The Mafia Heir's Virgin

ZYLA

<><><>

They’re killing someone behind the dumpster at ten pm.

I don’t mean fighting. I mean killing.

One second I’m hauling out bags of wet coffee grounds from the café. The next, I hear a scream that tears down my spine like a sharp blade.

A punch, then begging.

The trash bags slip from my arms with a sickening squelch as I freeze. My breath catches.

“I told you,” A voice growls. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

CRACK.

A foot stomps down hard. Bone snaps.

I drop, my instinct taking over. I crouch behind the dumpster, hands and breath shaking. The smell of burnt oil and used coffee grounds wraps around me like a net.

My brain screams at me to leave. Run.

But before I can move, I hear it.

“That leak cost us twenty grand. Almost got the boss’s son killed. You think Mancini lets rats live?”

Mancini.

My stomach flips at the mention of that name.

A gun clicks.

Then—

BANG.

Silence.

Not the safe kind.

The dead kind that makes me too frozen to leave. Too scared that if I try, they'll see me and shoot me dead.

“He won’t talk anymore,” the killer mutters.

Then there's laughter. Low and ugly. Three men, maybe four.

Someone says something in Italian. I catch one name.

Salvatore.

The name crawls under my skin.

The way it’s said like warning. Like power.

And the fact that I recognize it to be a mafia name.

Footsteps shift. Then… crunching gravel. Closer.

A black boot stops inches from where I crouch.

Air stutters in my chest.

Sirens ring in my head. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

The man turns.

And I see his face.

Cut jawline. Tattoo on his throat. Eyes like winter steel.

And then… he sees me.

I bolt. Immediately.

He yells something, harsh and fast. But I’m already running.

The alley spins. My lungs heave. I hit the street. Horns blare. Rain slicks the sidewalk beneath my shoes, and I almost fall twice.

But I keep running.

Running like I can outrun what I just saw.

~~~

I don’t know how I get home.

Just that it’s past midnight when I stumble into the faded four-story complex I live in.

My hand misses the keyhole twice.

When I finally fit the key in… I stop cold.

The door… was already unlocked.

No, no, no.

I step inside.

Darkness swallows me whole. The light switch doesn’t work. My fingers scramble for the flashlight I keep taped to the wall just inside the door.

I turn it on.

And what the light reveals…

No.

No, no, no.

My apartment’s been ransacked. Ripped apart like prey.

Books shredded. Pages scattered. My old poetry journals, the ones from when I was thirteen, have been slashed apart like they meant nothing. My chest drops at the sight.

My mattress is halfway off the bed. Red stains the sheets.

Blood.

A tremble builds up at the base of my spine.

There’s blood in my room.

And on my pillow… a page. Torn from one of my favorite books.

Words are scrawled across it in red ink:

You saw what you weren’t meant to. We’re coming for you, Little Bookworm.

Little Bookworm.

Only one person ever called me that.

My brother.

No one else. Not even my professors.

My knees give way. I sink to the floor, my heart in my throat, fingers digging into what’s left of the books I love dearly.

They know who I am.

This isn’t random. It’s about what I saw. And it just got personal.

~~~

I don’t stay.

I grab my notebook of unpublished poems. My phone. Charger. Keys. Jacket.

And I rush out.

~~~

The night air slaps me in the face. Cold and Indifferent.

Chicago’s still awake, but it doesn’t care that I’m unraveling.

I open my phone.

One new message from my landlord.

“Leave my house. As soon as possible.”

My breath shudders.

Before I can make sense of the first, another message comes, from the cafe.

“We’re letting you go. Renovating the café early. Sorry.”

A lie.

They’re not renovating anything.

They’re cutting ties. Erasing me.

The panic closing in to my chest tells me it's the work of those people… those murderers.

What the hell did I step into?

I’m not a spy. Not a threat.

I’m only twenty-three, a third-year literature major who works part-time and writes poetry in the margins of receipts.

I read books. That’s all.

But now… I’m running for my life.

~~~

I cross the street blindly.

The next block is quieter. Too quiet.

A low hum grows beside me. I turn.

A sleek black car glides up. The window lowers.

And I see him.

Tarin Ferretti.

Son of the Ferretti Mafia Dynasty.

The boy who used to sit with me under the willow tree and teach me to write poems.

The best friend of my brother who vanished after my brother died.

The one my family told me to stay away from.

He leans forward.

“Get in,” he says, voice low and rough. Urgent. “You’re not safe anymore.”

My heart lodges in my throat. “Why are you here?”

“You were seen,” he says. His jaw ticks. “You heard too much.”

I take a step back.

“Why do you care?” I whisper.

His eyes flick over me, shadowed, unreadable. “They want to shut you up.”

“And you?” My voice cracks. “You’re here to help?”

His lips twitch. Not a smile. A warning. “I’m the only one standing between you and a bullet, Zyla.”

Then I see it.

A hooded figure. Across the street. Still. Watching.

Tarin’s voice drops, cold steel in it now. “This isn’t the night to be stubborn.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to.” He pushes the door open. “Just get in. Or you’ll never make it to sunrise.”

The figure takes a step.

I move.

I throw myself into the car, and he slams the door shut.

The car takes off, smooth and fast.

With my heart pounding beats against my ribcage.