The Mafia’s Obsession

The first thing I noticed was the blood on his shoe. A gun he was holding loosely because obviously he's done using it. A man lying right in his own pool of blood.

I’d found the door by accident. A plain grey one, propped open, in a hallway I never should’ve been in. 

One wrong turn after leaving the bathroom, and instead of finding Priya at the bar, I walked down a concrete staircase into a room I wasn’t meant to see.

Four men. One was on his knees. Three were standing. The tall one in the dark suit held a gun loosely at his side, as he had finished with it.

 The man on the floor wasn’t moving. Blood pooled on the concrete near his head.

I froze in the doorway, clutch pressed tight against my ribs, heart hammering in my ears.

His eyes met mine. Calm. Too calm. He had a sharp, handsome face that would’ve been attractive in any other situation. 

Dark suit, dark eyes, the kind of presence that filled the whole room without trying.

“Who the hell is she?” another whispered.

I should’ve run. But my feet wouldn’t move. After a few seconds, I tried anyway—turning and making it four steps up the stairs.

“Stop.”

The command was quiet but sounded final.

“What happens if I don’t?” I asked him trying not to be obviously scared.

“You won’t like the answer.”

I turned around fully.

He’d already moved to the bottom of the stairs, silent as a shadow. He looked up at me from three steps below.

“I’m guessing this isn’t part of the regular club experience,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady too.

“No.”

“Good. For a second I was worried about the reviews.”

One of the men behind him almost laughed before catching himself but the tall man didn’t smile.

“Come down.”

I hesitated.

“That wasn’t a request,” he said out again.

I came down.

“Your name,” he said.

“Alexandria.”

“Last name.”

I swallowed. 

“I think we’ve skipped a few steps for that.”

His eyes narrowed. One of his men stepped forward. 

“Boss, let me—”

“Quiet.”

The man shut up instantly.

 “Your phone.”

I gave it to him. He passed it to one of the others.

 “Check it.”

While they scrolled through my phone, he kept watching me.

“How long have you been down here?” he asked.

“Long enough.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted. He didn’t move, but something in the air changed. His men tensed.

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Afraid people don’t talk this much.”

I was terrified. My legs were shaking, but I kept my chin up.

 “Afraid people don’t stand still either. You’re getting mixed signals.”

He nodded and gave out a very dangerous smirk.

“She’s clean, boss. Mostly building plans and apartment listings.”

“I know,” the tall man said quietly.

He already knew? My stomach dropped.

“Your last name,” he repeated.

 “Russo.”

The shift was immediate. His posture changed, subtle but unmistakable. His men went still.

“Matteo Bellini,” he said, like the name itself was a warning.

Everyone in this city knew that name. The Bellini family. Legitimate businesses on top, blood and shadows underneath. He was the heir.

I felt the ground tilt under me.

“Well,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light,

 “This definitely isn’t how I saw my night going.”

He didn’t smile. “You’re coming with me.”

I made him promise my friend Priya upstairs wouldn’t be touched. He gave his word. I believed him—mostly.

The car ride was silent at first. Black windows, city lights sliding past. After ten minutes, I couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“So… kidnapping or extremely aggressive hospitality?”

Matteo glanced at me. 

“You should be more careful about what you say.”

“If I start screaming, will that help?”

“No.”

“Then talking feels more useful.”

The penthouse was on the twenty -first floor. All glass and dark wood. Expensive and cold. He showed me to a room down the east hallway.

“Don’t bother with the elevator or the service stairs,” he said.

Of course, he’d noticed me checking exits.

Hours later, I slipped out to the kitchen for water. The city glittered far below, completely out of reach.

“You couldn’t sleep.” I heard a voice.

I turned. Matteo stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, watching me.

“My father,” I said quietly. “What does he owe you?”

“That’s a conversation for tomorrow.”

“I’d rather have it now.”

“I know what you’d rather,” he replied. “Doesn’t change anything.”

I set my glass down. “You knew my name before I said it. You knew who I was the second I walked through that door.”

“You walked through the wrong door,” he said finally, voice low.

 “I didn’t plan that part. But the rest… was already in motion.”

I stared at him across the dim kitchen. 

“I’m going to leave. Maybe not today. But I will. And it won’t be because you let me.”

Matteo set his glass down carefully.

 “You think I don’t know what it’s like to spend years planning an escape?”

The words hung between us. For a moment then—A sharp metallic sound echoed from deeper in the penthouse.

Matteo’s head snapped toward the hallway. His hand went inside his jacket.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

I didn’t. I turned.

And in the reflection of the dark glass, I saw someone standing right behind me.