The Mafia Protocol

The rain fell hard against the cracked windshield of Camilla’s beat-up sedan as she pulled into the gravel driveway of her father’s estate. A single dim light flickered above the front door, barely illuminating the ivy-covered walls of the old mansion. It looked abandoned—too quiet, too still.

Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the car, high heels crunching over loose gravel. She hadn’t been here in months. Not since the last screaming match with her father. He’d begged her to stay away, told her things were getting dangerous. She hadn’t listened.

She never did.

Now he wasn’t answering her calls, and his assistant had left her a voicemail in the middle of the night. Come home. Urgently. No details. Just panic in her voice.

Camilla shoved open the heavy door. It wasn’t locked.

“Dad?” she called out, stepping inside.

Silence.

The house was too cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones—not from weather, but from something wrong. Lights were off in the foyer, but the study down the hall glowed faintly. She hesitated, heart in her throat, then followed the light.

And stopped dead.

Someone was sitting in her father’s chair.

A man.

He leaned back like he owned the place, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than her entire college tuition. A single ring on his pinky caught the lamplight—a silver serpent wrapped around a black stone. His dark hair was slicked back, a lazy smile playing on lips that held no warmth. Sharp eyes watched her, as if he’d been expecting her all along.

“Who the hell are you?” she snapped, fear masked by defiance.

The man tilted his head, amused. “Camilla Moretti. I was hoping you’d come.”

She stiffened. “Where’s my father?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, moving with predatory grace. He walked toward her slowly, like a lion circling prey. When he finally stopped just inches from her, she could smell danger on him—rich cologne, leather, and something darker.

“I’m Riccardo Falcone,” he said smoothly. “Your father owed me a great deal of money. Gambling debts, poor investments. The usual sins.”

Her blood went cold. The name hit her like a slap.

Falcone.

Everyone in New York knew that name. The Falcone family didn’t deal in empty threats. They were brutal, efficient, and untouchable. And Riccardo? He was the devil himself—heir to the Falcone empire, rumored to have blood on his hands before he could drive.

“He… he said he paid it off,” Camilla whispered, backing up a step. “He promised—”

Riccardo pulled a folder from the desk and dropped it onto the coffee table. It landed with a soft thud, flipping open to reveal a contract. Legal. Binding. Her father’s signature at the bottom.

“He paid nothing,” Riccardo said coldly. “In fact, he tried to run. We found him two nights ago in Tijuana. Dead.”

Camilla’s knees nearly buckled. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie, Camilla. I don’t need to.”

Her fingers trembled as she stared at the contract. She didn’t understand all the legal jargon, but one sentence stood out like a scream in her mind: Collateral: Camilla Moretti.

No.

“No,” she said aloud, backing away. “You can’t—he had no right. I’m not a piece of—of property!”

Riccardo stepped in front of her escape, calm and unmoved. “I disagree. He signed over what he valued most. You. In exchange for mercy he never lived long enough to receive.”

“You can’t do this,” she hissed. “This is insane.”

“I already did.” He pulled out a sleek black pen and held it out to her. “You have two choices, Camilla. Sign this marriage contract, or I collect in blood.”

She stared at the pen like it was a loaded gun.

“Marry me? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s only for one year. After that, you walk. Debt cleared. Freedom returned. Simple.”

“Simple?” she spat. “You want me to live with you? Sleep with you? Be your—your wife?”

His smile deepened. “Wife, yes. Anything more… that depends on you.”

Her heart raced. Was this a sick joke? Some twisted game?

“You’re a monster.”

“And yet you’re still standing here.” He looked her up and down with a quiet intensity. “Don’t flatter yourself, Camilla. I didn’t want a bride. But I wanted your father’s loyalty, and now I want what he offered.”

She looked at the contract again, the words blurring behind her tears. She could run. But where? The Falcones had eyes everywhere. And if what he said was true…

Her father was already dead.

“Why not just kill me?” she whispered.

“Because death is easy,” he said, his voice softer now, more dangerous. “I want to own you. Break you. Rebuild you.”

Silence stretched between them like a wire pulled tight.

“Your year starts the moment you sign.”

Camilla looked at the pen in his hand.

One year.

One devil.

No escape.

And yet… if she played it right, if she survived this, she could learn things. Secrets. Power. Maybe even a way to burn the Falcones to the ground from the inside.

So she took the pen.

And signed her soul away.