The Mobster’s Menu

The taste of champagne lingered sweetly on her lips. A happy memory from the toast. Violetta’s head felt heavy against the car window. The world outside was just a blur of color and light.

Adam squeezed her knee. “Almost home, baby.” His voice was smooth. Too smooth.

She tried to speak. She wanted to say it had been a perfect night. That her new ring felt like a crown. But her tongue felt thick and wouldn’t cooperate.

The party played back in her mind. Friends were laughing. Proud smiles surrounded her. It was all perfect.

Too perfect.

A sick feeling rolled in her stomach. This was not champagne; it was something else. Something was wrong. The car felt small. Adam’s cologne was too strong. It choked her.

“Adam…” The word felt heavy in her mouth.

“Just rest,” he said. His hand on her knee felt tight. It didn’t feel like love; it felt like ownership.

The last thing she saw was his face illuminated by a passing streetlight. His jaw was hard. His eyes were cold. This was not the face of her fiancé.

Then, everything went black.

She woke up cold.

Her cheek rested on something hard and smooth. The air smelled fresh—like lemons and flowers. It was a strange scent. A rich scent.

She opened her eyes. The room was huge and dark. This was not her bedroom.

Fear shot through her, pushing away the fog in her head. She pushed up on shaky arms. She was on a giant bed with silk sheets and dark colors.

Moonlight came through large windows, revealing a room bigger than her entire apartment. Serious faces in paintings stared at her from the walls.

Her heart raced. She fell off the bed, her feet sinking into a carpet like deep grass.

The door was heavy wood. She turned the knob, and it opened.

The hall outside was expansive. Marble floors and dark wood led to more closed doors. A low sound came from downstairs—a voice, angry, followed by a thick, wet sound—a punch.

“You had one job. One. And you chose to be greedy.”

Her whole body screamed to run, but her feet moved forward. She crept to the top of a grand staircase and looked down.

Men in nice suits formed a circle. A man knelt, his face bloody, tied to a chair.

A man towered over him. He seemed made of shadow and sharp lines, moving like a dangerous animal. He didn’t yell; his quiet voice was worse than anger.

“The Conti family owns you. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

The kneeling man nodded. One man struck him in the stomach. The sound was ugly. Violetta clapped a hand over her mouth.

The standing man watched without showing any emotion. He spoke again.

“A message needs to be sent.”

His hand moved, and a pistol appeared from his jacket. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t shout.

He aimed the gun at the kneeling man’s head and pulled the trigger.

The bang roared, echoing through the house. Violetta jumped back, her shoulder hitting a small table. A vase wobbled, tipped, and fell.

It smashed on the floor below. The noise was sharp—a thousand pieces screaming around her.

Everything stopped.

The men below looked up. Their hands moved toward their guns. The shooter lowered his weapon.

He turned.

His eyes found hers. They were dark, pinning her in place. He was handsome, but in that moment, he represented only death.

Panic washed over her, and she stumbled back. A sharp pain sliced through her foot—she had stepped on broken glass. She cried out, falling against the railing.

Footsteps approached, slow and heavy on the marble. He was coming.

Tears blurred her vision as she held her bleeding foot. She looked up.

He stood there at the stairs, moving up steadily. His eyes never left her. She was frozen.

When he reached the top, he smelled of gun smoke and expensive things. He was tall, his shadow engulfing her. He knelt.

He didn’t speak. He examined her injured foot. His hands were clean; his touch was cool. He pulled out a white cloth from his pocket and pressed it against the cut. The cloth quickly turned red.

His gaze moved from her foot to her face. There was emptiness in his eyes, a calculating look.

Her voice was shaky. "Who are you? Please... don't kill me. Where's Adam? Where's my fiancé?"

The man’s mouth moved. It wasn’t a smile. It felt cold.

"Adam sold you to me. For ten million dollars. He didn't mention a fiancé."