Contract Marriage with a Cruel Mafia Boss
Isabella’s POV
I weaved through the crowd, my tray wobbling with cheap whiskey shots, my hands trembling like they always did when the memory hit. My father’s scream. The crack of a gunshot. Blood pooling on the kitchen floor, thick and dark, while I stood frozen, eighteen and helpless, my mother’s lifeless hand still clutching mine. A year later, the nightmare clung to me like damp rot, seeping into every quiet moment. I blinked it away, forcing my feet to move, my lips to curve into a smile for the leering men tossing crumpled bills my way.
“Hey, sweetheart, another round!” a guy with a crooked nose bellowed, his breath sour as he grabbed for my wrist. I dodged, heart thudding, and muttered something about being right back. The bar was a blur—glasses clinking, laughter too loud, the jukebox spitting out some old Italian ballad that made my chest ache. I needed this job, needed the measly tips to keep a roof over my head, but every night felt like wading through quicksand. I was surviving, barely, darting from one dive to another, always looking over my shoulder for the ghosts that never stopped chasing me.
I turned too fast, my sneaker catching on a sticky patch of floor, and crashed hard into a wall of muscle. My tray tipped, glasses shattering, whiskey splashing across a pristine black suit. I gasped, stumbling back, my hands flying up to steady myself. Strong fingers clamped around my wrist, tight enough to bruise, and I looked up—straight into eyes like winter frost, sharp and unyielding, set in a face carved from stone. Dark hair fell over his forehead, and his jaw ticked with barely restrained anger. The air around him felt heavy, dangerous, like the calm before a storm rips a city apart.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said, voice low and smooth, but it carried an edge that made my skin prickle. His grip tightened, his thumb brushing my pulse point, and I flinched when his other hand grazed my waist, steadying me. Something about the way he looked at me—those icy gray eyes boring into my hazel ones—made my breath catch, not just from fear but something else I couldn’t name. It was too much, too close. I yanked my hand free and swung, my palm cracking across his cheek with a sound that cut through the bar’s noise.
The room went quiet, or maybe it was just the blood rushing in my ears. His head barely moved, but his eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. I stood my ground, chest heaving, my hand stinging like I’d slapped a brick wall. “Don’t touch me,” I spat, voice shaking but loud enough for the gawkers to hear. The bar’s patrons stared, some smirking, others shrinking back like they knew something I didn’t.
He tilted his head, a slow, predatory move, and a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “You’ve got fire,” he said, almost to himself, rubbing his jaw where my handprint bloomed red. “That’s a mistake you’ll regret.” His voice was velvet over steel, and before I could blink, two men in dark suits materialized behind him, their faces blank but their hands hovering near their jackets. My stomach dropped. I’d just slapped a man who looked like he owned the shadows, and now I was cornered.
“Take her,” he said, not breaking eye contact with me. His words were a blade, precise and final. I tried to bolt, but the men were faster, their hands like iron on my arms, dragging me toward the back exit. “Let me go!” I screamed, kicking, my sneakers scraping the floor. The bar’s crowd parted, no one daring to intervene. The man with the icy eyes watched, unblinking, as I was hauled into the night.
The alley was cold, the air sharp with the tang of garbage and gasoline. A black car idled under a flickering streetlamp, its engine purring like a caged beast. I thrashed, but the men’s grips were unrelenting, their faces carved from stone. My heart hammered, my mind racing with images of my father’s blood, my mother’s scream. Was this how it ended? Another body in an alley, another ghost in my nightmares? The man from the bar strode toward us, his long coat billowing like a dark wing, his presence swallowing the light. He stopped inches from me, close enough I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, like gunpowder.
“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice cracking but defiant. I hated how small I felt under his gaze, how my knees trembled despite the fire in my chest. He didn’t answer, just studied me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided to solve or destroy. His fingers twitched, and I noticed the glint of a ring on his hand, engraved with a crest I didn’t recognize. Everything about him screamed power—dangerous, untouchable power.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. He nodded to the men, and they shoved me into the car’s backseat, the leather cold against my skin. I lunged for the door, but it locked with a heavy click. The man slid in beside me, his thigh brushing mine, and I pressed myself against the window, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to anchor myself. The car pulled away, the city blurring past—neon signs, graffiti-streaked walls, the life I’d been clawing to hold onto slipping away.
He leaned back, one arm draped over the seat, his eyes never leaving me. “You slapped me,” he said, almost conversational, but there was a glint in his gaze that made my blood run cold. “Nobody does that and walks away.”
“Then let me walk,” I shot back, my voice steadier now, fueled by the same reckless fire that made me hit him. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m not your toy.”
His laugh was short, sharp, like a blade slicing through silk. “Oh, you’re not a toy,” he said, leaning closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re trouble. And I’m going to enjoy breaking you.” My stomach twisted, fear and defiance warring inside me. I wanted to scream, to claw at him, but his presence pinned me in place, a predator sizing up prey.
The car slowed, pulling into a gated estate, the iron gates creaking open to reveal a mansion that loomed like a fortress in the moonlight. Marble columns, manicured hedges, windows dark as secrets—it was beautiful and terrifying, like the man beside me. The car stopped, and he grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, not painful, but it sent a jolt through me, electric and wrong.
“Welcome to my world, Isabella,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a threat. How did he know my name? My heart stuttered, but before I could speak, he leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Take off your clothes.”
My breath caught, eyes widening as he pulled back, a gun now in his hand, hanging loosely but pointed at me. “I said,” he stepped closer, towering over me, the barrel grazing my temple, “untie that pretty little blouse and open your pants. Now.”
I froze, heart slamming against my ribs, the cold metal kissing my skin. His eyes were unreadable, a storm of ice and fire, and I realized I’d stumbled into something far bigger than a bar fight. Who was this man? And what did he want with me? The gun pressed harder, and my hands shook as I reached for my blouse, my mind screaming one question: How was I going to survive him?
