Chapter 2: Yours

There was a problem with my plan, though. Mario Santiago was a 28-year-old, 6’5” trained killer. And me? I was a 5’4”, 22-year-old KFC waitress with zero qualifications for murder.

Before the knife could even graze him, Mario spun around faster than I could blink. One second, I was holding the blade; the next, I was on the floor, flat on my back, and he was standing over me, swinging the knife casually like it was a toy.

I was dead.

There was no doubt about it. I was going to end up in one of those horror stories people whispered about—dumped in a ditch, hacked into pieces, or worse.

Then he grinned.

“I didn’t know you had that in you, Piccola.” His tone was almost playful. “I’m going to marry you.”

I blinked. What?

My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t hear myself think. Mario Santiago—the deadliest man alive—was smiling at me. Talking about marriage. Like I hadn’t just tried to stab him.

What kind of psycho smiles at an attempted murder?

My voice cracked as I scrambled for words. “I swear I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to do it. My mom made me—she threatened me—”

“Threatened you?” He arched a brow, amused. “And this was your plan? Impressive. Stupid, but impressive.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, collapsing to my knees. Pride didn’t matter anymore. I just wanted to survive. “Please, spare my life. I’ll do anything.”

Mario tilted his head, studying me with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the grin faded, and his eyes turned cold.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t try that again,” he said flatly. “Clean up the blood and change into something comfortable.”

Blood? I glanced down and saw the trickle running down his arm. I’d cut him—barely. A shallow scratch at best. He wasn’t even fazed.

I should’ve been terrified. I was terrified. But instead, a single thought echoed in my mind: Why the hell is he so calm?

I didn’t get an answer. Mario turned and walked out, leaving me on the floor, the knife still in his hand. My body felt frozen, pinned by the weight of confusion, fear, and something else I couldn’t name.

This wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.

***

When I woke up, I wasn’t dead. That was the first surprise.

The second surprise came when the footsteps echoed outside the door, and I realized I’d fallen asleep on the cold, hard floor. My body ached as I scrambled to my feet, disoriented and panicked.

Mario stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owned the world. His dark eyes locked on me, sharp and unreadable.

“You never listen, do you?” His tone was calm, almost amused.

I stumbled back, my legs wobbling beneath me. “Please,” I stammered, the words spilling out like a dam had burst. “Please, let me go. I’ll do anything—money, a car, whatever you want. My mom’s going to be worried—”

He laughed.

Not a normal laugh, either. It was low and hollow, the kind of sound that made your stomach drop.

“Your mom?” he said, his voice laced with mockery. “Worried?”

I froze as his laughter grew louder, crueler, until it felt like he was laughing at my entire existence.

“Please,” I whispered again, my voice cracking.

Mario stepped closer, his expression darkening. “You really think anyone’s coming for you?” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You’re so naive, Piccola.”

“What—what do you mean?” My voice shook, sharp and desperate.

He tilted his head, watching me like a predator sizing up its prey. “You think she sent you here to kill me? You think she’s pacing her house right now, waiting for her little girl to come home safe?”

The words didn’t make sense at first. But then, slowly, they started to sink in.

“No,” I said automatically, shaking my head. “No, she wouldn’t—”

“She would.” He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “And she did. Thirty thousand dollars, sweetheart. That’s all it took to sell you to me.”

Thirty thousand.

The number echoed in my head, louder and louder, until it drowned out everything else. That’s all I was worth.

"She loves me..." I whispered more to myself, like that would convince me my mother didn't set me up to sell me off.

He grinned. “Oh, she loves you all right. Thirty thousand bucks’ worth of love, to be exact. Not bad for someone like you, huh?”

Thirty thousand. Thirty fucking thousand dollars. That’s all it took to hand me over to this psycho like I was some secondhand toaster.

“No,” I whispered, the word tasting sour in my mouth. But my body betrayed me, that sick, sinking feeling spreading through my chest, down to my stomach. She did it. I didn’t want to believe it, but deep down, I knew.

A laugh bubbled out of my throat, jagged and hollow. “Wow,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Guess I wasn’t even worth a mid-tier SUV. Good to know.”

The humor didn’t help. The bile rose faster than I could stop it, and I turned just in time to puke all over the expensive rug beneath me. The smell hit immediately—acidic and disgusting—but I didn’t care. Let him be mad. Let him kill me. My mom sold me out for the price of a used car.

“Thirty grand,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Was that before or after taxes?”

Mario arched a brow, clearly amused. “Clean that up,” he said, like I was a maid inconveniencing him.

And for some reason, that’s what broke me. Not the betrayal, not the vomit, not the thirty grand. It was his tone, calm and dismissive, like I was just some maid who’d spilled a drink.

I glared at him, shaking, tears threatening to spill over. “You’re insane,” I spat.

He smiled, taking a step closer. “And you’re mine now.”