The Mafia King's Trophy

Amara

The blood drying on my wedding dress feels like it’s sealing me into this nightmare. I sit stiffly in the back of the SUV, the world rushing past the tinted windows as Matteo Dragonetti chats casually with the men in the front seat. 

His cousins, I think. I’ve tuned most of it out—his smug voice grates on me—but every now and then, his tone sharpens, reminding me that this isn’t over.

I take in his side profile, even though I hate myself for doing it. My captor is all sharp edges and dark allure, the kind of man who looks like he’s stepped out of some brooding mafia fantasy. 

His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, his beard perfectly trimmed, framing full lips that curve into that maddening, arrogant smirk far too often. His dark hair is artfully messy, like he just rolled out of bed but still manages to look better than anyone has a right to.

The tattoos creeping up his neck draw my eyes in ways I hate. Dark, intricate lines snake over his skin, disappearing under the crisp white collar of his shirt. The faint glow from the passing streetlights highlights the ink, giving him a dangerous, predatory air.

But it’s his eyes that stand out most—piercing green, brighter than they should be against the darkness of his features. When they locked on mine earlier, they didn’t just look through me—they burned.

It’s infuriating, really. Someone who looks like him—like sin dipped in sophistication—shouldn’t be capable of the cruelty he wields so easily. It makes his beauty a weapon, a distraction that lures you in just before he strikes.

How can a face so achingly perfect mask the kind of man who storms a wedding and takes someone’s life without blinking?

Handsome or not, Matteo Dragonetti is the devil in a tailored suit. And right now, I’m his prisoner.

I try not to shake, focusing on the pain in my fingers from how tightly I’m holding the fabric. Better that than thinking about the man next to me or the gun still tucked into his waistband.

When the SUV slows, my heart jumps. My breathing becomes uneven, and I grip the door handle to stop myself from breaking down completely. 

The vehicle stops in front of a sprawling mansion that looks more fortress than home. The iron gates, the stone walls, the guards stationed everywhere—it’s a mafia king’s castle.

And I’m the unwelcome guest.

“Out,” Matteo barks, snapping his fingers at me like I’m a dog.

I stay frozen for a beat too long.

His patience is non-existent. He grabs my arm and yanks me out of the SUV, his grip like a vise. “I said out. Don’t make me repeat myself, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, jerking against his hold, but he doesn’t even flinch. His lips curl into a mocking smile, his dark eyes glittering with something that chills me.

“Whatever you say,” he says, tugging me forward so hard I nearly trip. 

My heels snag on the hem of my dress, but Matteo doesn’t slow. I have to half-run to keep up as he pulls me up the stone steps and through the massive double doors. The cold marble floor beneath my shoes is polished to a shine, and the whole place reeks of old money—and blood.

“Move faster,” Matteo growls.

“Maybe you could stop dragging me like a sack of garbage,” I bite out, glaring at the back of his head.

That earns me a sharp tug, and I stumble again. “Keep talking, Amara. I’d love to see how far your mouth gets you.”

The bastard doesn’t stop until we’re standing in front of a heavy wooden door. He opens it without ceremony and shoves me forward into a spacious office. I nearly fall, catching myself on the arm of a leather chair, and whip around, fire burning in my chest.

“You don’t have to manhandle me!”

“Considering the circumstances, you’re lucky I’m not throwing you down the fucking stairs,” he replies, his voice calm but laced with venom. “Sit.”

I cross my arms instead. “No.”

Matteo’s jaw tightens, but before he can respond, a voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. “What’s this?”

My head snaps toward the desk, and I freeze. Matteo’s smugness fades into something sterner as he steps aside. “I brought her, like I said I would.”

Sitting behind the massive oak desk is a man I recognize instantly, though I’ve only ever heard stories. Dante Dragonetti, the monster in the shadows. The one even my father speaks of with fear. He leans back in his chair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, the sharp planes of his face illuminated by the light from a desk lamp.

“Il drago,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

Dante chuckles, low and rumbling, like thunder. “They still use that name? How quaint.” His gaze sweeps over me, calculating and cold. “This is the Cerulli girl?”

“Amara Cerulli,” Matteo confirms. He sounds almost bored, but his hands are in his pockets, fingers tapping against his thighs like he’s waiting for something to explode.

Dante’s dark eyes settle on me, and the weight of his attention is suffocating. “You don’t look like much. Hardly worth all the trouble.”

I lift my chin, defiance sparking through my fear. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

The room goes still. Matteo makes a noise of disbelief, and Dante tilts his head, looking almost amused. Almost.

“Bold,” Dante says, setting his glass down on the desk. “I’ll give you that. But boldness only gets you so far in my world, ragazza. If you want to stay alive, I suggest you think before you speak.”

“Then maybe you should ask yourself why you kidnapped me,” I fire back, my voice steadier than I expected. “If you think I’m so worthless, why not just kill me and be done with it?”

“Amara,” Matteo warns, stepping closer, but Dante holds up a hand, stopping him.

“I like her,” Dante says, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got fire. That’ll make breaking her all the more satisfying.”

“I’m not something to be broken,” I snap, glaring at both of them. My heart pounds in my chest, but I refuse to let them see how terrified I am.

Dante chuckles again, shaking his head. “Oh, Matteo. You’ve brought me a handful.”

“She’ll learn her place soon enough,” Matteo replies, his tone clipped. “I didn’t bring her here for entertainment.”

“No, you brought her here for vengeance,” Dante says, leaning forward. His gaze locks on mine, sharp and unyielding. “You’ll sit pretty in this house until we’ve decided what to do with you, Amara. Maybe we’ll trade you back. Maybe we’ll keep you. That depends on how useful you prove to be.”

“I won’t help you,” I spit, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

Dante shrugs, as if my words mean nothing. “That’s what they all say in the beginning.” He nods toward Matteo. “Take her upstairs. She needs to clean up. The smell of blood is distracting.”

Matteo grabs my arm again, his grip even tighter this time. “Come on, Princess.”

I dig my heels into the floor. “Stop calling me that!”

He doesn’t respond, just drags me out of the office. My chest heaves as I try to keep up, my fear boiling into anger. When we reach the second floor, he yanks me down a long hallway and into a spacious bedroom. It’s elegant but cold, with dark wood floors and heavy curtains.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he says, releasing me with a push that makes me stumble.

I whirl on him, shaking with rage. “You can’t just keep me here like some prisoner! My family will come for me. They’ll—”

“They’ll do nothing,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp as a blade. “They won’t risk starting a full-scale war, not after what happened today. And even if they do try, they’ll fail. Miserably.”

“You think you’re so untouchable, don’t you?” I glare up at him, my chest heaving. “One day, someone’s going to put you in your place.”

He leans down, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with something cold and lethal. “Maybe. But it won’t be you.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to back down, even as my knees threaten to buckle under the weight of his presence.

“Get cleaned up,” he says finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “You’re in for a long stay.”

“And if I don’t?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close enough to make my skin crawl. “Then you’ll stay bloody. Makes no difference to me.”

With that, he steps out of the room and locks the door behind him, leaving me alone. I sink to the edge of the bed, my breathing ragged, my heart pounding. The fire inside me flickers, but it doesn’t go out.

They think they’ve won. They think I’m just a pawn in their game.

But they have no idea who they’re dealing with.