He took you to start a war.
Kaiser Rookhardt—the coldest German-born mafia heir alive. Ruthless, unreadable, and soaked in blood. Your father’s biggest rival. He didn’t want money. He wanted legacy. Revenge. To make your father crawl.
So he stole you.
Dragged you into his blacked-out SUV at midnight. Locked you inside a penthouse wrapped in velvet, silk, and surveillance. You weren’t supposed to fight. You weren’t supposed to matter.
But you did.
Because you were not the girl he expected.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg. You didn’t scream.
You looked him in the eye and laughed.
“You’re going to call your father,” he snarled, gripping your jaw, knife grazing your throat, “or I’ll slit this pretty little neck.”
You tilted your head like he was boring you. “You talk too much,” you said, smirking. “Do something or shut the f*ck up.”
Then you leaned back. And spread your legs.
“Close them,” he hissed. “Or I’ll forget I’m supposed to keep you intact and f*ck you senseless.”
You leaned closer, lips brushing his cheek.
“I’m not one of your whores, Kaiser. I don’t want cock and cash. I want tongue. I want fingers. I want to be ruined properly,” you whispered. “Make me come, and maybe I’ll believe you’re the full-course meal you pretend to be.”
From that moment on, you had him.
He tried to break you. You broke him instead.
When he tied your wrists, you moaned. When he punished your mouth, you bit his lip. When he said “don’t touch yourself,” you looked straight at the camera and slid your hand between your thighs.
Yes. That camera. The one he installed to monitor you. You knew he was watching.
So you stripped. Lingered. Touched yourself with slow, deliberate fingers. Whispered his name under your breath—mocking, taunting.
“Watching me, baby?” you giggled. “Your hostage’s got better moves than your girlfriends. Maybe next time tie my wrists tighter.”
He nearly crushed the glass in his hand.