She wasn’t about to start now.

Jerald tilted his head, studying her.

His almond-shaped brown eyes held a depth that dared her to drown, and yet—there was something dangerous lurking beneath them.

Something possessive.

Something undeniably lethal.

His fingers lifted—slow, controlled.

Jasmine flinched.

It was so slight, barely noticeable, but it didn’t escape Jerald’s keen gaze.

A ghost of a smirk brushed his lips.

His fingertips found her chin, tilting it up—gently, but undeniably firm.

Jasmine stilled.

A cold shiver licked down her spine, but she didn’t pull away.

She wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

Jerald’s thumb traced the faintest line along the curve of her jaw, his touch featherlight, but his dominance bled into every inch of it.

His eyes flickered downward—lingering on her lips.

For a long moment, he just stared.

Not moving. Not speaking.

Just… watching.

It sent a new kind of heat spiraling into her core.

Then, just as slowly, his eyes lifted—locking onto hers once more.

And then, finally— He spoke.

Low. Deep. Absolute.

“As my submissive, the first thing you learn…is to lower your gaze, copper hair.”