Chapter 0003

Ace POV:

Ivan was bombarding me with questions, but honestly, she didn't seem dangerous at all.

I couldn't understand why Ivan was so serious about this.

Sure, I'd found her in a strange situation, but I couldn't sense any immediate threat from her.

Yet, Ivan was treating her like she was some kind of high-risk target.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he drove, knuckles turning white, his jaw set in that way he always did when he was angry. But why?

In the back seat, the girl sat beside me, silent. She was curled in on herself, as if she wished she could disappear into the upholstery.

I studied her from the corner of my eye, the way she kept her head down, the slight tremor in her fingers as she gripped the fabric of her clothes.

Despite her small size, I hoped she might be useful to me somehow.

I snapped my fingers to get her attention.

She flinched at the sound, her head jerking up slightly, but she still wouldn't meet my gaze.

Not out of recognition of who I was— no, this wasn't the usual fear people had when they realized they were in my presence.

This was different.

Judging by her face, she couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. Just a kid, really.

I exhaled slowly and lit a cigar, letting the smoke curl between my fingers.

"Come ti chiami? (What's your name?)," I asked, my voice low as I took a drag.

I needed something to calm my nerves, and the cigarette was as good a solution as any.

The first time since she had been dragged into the club, she raised her head—really raised it—and looked at me.

Wide, confused, nervous doe eyes, made me exhale deeply as they flickered in the dim lighting, catching the glow of passing streetlights.

It was clear she didn't understand Italian.

Great, just what I needed—another complication.

"Your name," I repeated, sharper this time.

She had this baby-faced appearance with small doe eyes, pouty lips, fluffy cheeks, light olive skin, slightly wavy hair's sticking to her head, and a red nose—probably from sniffing and rubbing it simultaneously.

"...Iris," she finally murmured, voice quiet, slightly hoarse.

She spoke as if she was afraid of saying the wrong thing, her eyes darting around the car nervously.

I nodded, taking a long drag from my cigarette. "Age," I asked next, rubbing my temple with my free hand.

The headache that had been building all day was getting worse.

Did I even get good sleep last night? Probably not.

"...17," she uttered, her gaze still fixed on my fingers as if they held some kind of secret she was trying to decipher.

I let out a slow breath, a mixture of relief and resignation washing over me.

"17," I muttered under my breath.

At least she wasn't 13.

That would have been a whole different mess to deal with. But still, she was young.

"Do you have a home or anyone waiting for you outside?" I asked, my tone laced with boredom.

She sniffled, rubbing her sleeve over her runny nose. "No... more like I-I wait... for them."

I observed her again, my gaze sweeping over her small, nervous frame.

She looked harmless—fragile even—but something about her nagged at me.

A gut feeling, an itch in my subconscious that refused to go away.

"Ottenere informazioni su di lei (Get information about her)," I instructed Ivan, my voice low and firm.

"Si, Capo (Yes, boss)," Ivan replied, his tone professional yet tinged with anger.

I could sense the confusion behind Ivan's eyes. He didn't understand why I had brought her along, and frankly, I wasn't entirely sure myself. .

The car came to a smooth stop in front of the mansion, the grand structure looming in the dim evening light.

Finally!

"Take her to the headquarters room," I ordered, already fishing out my phone to make some calls.

Ivan gave me a sharp nod before motioning for the girl to follow him.

I watched as she hesitated for a second, then obediently trailed behind him toward the back of the mansion, her small frame disappearing into the night.

Ten minutes later, I caught sight of them returning, Ivan's expression twisted into something bordering on anger and exasperation.

I crushed my cigar under my heel. "What now?"

"Boss, the headquarters are full," he informed me.

I arched my brow. "And?"

"I mean, you didn't eliminate any guards this week, so... there's no extra space."

Ah.

Right.

The mansion was neither too big nor too small, built to accommodate only those who served a purpose.

It wasn't like I built extra rooms in this mansion. I wasn't the type to have guests. My friends had their rooms, and that was it.

I never expected—nor wanted— guests or anyone else staying here.

So, why waste space on something unnecessary?

I had only nine rooms. All occupied.

"Okay, leave," I muttered, dismissing Ivan with a flick of my hand.

I turned on my heel and started walking toward the main entrance, my irritation simmering beneath the surface.

The girl stood awkwardly beside Ivan, shifting on her feet like she expected to be abandoned any second now.

"Follow me, mushroom," I murmured without looking back.

She quickly fell into step behind me as I strode toward my bedroom.

The alternative was letting her stay in one of my men's rooms, but I couldn't risk that.

What if she stole something? What if she saw something she wasn't supposed to?

"Do you have a cellphone?" I asked abruptly.

She nodded hesitantly. "At home."

Useless.

As we reached my bedroom, I opened the door and went inside.

She lingered at the entrance, eyes wide as she took in the room.

