Sold To The Mafia Lord

The rain had already soaked through Emilia’s thin sweater by the time the black car stopped in front of the massive iron gates. She was shivering, more from fear than cold, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t dare.

“Out,” the man in the passenger seat barked.

Emilia obeyed. Her shoes sank into the gravel driveway. She heard the door slam shut behind her, and the engine roared to life before the car disappeared back down the road, leaving her behind.

The gates opened slowly, creaking like something out of a horror film. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep her trembling hidden as two guards approached, dressed in black and armed.

“You’re the girl?” one of them asked, looking her up and down with a frown. “He really paid for this?”

Emilia said nothing.

The guard snorted. “Follow me.”

She was led through the front door of a mansion too grand to be real. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and silence so thick it echoed. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere.

Her stepfather had signed the papers that morning. A contract, her life in exchange for wiping clean the blood debt he owed. She hadn’t seen Lucien Moretti yet, the man who now owned her. Only heard his name whispered in fear on the streets. The Ice King. The Mafia Lord. The man who killed with a smile.

He didn’t want her as a wife. Or a lover. He wanted to own her.

A maid. A servant. A breathing reminder of her stepfather’s shame.

The guard opened the door and gestured. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

Emilia stepped into a dark room lit only by the fire in the corner. She heard the door close behind her.

Then silence.

Her heart pounded so loudly it filled her ears.

She waited.

One minute. Two. Maybe five.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

She turned slowly, and there he was.

Lucien Moretti stood near the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, dressed in a dark suit that clung to his tall, broad frame. His face was all sharp edges and cold beauty. He looked carved from stone. Eyes like ice. Lips that didn’t know how to smile.

He didn’t speak. He just stared.

So did she.

Until his voice sliced through the silence.

“You’re smaller than I expected.”

Emilia flinched.

Lucien took a slow sip of his drink, then set it down. He walked toward her, each step calculated, calm, lethal. She backed up instinctively.

“I don’t like noise. I don’t like disobedience. And I especially don’t like liars,” he said, stopping just inches from her.

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Her voice was so soft it was barely a whisper.

He tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes shimmered with fear.

“And I don’t touch what’s broken.”

Then he let go, turning away without another word.

Emilia stood frozen, heart hammering against her ribs, lungs struggling to take in air.

Lucien picked up his drink again, his voice flat. “Your room is down the hall. Rosa will show you. You start at five a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

But he was already walking away, the firelight catching the silver glint of the ring on his finger.

That night, Emilia curled up on the edge of a giant bed in a room too luxurious for someone like her. She didn’t cry.

She’d done enough of that in the car.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling and wondered what she had just been sold into.

And why the man who owned her had looked at her like she was already shattered.

***

The knock on the door came before the sun did.

“Wake up, girl,” a woman’s voice snapped from the hallway. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Emilia sat up slowly, her body aching from the stiff way she’d slept, curled up like a stray in a bed far too soft to feel safe.

She found a folded uniform laid out on the nearby chair. Black dress, white apron. Maid. Servant. Property.

Downstairs, the house was already alive, but silent. Too silent. No clatter of dishes or casual conversation. Just footsteps. Orders. Cold efficiency.

Rosa, the woman who had knocked, was short and stern. Mid-fifties, with a thick accent and a no-nonsense frown. She handed Emilia a tray of coffee and breakfast.

“Take this to the study. He doesn’t like it hot. Doesn’t like it cold. Don’t spill it. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look at him unless he asks you to.”

Emilia nodded, carefully balancing the tray as she followed the directions Rosa had drilled into her. Down the long hallway. Past oil paintings and glass cases filled with artifacts she didn’t dare glance at.

She paused in front of the door to the study.

Took a breath.

Knocked once, soft.

“Enter,” came the deep, unmistakable voice from within.

She pushed the door open, head down. Lucien sat behind a large desk, papers neatly arranged before him, a pen in hand. He didn’t look up.

Emilia crossed the room with careful steps, her fingers trembling just slightly. She placed the tray down with more gentleness than necessary.

But as she turned to leave…

Her foot caught the edge of the rug.

And the tray tilted.

A splash of coffee jumped from the cup, landing right on a sheet of paper.

Emilia froze in place. Breath caught. Heart thudding.

Lucien’s pen stopped.

He looked down at the stain on the paper.

Then, very slowly, he looked up at her.

The silence stretched like a blade.

“I….I’m sorry,” she said quickly, eyes wide. “It was an accident.”

He stood.

Walked around the desk.

She took a step back.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t threaten.

He simply stared at her for one long, tense moment before he reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and dabbed the paper.

“It’s not ruined,” he said quietly. “You were lucky this time.”

Emilia’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

He met her eyes.

Not anger. Not pity. Just something unreadable.

Then: “Are you always this clumsy?”

She blinked. “I…I try not to be.”

His gaze flicked to her hands. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

She almost laughed, but it came out more like a breath. “Because I don’t know what happens when I make a mistake in your house.”

Lucien was silent again.

Then he surprised her.

“Nothing happens,” he said. “Unless I decide otherwise.”

She didn’t move.

He stepped closer, not to threaten, but to look.

At her.

Up close.

“You were sold,” he said, voice flat. “That makes you mine. Not a guest. Not a prisoner. Something in between.”

She nodded, her throat dry.

“You will do as you’re told. You will not speak to me unless I speak first. And you will not spill my coffee again.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned away, picking up the paper again like it hadn’t happened.

“You may go.”

Emilia turned, heading for the door as fast as she could without running.

But as she reached it, he spoke again.

“Rosa has clean clothes in the back room. The uniform doesn’t suit you.”

She paused.

Just long enough to wonder..

Was that… kindness?

She didn’t look back.

But she whispered, just loud enough: “Thank you, sir.”

And behind her, Lucien Moretti stood motionless, staring at the coffee-stained paper.

He didn’t know why he said it.

Didn’t know why her voice stayed in his head long after she was gone.