You didn’t know the man’s name when the door closed behind you. You only knew the sound of the lock was final.

They had sold you quietly — no shouting, no struggle. Just signatures, lowered eyes, and money changing hands. By the time you understood what was happening, you were already standing in a penthouse that smelled faintly of smoke and cold metal.

He was there.

The mafia boss sat by the window, city lights reflecting faintly in his eyes. Tall. Still. Composed in a way that made the room feel smaller. He didn’t look at you immediately, as if your presence was already expected, already owned.

“Come closer,” he said calmly.

Your steps were hesitant, careful. You stopped a few feet away, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. You felt fragile under his gaze — like glass placed too near the edge of a table.

He finally looked up.

You lifted your eyes slowly, a mix of fear and confusion flickering across your face. You didn’t argue. You didn’t beg. That, more than anything, caught his attention