Surrendered To The Italian Tycoon

Dante Morelli

It’s raining.

Raining like the sky is trying to wash this rotten city clean.

But nothing washes away what was born stained.

The warehouse I’m in reeks of rust, old oil, and fear.

The kind of fear that drips in silence, that clings to the walls.

I’m used to that smell. I grew up in it.

Became a man with my hands dirty from it.

The guy tied to the chair — swollen face, bleeding mouth, wide eyes — doesn’t look like the promising young man who studied abroad, full of diplomas and opportunities.

A Ribeiro, they told me. Rafael or Adam, whatever.

Just another idiot who thought he could climb fast by gambling with someone else’s money.

My money.

“Say it again.”

My voice comes out low, steady. I don’t need to shout. I never do.

The idiot in front of me hesitates. I see the terror in his eyes.

It’s not just fear of pain. It’s fear of the end. Of death.

He knows he’s one step from the grave.

“I have a sister,” he murmurs, spitting blood with the words. “She’s almost done with her psychology degree. Smart. Discreet. You need someone like that on your team.”

I arch an eyebrow. Did I hear that right?

“You’re offering me your sister… as payment?”

“Do whatever you want with her. Just… just don’t kill me.”

Enzo, one of my men, breaks the silence with a low, cynical laugh.

I don’t laugh. I don’t move.

That kind of desperation has value.

Not the offer — not yet — but the insight into how far a man will go to keep breathing.

I’ve been cleaning out the pigs from the system for months now.

Inheriting the Famiglia’s business meant taking on the dirtiest, most brutal parts of life.

And part of my job is separating what can be salvaged from what needs to burn.

“You know how much you owe?”

He hesitates, trying to look sane.

“I… lost track.”

“Enough to justify your death.”

I take a step forward.

“You used the Morelli name to rack up debt. And didn’t pay. That’s not just stupid. That’s a crime.”

He mumbles something, then repeats:

“I can pay… with her.”

I move closer, slowly.

His fear has a sweet scent to it.

“What do you think this is? An auction? A brothel?” I murmur, my voice firm, tension filling the room.

“You think you can bargain with flesh?”

“She’s useful!” he blurts out, voice breaking.

“She’s nearly a graduate—she’ll work with minds. She can help you. Analyze, interrogate, I don’t know... Just give me a chance! And most of all, I know she’s a virgin!”

I stay silent for a few seconds.

My eyes scan his.

It’s real.

He’s actually offering his sister as a human shield.

Disgusting.

Desperate.

And for a brief moment... intriguing.

“Name.”

“Alina. Alina Ribeiro.”

Alina.

The name hangs in the air like an unspoken promise.

“She knows what you’re doing?”

“No…”

Of course not.

The best bargaining chips never know they’re being traded.

“And how do you plan to deliver her?” I ask, returning to my chair.

I sit down slowly, watching the body in front of me tremble.

“You gonna tie her up like I did to you? Or wrap her with a bow?”

“She trusts me. I can take her wherever I want. I’ll make up an excuse. Job offer, trip… anything. Just give me time.”

He sounds sincere.

But desperate men make good liars.

“You know what happens to traitors, don’t you?”

He nods.

“And to those who owe us?”

Another nod.

“And to those who sell their own sister?”

This time, it takes longer.

When he replies, it’s almost a whisper:

“I’d rather have her hate me… than die here.”

Cynical.

Cowardly.

But honest.

I watch him in silence. I stand and start circling the chair.

I feel the weight of the choice he just threw at me like it’s a gift.

I should have him killed. Just to maintain order.

But that name… Alina... won’t leave my mind.

“I’ll consider your offer,” I say finally, stopping behind him.

“But if she gives me trouble… you’ll beg for death. And I’ll deny it.”

He nods frantically.

Tears mixing with blood.

“She won’t. I promise.”

“You know she’ll never be free again, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if she’s as valuable as you say… maybe I’ll never let her go?”

He hesitates. Trembles. Then says:

“Better than dying.”

Better than dying…

How many of my life’s choices have been made on that principle?

“Go home,” I order. “Bring Alina to me within seven days. Healthy. Unharmed. Unaware.

If she knows anything… if she runs… if you lie to me…”

I don’t need to finish.

He got the message.

Hours later, when his car disappears around the bend in the road, I sit again.

The warehouse lights flicker.

Silence reigns once more, thick and heavy.

Alina Ribeiro.

Beautiful? Maybe. What difference does it make?

What intrigues me is her brother’s courage. Or his cowardice.

He’d hand over his own blood to stay alive.

That says a lot about him.

But even more about her.

What kind of woman was raised beside a man like that?

Is she the opposite?

Will she break, or fight back?

I take a deep breath.

A name has never carried so much weight.

And yet, something deep inside me tells me this woman will bring more than he promised.

But one thing’s certain:

Once Alina Ribeiro crosses my threshold…

She’s never leaving.