Taming the Mafia Lord

Five hundred dollars. That was the total sum of my four years at state college, tucked into crisp white envelopes from aunts and uncles I barely saw. I sat on the faded linoleum of my living room floor, stacking the twenties into neat piles.

Bam!

The sound wasn't a knock. It was an explosion. The deadbolt gave way with a sickening screech of tearing wood, and the front door flew completely off its hinges, crashing flat onto the coffee table. Glass shattered everywhere.

I scrambled backward, my boots skidding on the linoleum, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Three guys filled the doorway. They weren't street thugs; they wore tailored dark suits that didn't stretch despite the massive shoulders underneath. The first two stepped inside, clearing the room with cold, practiced eyes, before dragging a third man between them.

"Dad!" I screamed.

Enzo Rossi looked unrecognizable. His left eye was swollen shut, leaking a dark stream of crimson down his cheek. His white button-down shirt was shredded, soaked through with sweat and blood. They dropped him like a sack of wet cement. He hit the floor with a hollow groan, coughing violently.

"Valentina..." he wheezed, spitting blood onto the rug. "Run."

"Shut up, Enzo," the largest man in the front growled. He had a thick neck and a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He stepped toward my dad, raising a heavy leather shoe.

"Get away from him!" I lunged forward, my hands acting before my brain could stop them. My fingers wrapped around the heavy ceramic vase on the side table—the one Mom left behind before she died. I held it over my shoulder like a baseball bat, my hands shaking so violently the water sloshed out over my knuckles. "Step back! I swear to God, I'll crack your skull open!"

The scarred man stopped. He looked at the vase, then looked at me. A slow, mocking grin spread across his face.

"Look at this, boys," he said, not taking his eyes off me. "The old man's got a tiger."

"Don't touch him," I breathed, my voice cracking. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"We're just the delivery service, sweetheart," Viktor said.

In a flash, his hand shot out. He didn't even look like he was trying. His fingers clamped around my wrist like a steel vice. I gasped as the pressure forced my fingers to open. The ceramic vase slipped, hitting the floor and shattering into a hundred sharp pieces.

He didn't hit me. He just shoved me back onto the couch, hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.

Before I could get my breath back, he reached into his inner pocket. He didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It was already ringing, the screen flashing an unknown number. He swiped the screen, pressed a button, and held the phone out toward my face.

"Talk," Viktor ordered.

I stared at the screen, my chest heaving. "I'm not talking to anyone until you tell me why you're hurting my father."

"Take the phone, Valentina," a voice came through the speaker.

The sound of it stopped the air in my throat. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was a deep, smooth baritone, completely calm, yet it carried an underlying weight that sent a physical shiver straight down my spine. It sounded like a man who owned the room he was sitting in, and every room adjacent to it.

My hand shook as I reached out and took the device from the enforcer's grip. I pressed it to my ear. "Who is this?"

"The man who currently owns your father's life," the voice replied smoothly. "And by extension, yours. Put me on speaker. I want Enzo to hear this clearly."

I pulled the phone back and tapped the icon with a trembling thumb. "You're on speaker. Speak."

"Enzo," the voice said, filling the quiet apartment. "Can you hear me?"

My dad lifted his head from the floor, his chest rattling as he took a breath. "I can hear you. Please. Leave her out of this. She doesn't know anything. She just graduated today. Please."

"You should have thought about your daughter's graduation before you sat at my high-stakes table, Enzo," the voice said, entirely unmoved by the begging. "You played. You lost. And then you tried to double down with money that does not exist in any bank account you possess."

"I can get it!" Dad cried out, his voice cracking with pure terror. "I just need a week! Five days! I have connections, I can scrape it together!"

"With what collateral?" the voice asked, a faint tone of amusement breaking through. "You've remortgaged the house twice. Your business is a shell. You spent the last four years drowning in debt, and tonight, you drowned completely. You owe me four million dollars, Enzo."

Four million.

The number echoed in my head, making my brain stall out. I looked down at the neat stacks of twenty-dollar bills on the floor. Five hundred dollars. We weren't even in the same universe.

"Four million?" I blurted out, gripping the phone tightly. "That's impossible! He doesn't have that kind of money! Nobody gives a loan like that to a man like him!"

"I don't give loans, Valentina. I accept bets," the voice corrected me gently, though the coldness behind the words remained sharp. "Your father assured my pit boss that his markers were backed by elite assets. He lied."

"Please," Dad sobbed, his shoulders shaking as he collapsed back onto the floor. "Please, don't do this."

"The debt must be settled tonight," the voice said. "Since you have no liquidity, we move to the secondary agreement."

"What secondary agreement?" I asked, my voice rising in panic. I looked up at the three men in suits. They hadn't moved an inch. They stood there like statues, watching me with dead eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"The only asset your father has left of any value," the voice said. "You."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"No!" Dad screamed, trying to push himself up from the floor, but the second enforcer immediately stepped forward and planted a heavy boot firmly into the center of his back, pinning him flat against the linoleum. Dad gasped, the air leaving him in a ragged choke.

"Get off him!" I yelled, reaching out, but Viktor stepped between us, blocking my view.

"Listen to me very carefully, Valentina," the voice on the phone commanded, drawing my attention back to the receiver. The tone had lost its amusement. It was pure steel now. "Don't bother packing. My men are bringing you to me right now."

"I am not going anywhere with them!" I hissed, tears finally hot against my eyelids, though I refused to let them fall. "I'll call the police! The second they touch me, I'll scream!"

"You can scream all the way to the car if it makes you feel better," the voice said calmly. "But let me make the rules of this evening entirely transparent for you. If you fight them, if you delay them, or if you attempt to call for help... your father doesn't make it to midnight. Do you understand me?"

I looked at the digital clock on the microwave across the room. 11:14 PM.

Forty-six minutes.

"You're insane," I whispered.

"I am a businessman," the voice replied. "And your forty-six minutes are already ticking away. Put the phone in Viktor's hand, Valentina. And get in the car."

The line went dead with a sharp click.

The apartment was dead silent except for my dad's heavy, ragged breathing under the enforcer's boot. Viktor—the scarred man—extended his large, calloused hand toward me, his fingers gesturing for the phone.

"Time to go, girl," Viktor said.

I looked down at my dad. His one open eye met mine, filled with a desperate, silent pleading. He shook his head slightly, a tiny movement against the floorboards, telling me not to do it. But I knew what happened to people who owed money to men with voices like that. If I stayed, he died.

I dropped the phone into Viktor's palm.

"Let him up," I said, my voice shaking but loud enough to fill the room. "Let him up right now, or I swear to God I will throw myself out of the moving car."

Viktor stared at me for a long beat, then gave a short, sharp nod to the man pinning my dad down. The heavy boot lifted. My dad rolled over, clutching his ribs, coughing violently.

"Valentina... no... don't do this," he groaned.

"Keep your mouth shut, Enzo," Viktor warned, grabbing my upper arm in a grip that felt like handcuffs. He began pulling me toward the ruined doorway, past the splintered frame and out into the dark, rain-slicked hallway of our building. "Moving time."

"Dad!" I called back, my boots splashing through the spilled water from the broken vase as they dragged me into the night.