I raised a brow. It wasn't anything special—just a simple space with one couch, a king-sized bed, and a balcony overlooking the backyard.

Weirdo.

"Get in," I motioned with my hand.

She obeyed, stepping inside cautiously, her head swiveling to take in the minimalistic interior.

"Stay here," I ordered before disappearing into the bathroom.

I turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto my face, letting it run down my neck as I tried to clear my head.

What was I supposed to do with her?

Some of the girls —before returning to their families— many had willingly crawled into my bed, eager to offer themselves.

They insisted.

And who was I to refuse when they so desperately wanted it?

A gentleman? No.

A saint? Never.

Humanity? That was a foreign concept.

But this girl?

She wasn't offering anything.

She wasn't pleading, she wasn't clinging, she wasn't doing anything I expected.

She was just... waiting.

I sighed, running a hand through my damp hair before stepping out of the bathroom.

It seemed like she didn't know proper etiquette.

She sat on the floor with her legs crossed, her small frame huddled close to the ground as if she were trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

It was an odd sight, one that I wasn't used to seeing.

Most people who found themselves in my presence either stood with a bravado that reeked of false confidence or shrunk back in terror, but this girl... she was weird.

Her movements were jittery, unsure, as if she was trying to navigate through a minefield.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?" I asked, my voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity mixed with irritation.

I expected her to explain herself with the usual excuses, maybe even throw in some tears to gain sympathy, but she did something else entirely.

She quickly scrambled to her feet, almost tripping over herself in her haste to comply.

"I-I am sorry, sir," she stammered, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't think... it would be g-good manners to sit in your house without... y-your permission." The words came out rushed, each one laced with anxiety, as if she feared she was already treading on thin ice.

Her response caught me off guard.

There was something almost old-fashioned about the way she spoke, like she'd been taught to be overly cautious, to never assume she had the right to comfort or space without explicit permission.

It was unusual, especially in this world where most people were either defiant or deceptive, always trying to get the upper hand.

I couldn't help but be impressed. A good girl, indeed.

"Whatever," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm stressed out, so let's just get this over with." I wasn't in the mood to play games or deal with any unnecessary pleasantries.

I mean, she must have this knowledge. Things like this weren't foreign to anyone anymore.

She stared at me, her expression shifting to one of confusion. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head.

"I don't..understand, sir," she said, her frown deepening.

I glanced at her, annoyance creeping back into my tone.

"I want you to kneel down and use your mouth for something more productive than talking," I said, my teeth clenching in frustration.

It was a blunt command, one I had given many times before, and I expected her to understand what I meant without further explanation.

She might look innocent, but in this world, appearances were often deceiving.

Surely, she would have understood what men like me wanted. Especially after a long, tiring night.

To my surprise, she immediately knelt before me. But instead of unzipping my pants or making any move toward what I had expected, she began to massage my legs.

Her small hands moved carefully, tentatively, as if she were unsure whether she was doing the right thing but determined to follow through anyway.

"What on earth are you doing?" I asked, bewildered by her actions.

"Y-You said you're stressed... so I am massaging your... l-legs, sir," she responded, her voice soft and uncertain.

She looked up at me with those same wide eyes, filled with a mix of nervousness and genuine concern, as if she were truly trying to help in the only way she knew how.

I blinked, taken aback. It wasn't just that she had misunderstood my command—it was the sincerity behind her actions.

There was no trace of cunning or lying behind those gaze, no hint that she was trying to play a game.

She really didn't understand what I had meant, and instead, she was doing what she thought would ease my stress in the most innocent way possible.

"Get up, before I rip your eyes out of their sockets," I spat out, unable to mask the irritation in my voice.

She stood up and backed away a few feet quickly, her small body tense, her hands clasped tightly.

Her eyes were wide with fear, but she made no move to get up or run away.

Instead, she stayed there, staring at me with a mix of confusion and worry, as if she were trying to figure out what she had done wrong and how she could fix it.

For a moment, the room was filled with a heavy silence. I stared down at her, my mind racing as I tried to process what had just happened.

She wasn't what I had expected at all, and that threw me off balance.

"Do you know why you're here and who I am?" I asked, rubbing my temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing headache that had been tormenting me for hours.

The dull ache behind my eyes was relentless, only adding to the irritation I felt toward the situation at hand.

She shook her head, her wide, innocent eyes reflecting a mixture of confusion and fear.

I couldn't tell if her naivety was genuine or if she was just pretending to be clueless.

"I'm Ace Salvatore, a Mafia leader," I stated bluntly. "You're here because the boy who brought you to the club sold you to me for one week."

Her eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, and her lips parted in shock. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, completely out of her depth.

"...M-Mafia, like the man who kills...people and...phew, phew...uses guns?" she asked, her voice trembling as she mimicked the sound of gunfire with her hands, making small, uncertain gestures.

