Mafia's African Rose

Reckoning

"I was told to confirm if you're really on your period or just making excuses," the woman said sharply. I panicked but tried to play it cool.

"I am," I replied.

"Then prove it," she demanded, folding her arms. Her expression was stone-cold serious.

I froze. She wasn't backing down. "Guards!" she called, her voice firm as she turned to the doorway, seeing I wasn't cooperating.

"No, please!" I pleaded desperately. "Don't tell him! I'm begging you—I'm not on my period, but please don't say anything!" Tears blurred my vision as I spoke.

"I don't care," she hissed, lowering her voice. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He'll kill me if I don't tell him the truth." Her eyes darted nervously toward the camera in the corner of the room.

My heart pounded as I realized my excuse had only bought me three days. Three miserable days of waiting for Alexio to make his move. Why was this taking so long? I thought he was a damn Don. If he was so powerful, why was I still here—about to face some monster?

The woman spoke into her phone, her words sharp and clipped in Italian. I stood frozen, resigned to my fate. Moments later, the door opened, and he walked in, looking furious. A knife gleamed in his hand.

"Please, don't do this," I whimpered as tears streamed down my face.

"You know what I hate the most?" he sneered, his voice dangerously calm. "Liars. And it turns out you're one of them." He shook his head, the disappointment in his eyes almost as cutting as his words. "I knew you were lying from the start, but I let you play your little game."

He turned to the woman. "Leave us."

"Yes, boss," she murmured before stepping out, shutting the door behind her.

His gaze snapped back to me, predatory and cold. "You know," he began, swirling the knife between his fingers, "I was going to wait until I killed Alexio before taking you as my queen. But you had to go and be so damn foolish."

"I'm... sorry," I stammered, my voice breaking.

"Strip, Angel."

"No," I whispered, shaking my head.

He took a step closer, his voice dark and commanding. "You weren't so scared to dance with me at that party, were you? Now, strip. Or we'll do this the hard way."

"No," I said again, louder this time.

In an instant, he crossed the room, grabbing me with a force that knocked the breath out of me. He tore at my clothes, ignoring my frantic attempts to fight him off. He shoved me onto the bed as I struggled to cover myself with my hands.

"It's useless, seen you naked already he growled, pinning me down. "Now stay still and take my mark."

I froze as the knife hovered dangerously close to my inner thigh.

"No, please," I cried, trying to wriggle free, but he yanked me back and flipped me onto my stomach.

"Fine," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "Your waist it is."

He straddled me, the cold metal of the knife biting into my skin. I screamed as he carved his initials into me, the pain blinding and unbearable. My strength drained with every passing second until I could fight no more.

When he was done, he stood back, admiring his work as I lay there sobbing.

"Fuck," he muttered, his tone disturbingly satisfied. "You look so beautiful with my initials." His fingers traced the fresh wound, making me flinch. Blood soaked the sheets, pooling beneath me.