I nodded, sitting back on the bed as I continued to watch her.

Her fear seemed genuine, but there was something about her innocence that made me question how much she really understood.

It was as if she genuinely had no idea who I was or why she was here.

Her fear seemed real, but it was tinged with a childlike confusion that made me question everything about her.

"Who is he to you?" I asked, my voice sharp.

"Sir, he is my...friend," she murmured hesitantly, though her voice quivered with anxiety.

I arched an eyebrow. "Friend?"

"But he said you took me here to work...f-for you, and then you will...leave me," she finished, her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes.

Ah, there it is. The panic, the trembling, the desperate attempt to convince me she had no idea what was happening.

"So, you're telling me that you're okay with your so-called friend selling you to me?" I asked, my tone sharp and incredulous. "And you weren't forced?"

Her reaction was instant. "No, sir!" she gasped, shaking her head frantically. "H-He tricked me."

It was clear she was scared, but there was also a strange sense of trust in her words, as if she believed that I might actually let her go.

I tilted my head, amusement creeping into my tone despite myself.

"He tricked you?" I repeated, unimpressed. "How the fuck did he trick you, ragazza stupida (stupid girl)?"

It was laughable how gullible she seemed.

Her lower lip quivered slightly, but she forced herself to speak.

"Well, sir..." she began hesitantly. "Noah is my friend's friend. He told me we were going to get ice cream... but then he took me to a club, and...now I am h-here, sir."

I stared at her for a moment, trying to process what I had just heard.

A 17-year-old girl, trusting a friend of a friend to take her out for ice cream, only to end up being sold to the fucking Mafia.

My doubts grew as I folded my arms across my chest. "Noah is Italian. You don't speak Italian. How did you even communicate with him?"

Her brows furrowed in thought, and then she sighed, as if the answer was obvious.

"Noah was looking sad, so I accompanied him without talking, but...when it comes to ice cream, language is not a barrier," she said with such disappointment in herself that I almost laughed. "Some English words are enough."

She is naive and dumb for sure.

Well, everything will be proven tomorrow.

"Sleep on the sofa and don't try to be smart," I ordered, my voice cold and detached. "If you do, I'll put six bullets in your fucking head without any single thought."

She nodded her head rapidly, her face pale with fear.

She didn't argue or try to plead with me; she just accepted what I said with a quiet nod, as if she had already resigned herself to whatever fate awaited her.

My body was begging for rest, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.

If I had more energy, I might have pressed her for more details, tried to figure out if there was more to her story than what she was letting on.

But right now, all I wanted was to close my eyes and let sleep take over.

After freshening up, I settled into bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief against my aching muscles.

As I lay there, I glanced over at the sofa where she had curled up into a tight ball, her small frame trembling slightly, though she made no sound.

A sigh, a sniffle. Then another.

She was crying.

I closed my eyes.

The sound of her soft, stifled sobs was the last thing I heard before I drifted off into a restless slumber.

Iris POV:

I am dead for sure at this young age.

I mean my inner body is 60 years old but outwardly, I was still a young girl.

The sound of the door opening broke through the fog of my thoughts. My pulse quickened. My heart pounded against my chest like it was trying to break free.

What was I supposed to do now?

let's...pretend to sleep. If I pretend to sleep, maybe he'll leave.

I could almost see it now: him leaving the room, turning off the lights, closing the door quietly behind him.

Nice plan! Iris, sleep. Sleep.

But what if it didn't work?

He can kill me, right?

The thought was a comfort as always and my only solution. If he killed me, at least it would be over.

No more waiting. No more fear. No more pain.

"Get up, your sleeping time is over. This is not your house," his abrasive voice pierces through my resolve, making me shiver to my core.

Mom, please save me – I promise never to leave home again if you do.

As I reluctantly sat up, the first thing my eyes landed on was him—standing there, his body only half-covered by a towel.

Disgusting! My stomach twisted, and I immediately raised my hands to cover my eyes.

"Open your eyes, Piccola ragazza (Little girl). It's not like you haven't seen a man naked before," he said nonchalantly.

He's so shameless, God.

"Sir, could you please put something on? It's quite inappropriate. I...I mean it's y-your room...but it's inappropriate too...I am...here...to," I stammered, my anxiety evident in my voice.

"Una così piccola cosa innocente che ho qui (Such a little innocent thing I have here.)", he mocked, his tone dripping with condescension.

Slowly, I lowered my hands and saw that he had put on a shirt, though the towel still hung around his waist. Thank goodness.

I looked at him, puzzled, hoping he would explain what he had just said, but he offered no such clarification.

"When I come back, have the entire mansion cleaned and smelling fresh. Use the other bathroom and eat whatever the maids give you," he instructed before turning away and walking into another room.

Cleaning doesn't sound so bad; after all, it's something I've done my whole life.

It was familiar, it was safe.

How difficult can it be?